Libretto for a Still Life (excerpt)

In the withdrawn corner of comfort, infinite air, still out to the imaginary stars of neural projections, eyes focused on the most tentative of responses, he hungered for the intrusive light seeping from the uneven edges of anticipatory portals.

In the Spirit of Alice Prin (House #11)

(for Velocity)

She knew in the end the creativity was in her hands, the way they articulated the lines that dominated the rule of thirds, the way they directed your glance away when she knew your eyes were captivated by their expressiveness, the manner in which they conveyed the inner grace that ran like the smooth flow of blood lines through generations of artists.

This memory kept rising in her conversation, as if its anecdotal incidence acquired synaptic reality, as if the clarity of this historical dream placed her in veritable time and circumstance, as if the whispers in her ear was the advice of her adopted ancestors.

Artists now wished to be photographed with her, the lines of her suppleness lending cache to their claims of integrity and lineage, their credibility running in sight lines from her cheekbones.

Photographers now wished to turn her into works of art as if the scrollwork of Man Ray could be recreated and embellished into a digital refreshment, as if turbans ran in exotic swirls past and around her hips.

As she sat in this Seattle café, nine time zones from Montparnasse, her eyes stinging, her vision clarifying, her desire reaching to its level of confidence, her thoughts focused back to the warm embrace Kiki had promised so many years before.

Breathing in Rhythm

The night had resolved into the subtle sounds that only rise above the threshold of audible awareness when the insistent chatter of day has finally exhausted itself.

He lay in relaxed anticipation of the sleep that no longer held the heightened necessity it once demanded, lay beside her listening to the measured rhythm of her breathing.

It was melody and touch in its cadence, much like the gentle sound of unhurried oars caressing the waters of a summer lake, much like the breeze that shimmers late afternoon leaves into a hush and buzz.

It was melody and touch, much like waking in the dark from an extended sleep and knowing by its sound you are right in your placement in the universe, that all things are balanced.

It was melody and touch in its most natural essence.

It was melody and touch moving past the confines of time as if he had known her from the beginning, would hold her forever in this moment, the rhythm of her breathing drawing life in around them.

Strange Fates (Forest Fire Hair)

Where was daylight when the drifting snow settled like the smoke of ethereal ancient ghosts? Where was this world in the geographic mapquest of intersecting lines? Where was the lake whose waters misted into angel tears?

He frequently let the concept of fate interfere with the cool fluid motions of music that defined his existence, let the roadblock sensations appear like the hazards of ennui, let the philosophical arguments of subconscious motivation dominate the movement of the seasons.

He first sensed her in his childhood, the fragrance of pure woman he inhaled while passing his face past the neck of innocent female presence, becoming the scent he pursued across decades.

He first sensed her in his childhood, the touch of delicate skin accidently brushed in brief random encounter.

He first sensed her in his childhood, the flow and ebb of dance that was the primal activity, the essence of the waved hand, the fingers that passed lightly over his cheek.

To him she was the archetype of sensuality, a precious life force that defied the decay and renewal that dominated the elements rippling like stone circles in the calm waters.

They had met again after many years, a cycle and a time. Met in the déjà vu of café life. Met at the beginning.

He leaned across to breathe in her scent memory, to feel his mind rush with the overindulgence of images.

Her beauty hadn’t seen a passing day, as if the clock hands had ticked in opposite directions, as if she had found rejuvenation in the lost years, as if she had paused during his barren desolate search for words only to fulfill him with this wordless smile.

The lyrical wonder of her laughter cleansed the air around them, as if the basics of chemistry and physics were altered in order to create an organic silence.

They sipped dark coffee for an indefinite evening, spoke of wonders and the lay lines that circled the globe only to find their way back to the neighborhoods that surrounded the names they could enumerate.

They sipped dark coffee holding the scenes of crowded banality at a distance, holding the interruptions at the intersections where the signals turned red.

They sipped dark coffee and felt the presence, the present, the immediacy, the balance.

As they exited into the dark city pavement of idled cars and litter he drew her to himself, kissed her with unadulterated intensity, the consummate point of his lifetime’s desire.

He wanted her to wrap her arms around his neck like Renaissance marble.

He wanted her tears to disperse like mist rising above a lake.

He wanted her body to tremble at his touch.

He wanted to hear her call his name.

Notes on His Imminent Death

He found himself driving down deserted tree-lined roads running from suburb to sleeping suburb, night riding with the long distance radio playing songs that wouldn’t stand the light of day.

He had taken to sleeping in shifting patterns as if the vigilance would grant him a stay of execution, as if forcing his dreams out into the open would reveal a new meaning, a new world.

He lived on mineral water and rice like some Third World herder in the desolate regions bordering the Gobi Desert, sand swirling around his feet, scarf of Himalayan goat’s wool sheltering his face.

He painted the walls of abandoned factories with the obituaries of tattoo stamina.

Who did they think spoke and sang in this last ditch effort?

He would savor the walls. He would savor the faces. He would savor the toys. He would savor the laughter. He would savor the urine stained dumpsters.

He would savor the vagrant vegetation of the broken tarmac, ever more insistent, трава и засорители, this force of forward existence, this ever mutating desperation, this… competition.

The crescent moon with its polluted sepia tones faded to the wooden arena of deconstructing tenement hallways.

The freight trains of archaic desire sent the last metal sparks into the greasy gravel lining the pathway to the terminal point of geographic imagination.

This… competition.

He would draw to an inside straight. He would hold the words. It was him and his God and piss on the rest.

Car ++Ö++ et parce que LumiËre

“mon corps est une histoire extraordinaire”
-- ++O++


It was never the reflective surfaces, broken, reduced to their integral parts, a sandy beach where the sun on water only wished to blind. It was never that harsh.

Automatic muse, dream machine whose rotations light to shadow to light were in sympathetic rhythm to the appearances of her image. Light to shadow to light.

It was never the ornaments, never the red drapes thrown in convulsive airs, never the sanguineous cello. It was never that harsh.

Dancing in surrealistic rain, imaginary rain, rain of the parched and barren desert shores, sandy beach where the sun on water only wished to blind. Dusty sidewalks where old women spray water and sweep away forgotten emotions.

It was never the unintended contrasts, never the search for contorted angles to expose ever more ecstatic meditations, never the forest fire hair across the blank distances. It was never that harsh.

It was the written word, without shame, without obscurity. It was the stone niche of the statuesque, the garden trellis umbrellas, ever reaching, ever turning, ever illuminating the pale skin in the extraordinary present.

The Word That Cannot be Spoken

His heart faded, withdrawing from the burden of the conflict, panning the night sky, holding off the knowledge the slightest of winds could still the stars in their orbit.

Firefly flickers sparked hallucinogenic across his line of sight in the unlit rented room where he had come to rest, come to some static pause between bouts with the pain that weakened him, robbed him of his breath. He stared, searching for the ceiling in the darkness.

Looking up from the stretcher into the neon structures was becoming a familiar scenario. The thought that he could gasp his last breath in the antiseptic light had an ironic appropriateness.

Once again his love of flowers flitted between poppy and lily like some honey bee in search of the rarest of nectars.

How rich it made his words.

How desolate it made his life.