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

j 

  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