posts 5/3/2006 9:47 pm
5/4/2006 2:41 pm
wednesday, four-thirty-four in the P.M. I’m still in bed.
The april sun sets on the horizon, mocking me.
It threatens to sink before I arise,
but I limp out from under the covers.
The cold hardwood floor shocks my feet awake
and my eyes soon follow.
They wander the room, touching objects, in no hurry to focus.
Glancing over empty bottles and unopened mail,
dirty clothes in the corner. They run lightly
over my uncontested discord, in quiet complacency
to things displaced or newly absent.
For a moment, they linger on the half-empty bookshelf.
The bust of Aristotle,
printed on my copy of The Ethics,
now faces fake mahogany veneer.
I wonder, does she miss Austen’s eyes, looking now
at the empty space your fled Persuasion left behind?
Or is she grateful to be free from her forced stare,
the sly contest you locked them into as a joke?
I guess I mean to ask:
is Aristotle more like me or you?
Her stony eyes give no reply and I probe no deeper.
It’s too early to review the evidence,
and too late to cross-examine her
on your departure.
Instead, my eyes skip towards the kitchen,
attracted by the fly, now clinging to a knife
smeared with jelly. They decline to dwell
on the Chinese take-out, two weeks old,
or the soup I tried to open with a screwdriver.
Instead they ascend
and find a home on a bottle of vermouth
that sits atop the half-sized fridge.
They stick there,
like the dust which is long past settling
and has turned the bright green glass a cloudy jade.
You were drinking a martini
when my eyes first rested on you.
dressed in black, standing in a doorway,
your glass empty and your olive gone
though the shaker was still frosted.
“It’s the only way,” you said,
“You have to finish them quick,
or they’ll end up finishing you.”
Were you talking about martinis then?
Or men? After his divorce, my father used to say
“winter calls for whisky.” That’s a drink
you can easily drink alone.
But I enjoy the heaviness
of a well-mixed martini, the biting-cold,
liquid-glass sliding down your throat.
I reach for the vermouth, the bottle’s
sticky and warm and almost empty.
My eyes spy a stray blonde hair
caught underneath the cap.
I’ve been finding them for months now.
I roll it between my thumb and forefinger.
My other hand cups the cap but changes its mind.
What good is vermouth if I have no gin?
I drop the bottle in the overflowing trash and
let your hair fall from my hand.
posts5/4/2006 1:43 pm
The sound of the vermouth bottle hitting the garbage resonates as I watch the hair float down to the floor and land there. My gaze focuses to the fork full of vegetables awaiting entance into my mouth and I wander vaguely if they wouldn't taste better with cheese. I drop the fork back on the plate and give it to the dog. Opening the refrigerator, I remove a bottle of beer and head out the back door. Taking a seat on the prerequisite white plastic lawn chair I open the beer and suck half of it down. I wonder why I still think of you. Why I still see you so vividly after all these months apart. Much too vivid to be just thoughts...more like visions. I was afraid of what I saw happening to you.|
PENIS CHARMING....where are you?