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