Sunday, August 18, 2013



AND   WELCOME   BACK 
 
2
 


C  H  I  L  L  E  R
 
 
T  H  E  A  T  E  R
 
 
 
 
wind chimes blowing
 
     the
    ones
 we bought
   together
     in
that strange little shop
      in
Chinatown
  years
  ago
   on
    a
snowy
sunday
morning
   on
the way
   to
breakfast
   after
      a
later than usual
  night out
     the
    one
   with
    the
old woman
black bunned hair
imitation crystal lozenge chain
      of
half-lens reading glasses
   looped
   around
    pale
  papery 
   neck
like long ago
sales ladies at Macey's 
      too
     busy
filling out lottery ticket slips to wait on us
      so
we put the money on the counter and left
   chimes
loudly
  i     g
     n     L                       g
                e       n         n
                      A    g   i
                     J        L 
                                                      
no bag                       
no receipt
feeling absurdly guilty
afraid somebody would think we were shoplifters and call the cops
 
They were supposed to bring luck
The noise
                clitter
                        clatter
                                  sing
                                        song
                                 of
                 exquisitely tapered
                         ghost nails 
                         strumming
                            pale
                       milk white
                       jade harps
                             of
                    C e l e s t i a l
                    contrivance
                           in
                     accordance
                         with
                        some
           universal harmonic tao
            increasingly annoying
                         knives
                                     scratching
                         scritch                 against
                                       bone
                                 tongueless
                              yowls leaching
                     from stitched together lips
 
More than once I wanted to rip them down
                 smash them to bits
                      hurl the bits
                           out
                           the
                        window
 
 Dusty now
       dust
everywhere
   c
     o
       b
      b
        i
          n     
        g
       in
    corners
      more
    shroud
      than
      web
      like
 
      That stupid plant
               you
            fussed
             over
              so
         dead now
              no
       coming back
             this
            time
 
    Witchy pendant still hanging on the wall
     souvenir of your        
                                 h
                               i
                             p
                           p
                            y
                                d
                               i
                             p
                            p
                              y
                                 commune days 
Sickeningly
  sweet
    smell of incense
     still
      sometimes lingers when air is
        still
 atmospheric pressure low
             humidity high
 
                          Floor gritty with salt
                   chalk marks vaguely visible
                        Sort of thing you'd do  
                  I didn't have much faith in it 
                                but figured
                               what the hell
             you were the one who believed in it 
                                       so
                                   maybe...
 
The Dylan song
we both put on
almost all our playlists
                      the one from before blood on the tracks
                                                      before blond on blond
                                                              jesus he was barely old enough to drink how did he do it
                        comes on again
            morphed through the decades
                       Transformer
                           like
                          from
                                  vinyl 
                                          to 8 track
                                             to cassette
                                                to ceeedeee
                                                   to digitalized etherealness. 
               One of the many things we had in common now just about the last
 
Head propped against ratty sofa arm
                  mirrors shrouded
         but I still don't look at them 
                 Plenty of booze
        but it doesn't help anymore
    Lights on lights off doesn't matter
    If they're on they somehow go off
                               POP
                     POP           POP
                                           i
                                           n
                                           g
                                             out          
                                                           
                                  too much of that weird energy
                                      suddenly in the room 
                       If they're off they somehow come on
                                                       ONE
                                                         2
                                                         3
                                                         4
                                                     at a time
                                                 room to room
                                                   wall to wall
                                                  table to table
                                                 bulbs broken
                                              plugs unplugged
                                               doesn't matter 
things around here have a way of not paying attention to that sort of  thing anymore
                                            
                                      And you never liked the dark
                                                                                                                                                      
                                              
                                                     
  
 




 

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