Alcohol.
And train schedules.
A commuter's tightrope.
The last stop, Hpnotiq.
Where it rains sadness.
Where they're numb
To the moment of inertia.
Preferring instead to
Live on the rim.

Empty wine glass
Stale pizza
Cold naked toes
Sun left me lightless

Fridge is road-trip distance
Further to the sock drawer
Light switch is moons away
Remote earns its name

Where is my alacrity,
my willingness,
my zeal?

I’ve misplaced all my fervour,
ardour,
gusto,
warmth,
and spark

My promptness
and avidity
are now in
blue lividity

No relish,
bright celerity,
or genial rapidity

Just me
and stale pizza
--lamenting

Gone too soon
My lost sparkle

Write what I know?  I am pocked with
chunks of broken moments.
Bits fall to the ground, trip me.
The terrain of my youth is a
moonscape.  I know what I know in
the craters of this place.

Born on the darkside and thirsty, I was
cold.  I found the sun later when I
was tumbled out the door of my
Mother’s leaking house.  Her screams
had become tentacles of maniacal
music.  Or do not call it music for
if you heard it you would not dance.

I am old now.  The view from my landing
is filled with sunlight and children,
“There are children in the leaves,
laughing excitedly”.   (Eliot)
I am paused in this imagination on
occasion.

When she is quiet,
I sweep her under the porch
where she lies drunk and unlaughing.
I do not let her out.  Yet she
steers me.  Her corpse loud
in her ***** nightdress.  

The terrain of my old age is pitted
with the debris of this haunting.  She
unsings me, makes me lie in
craters from which I climb up
daily only to tumble back down,
to have to begin again
from the bottom each new **** day.

But I sing as I crawl. And
she does not like the sound of that

Caroline Shank

The voice, the bell-yellow
voice of the sax plays on.
Under the mind like a layer
of canvas lie the brushes
and strokes, the arms and legs
of memory.  The arrival on the
skin of sound is the moment
of love.  The unfurling of
the pallette.

You say, listen, the wail of
breath on brass is mine.  No,
it is yours.  The voice, no
longer alone, even when
unaccompanied, falls from
the blues of evenings or the
reds of afternoons, approaches
with footprints in sand.  We
are castled in music, our
colors unfurled.

Our fingers on the keys.  We
see the archetype of design in
the sound of the sax, the
movement in the fabric of
stripes.  The sound’s colors
draw us to each other.
Listen.  The wail of breath
on brass is everywhere.
Listen.


101793

Tucked in kindness

Setting controlled burns
from a safe distance

Fairy floss floating

Unloading old cargo
without second thoughts

Warm juice weather

Opening windows
to let out odd heat

Yesterday was
hot tear-smudged eyeliner
over-picked nails
and stress-blanched thoughts

Today is
cool bruise-soothing gel packs
light hugging cardigan
and summer blanket rest

Hidden in gentleness

Departing hurts
replaced by lovely scars

Tucked in kindness