W R I T I N G

LOONS IN THE ATRIUM

There's a bag of money thousands at a time there there in the closet it’s hidden behind the shoes and under at least three scarves and if you do get to it if you do it’s within the burlap bag

in the burlap bag do you hear

and who was it’s acquirer...

 

Oh her well you know that she was a bit of a recluse a bit of a dear and her one eyelash and her nights robe and there was that one time with her pistol but yes her and all that and now the old dear has passed there’s that one going through her belongings searching the house looking high and low for momentos

 

It was taken out of that house yes but not spent no

not spent

hidden

hidden away stashed in cupboards, in pans and their pots, in frames on their walls and clocks with their cogs, in the icebox in trays and in bannisters hollowed out, table legs, mattresses, waste bins and hampers, ceiling fans and lampshades, vases and vacuums, in wigs and in coat closets, under loose floorboards and above doorframes, in unused drains and behind the mirror even

 

Like rodents like squirrels like hoarding things stuffing that money that fabric paper green was stifled away tossed into places protected by memory and covered with dust until some hunter came calling

 

It’s not safe I tell you not very nice not a good thing that curse of money those rot green wads

 

And it spreads you know like an infection a canker and next thing you know you’ll be outside in a robe and one eyelash pointing the gun

a toy

at the car coming up the way shouting.

 

as that is just how these things happen you see

 

And these things do happen


 

-Басха

THE MUSEUM SERIES

Intro to The Museum Series
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LOOKING FACE (1)

Yes 

it is in every palm tree that I see 

his face

recall his face

think on his face

in the sound of that swaying

I hear the lilt of his voice

or the hoarseness in his laugh

to be taken back

to warm evenings 

or scalding afternoons

by water

lounging 

or else to hear on my body

the sweet song of the sun

and that searing heat

at times so close and yet

ignored 

to lie 

and open an eye

there with him

and to make out the faintest trace 

of a tree

or cloud 

or gull

to sit or lay

and to turn my head in that sunshine

and to see him there,

his head already turned to face me

and to look into his eyes.

To sit with him 

on blissful mornings of a breeze

or lazy afternoons with the 

special of sloth

and to hear 

to lend an ear

to soak in the words of his mouth

about times before me

about friend gone loves 

missed moments lost

and sights sold

to drink in the sweet melody of

a cough or the elation of a breath

and to feel my body rebel

in that demand to shift

to adjust

to get comfortable

when all I wanted to do 

was listen 

was hear 

to hear

of worlds far off

worlds of ghosts in towels

of bars alight

and of sweet danger

when danger could be sweet

to hear and to see him

In that chair

and to know even then

that I would come to this

to know that I would write 

these words.

Madame Towards An Aspic
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The one where I find myself... Gertrude Stein Lookalike
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The Beginning: My willful luring to that place and the terror that began it all
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Entering a church, though... A Sudo-Phobia
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The Visitation, or a kindness from a stranger who knows me well
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Body in the water, Fruit in the trees
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The Prologue, or how I arrived to this juncture

Background photo: Stop, light (2018) by Matty Balkum