I walk into the wrong rooms, swallowing strange stones and sounds. with wrists like twigs and ready to snap I turn clumsily in the doorway. and water strikes me down.
then I make excuses for this and for that. sleep is wasted on me, it cuts me deep. in pieces I crawl behind my eyes and hide beneath the brown and the black. it never occurs to me to look up.
the desert ponds are still there
and creased linen cloth hills, bushes trickling down the valleys
forming seaweed pools
against the sand of west coast poetry
a Santa Clara valley of fever dreams
soft mountains too bright to look at
and beyond somewhere the roaring pacific
still speaking to you?
towards a sprawling Los Angeles,
and long smoke sunsets
my eyes dripping with red nuances
instead of the mouth
and so many crossed out words
where you would have none
women do wonder
mumbling prophets of hillside avenues,
what is the question because I forget.
wild haired and gloomy eyed, strange
following suits with a side to side walk
and hands cupped as if around a secret.
pregnant and broke and without vision. homeless women of San Francisco, do you see a city of lights or monsters of corners, downtown skeletons,
the bad blood in the valleys.
the city grows from marsh ground beneath my feet. I leave trails on the pavement.
the forrest nymph wraps herself in clean sheets, she can’t breathe and she screams of relief
until plastic structures vibrate and collapse
in perfect squares of chaos.
I pass blocks of cracked sand and glass crystals, mountain towers and halls of moss.
unclear lanterns in the sky, disguised by fog or smoke from the fire eyes of
outside red painted bars,
all waiting for the final fall.
Garry Winogrand at SFMOMA…
through silent floor corridors.
hesitant corners and bent down eyes, marble heavy, bag of stones. an echo dangles in the air with curved nails and sprawling bones.
I turn you inside out and listen to your heart with crooked fingers. unexplored territories, the crevices of your rib cage and pure collarbone ponds that I devour with sharp teeth. red blood, red skin, red rubber bands that bind my hands in front of you.
open roads, invisible stringencies.