Monday, September 29, 2014

Plane to Vancouver

A succession of thin red curtains
         and we pass
from American
                          Spanish to English to French
as if we have too few faces to assume.
I leaf through bi-lingual restaurant reviews
         five pages of hipster bistros
                           in Dublin alone!
Serving:
         long-necked barnacles
                           chayote horchatas
                                              macha shakes
         "like a glass of water for your skin."
Is this what it takes
         to help us forget
                           there is no time?
That all of history lingers
         like this sunset
                           and nothing is at stake
                                               beyond this moment
         crackling high above the clouds
                            like a suspended chord
                                               as rich as chocolate lava
                            you don't care how the choir
                                               will resolve
         for the end in sight is not
                            where you are heading.
The orange cannot tell you of the night
                            you have to break it open,
not pick your dreams from menus
                            as if they live above you
                                               unassailable
as Patagonia
                     served on a platter of snails
                     by prostitutes of commerce
                                               in eccentric orbits
                            tossed by brutal gales,
to redeem you like a model steals the beauty
        of every wanna-be at Macy's perfume counter.

From the dissonance of distance
         comes your consciousness
                              to feel what's not expressed
         but shared in interstitial
                              flatterings from nothing's tail.
The landscape of the Yukon
        almost simplifies to meaning
                              but the hills of mottled green
                              recall too much a something
                                                   never known,
        too bright against the eye,
                     
the mind is darkened,
                               sees only God.

1 comment:

the walking man said...

I am good with having to retreat forward through the past to get to the last line.