OF KITTENS AND KAHLO, WAVES, BRUSHES, AND FABRIC—MORE FINDS IN THE POSTCARD MINES

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Another bunch o' cards for your perusal. I was very wordy on my last post, so this one's just pictures and poems.

"Will you want me
when birds walk across my face?"
                                     Ian Williams 

Once I wrote a poem
about a peach falling
to the ground, how perfect
it was during the flight.
Now I imagine a cat
attempting a similar feat.
That moment of leaving
the branch, the perfection
of air time. The first
was a love poem. This,
a conundrum.

"Sin goes to the neck...there I raise my ghosts, feed them
and they swim like black horses in my sleep"
                                                             Ghassan Zaqtan

Not a black horse, no
but a monkey on your back,
black horse, black monkey,
hair, eyes, unibrow,
thoughts, all black,
yet when I think of you
colour bursts like a sunflower
or an unrepentant orgasm
all those brush strokes
all that pain
swimming toward you,
through you and away,
this is what feeds you,
this is what makes you whole

“There will be in it waterfalls

and jungles like salvation.”

                        Jennifer Maiden

In the spare, spent hours

before waking he waves,

invoking swirls of them,

crests like glaciered mountain tops,

impossible clouds into which

he rides, this cowboy dreamer,

water whisperer,  swell sweeper

who wishes for horses

that he may ride unflinchingly

through the rest of his life.

“along the naked back and arms,

            the hands, fingers reaching”

                                    Alan Shapiro

Oh, those greedy, grasping,

thoughtless artists,

always complaining they’re not

paid enough, respected enough,

grasping their pencils and brushes

like weapons, as if they were

running down something to be

killed, as if imagination could

ever be enough.

 Artless

            is my heart. A stranger

            berry there never was,

            tartless.

                        Brenda Shaughnessy

Some days there are two of me.

One of us deals in mundanity

while the other looks out

over trees and clouds and static,

nods sagely and lets it all go.

We are cautious with each other,

speak in fine riddles,

dust off chairs long not sat upon,

finger the cobwebs in each other’s hair

then go down to dinner,

hopeful there will be more

than simply sustenance.

            “Why collect postage stamps when you could take broken

laundromats to the dump?”

                        David W. McFadden

            Just imagine it—a tub full of cats

caterwauling mid-tumble,

a bumble of bee-smirched

felines feeling fine,

pouring wine for wasted

winsome wastrels who won’t wait

for the spin-cycle-Message-to-Michael

Joni song to come along,

pass the bong, what exactly’s wrong

with that you caterwauling,

bumbling, tumbling tub

of crazy cats? That’s that!

“I want to take it all in,

            and I do — so far in, so strangely

            and imperfectly inside me.”

                                    James Pollock

            They are all fabric affairs,

            are they not — the swish

            of a skirt coaxed into

            a quick turn, the hiss of a long

            zipper, the smooth swoosh

            of silk rushing off a body.

            The crumple of cotton,

            the radiance of discarded

            rayon, and then, and then,

            the satisfying scrunch of

            two bodies sinking into a

            600 thread count sheeted bed.

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