"denims" poems
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Through the nature that i've travelled
There's so much to unravel
And the sea's that i've swum
Whether fishes are dumb
And the skies that are blue
Do they wear lace shoes?
Those dinosaurs which were ugly
Did they shave their legs regularly?
Do flying fishes even fly
Or its just a rumor spread by cats
So that it can eat every time a human has its catch
Did apes develop into humans
Or totally vice-versa
Before we know it we'll go extinct
And apes on trees will have sips of *****
Do kangaroos have pockets from birth
Or did they buy from Denims
Before i know it dogs will purr
And rocks will have feelings
Do owls sleep or act their way through the day
It will not be Meryl Streep but them, catching the oscar and walking away!
Do snakes hiss by nature or just be angry due to their body folds
Before i know it others will wear Jimmychoo's and all they'll do is catch a cold!
DO lions have smelling ability or they just put a tracking device
Playing billiards in 'Catsino' and using cell phones made of mice?!
Do eagles, the pilots of the sky have pretty air hostesses attend to
Or locate and make a buffet out of the, that's exactly what i'm referring to!
Its this jungle or paradise, or what a new age city?
Casino's of lions, oscars for owls, that's my LIFE'S EXPECTANCY !
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Behind a speakeasy
in a ***** moonlit alley
silhouettes climb up a tired
and worn out stairway
vacancy signboard beneath
an incandescent light bulb
marks the nondescript entrance
for the nights commerce
Outside the window ledge
a billboard hums an electric tune
between the blinds neon light
sneaks into the room
casting shadows on a naked
landscape across the mattress
spread totally disinterested
pockmark flesh limply waiting
Clumsy hands fumble
to unzip stained denims
hobbling with unsteady steps
to the edge of the bed
a drunk smelling of cheap whiskey
and ***** smiles at me with
two rows of rotted stumps
my first customer of the night
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
Oh Dipali, Oh Dipali
So pretty, so lovely.
Short hair, the smiley face
So pleasant, your grace.
But why do I wonder,
It's not real?
The masks you wear,
Covering up your anguish and fear.
Look at you, all changed .
Feet to forehead, everything arranged.
Just as an experiment, take my advice,
Need not be beautiful, need not be nice.
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!
Thick glass-frames, oh poor eyesight ?
Or maybe the darkness of the lonely nights
without the two twinkling stars,
Your eyes reflect the deep scars.
Remove your glasses
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!
Take out your golden wrist watch,
Take out your blue and white friendship bands.
Free up your wrists, Free up your hands.
Burdens of emotions and time,
The marks will show up as their remains.
But Be the one you really are- Just For Today!
Heavily packed your wardrobe, so colourful.
Tops and denims and matching shoes, so cheerful.
Fingers will run through them, but give them a holiday.
How about just a plain salwaar-kameez for today?
Search for your simplest sandals, no high heels.
Be simple,
Today no visual appeals.
No make-up, no fancy handbags.
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!
A beauty rising out of clouds,
For today will just dissolve into the crowds.
Soon you'll realize its value,
An existence so natural, so true.
But for today, just be the one you really are.
And you'll still stand out in millions, my dear,
With your pretty face, and the short hair.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
there are only 5 seats and on each end
are metal chapels. time slows down like a slug
climbing a vertical wall, or say, a drunken man
making his way towards the oblique recess.
the ignominy of an exhausted carburetor
is the orchestra for the night.
lots of women go in and out, out and in,
whichever is first, but the last is always
just as bland as any other truth:
we go, each foot splayed to cover measure,
and in the flash of a scene, gone.
I watch their skirts make gossamer tune,
like some flotsam or a poised note being led
straight to a trajectory disappearance:
the idea of the image is to glide
over them, over flesh,
over this fetal smoke that I will soon toss
right into the womb of nothing
and fall flat as a key from a tone-deaf cathode,
a spanked melodrama of television with dull cursive,
or as lithe as justly, the right camber of blues
ripping straight through my day-old denims,
peering through the tease of a thigh’s penumbral shadow,
the sound of the world being dragged into double-doors
echoing a metonymy: *silence the interlocutor, her mouth
full of birds. Dark birds.*
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
The air, superheated, cocoons us
and we drive,
northwards into the heartland
of the desert.
You, black shirted,
your smooth denims
an intrinsic part
of the landscape.
You were born into dust.
I, crisp and white,
a polarised pair
of mirrors for my eyes.
Your hands on the wheel
guide us into the belly of time.
Intent upon a road with no end.
Sunlight hits chrome,
bleeding flashes of forever
into the gaze of any who glance upon us.
The roof pulled down,
my hat is given up
to a vortex of spinning air,
whipping tiny tornadoes
of grit and long-dead weeds
into a dancing frenzy of celebration.
We have no gold on our fingers.
Our teeth shall not itch
with the sugar of a wedding cake.
And we’ll never look back.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
She's got that peasant stink stuck to her
radiating failed dreams and passed-over advice
speaking to the untold quantities
of filthy, illegitimate children
birthed through pale and quivering thighs.
Tattered, low denims
faded, high-cut blouse
full head of ratty, unclean hair
propped up in a high-rise hair-spray style
that hasn't been popular in the trailer parks
for more than a decade.
She always worked real hard
yet always put failing-foot forward
and though I asked,
she could never tell me why -
she never, I think, knew herself.
It doesn't matter though
she'll just fall again
fall to her knees before another he again
fall into the welfare lines due to another newborn again
fall back down into what she knows again.
She saves her non-handout-cash
for the spending on endless streams of hash,
bottles of paint for nail and eye-lash
-because she believes, as she's told,
that she's worth it -
even though it's real clear that she's not
and that
it's real clear that she's one for looking-on
and never acting upon and yet,
I cannot help myself
anymore than she can -
I have fallen
completely and pointlessly
in love with her.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
I ran into you again in the old café.
You know the one, with its yellow and blue vintage mugs,
The one with the mismatched chairs and Old Persian rugs.
With the red espresso machine and the barista who knows us both by name.
When I say I ran into you, I don’t really mean we made small talk,
Or even acknowledged one another with a head tilt or nod.
It was more so I saw you from across the shop, and you saw through me.
I watched you order your coffee as I mimicked the bartender’s “Markus”.
I put my head in my book, the one about god-knows-who doing god-knows-what.
You took your usual seat, the one a table down from mine,
The one beside the window that looks down the main strip.
You drink your coffee with cold milk and sugar, with a slow rush and concentration.
I wonder where you go to each afternoon, who you meet with
And if she knows you bite your nails.
As you drink and think, you scrawl.
I follow your hand motions in-between a word or two on the page in-front of me.
Each time I try and imagine what it says, but each time you finish your cup you crumple the page and stuff it in your denims.
I wonder who washes your pants, who find those words,
Who treasures them the way I would.
I wonder if she knows you mess with the front of your hair when your hands don’t know what to do.
You pick up your empty cup, place it on the counter, you open the door and nod to the barista.
She nods and tells you to “not be a stranger”.
I look to where you sat, and feel lonely without your scribbling.
But where you sit is not empty, with a sugar *** and stir sticks.
Your words you left, for her not to find and for me to steal.
I walk to the table and turn over your page. It writes,
“A letter to the girl I see in our café, the one that knows us both by name.
I see you but you see right through me.
I wonder who you are looking for out on the street, I wonder if you are waiting for someone to walk by,
And if he knows you touch your hair when you’re nervous and drink vanilla lattes with one sugar.
I wonder if he is in your books you read about only-you-know-who and only-you-know-what.
I sit in the window where you look, waiting for you to see me,
I write and write to tell you something or anything,
But I know he is out there somewhere and not here in.
I scribble something down in hopes I can somehow get you to notice me,
But all I can write about is how beautiful you look in our quiet, old café, drinking the froth from a blue mug.”
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
Amelia
with the
tender
Tom Hardy lips
picks
at things.
Scabs.
The peeling leather
on her
steering wheel.
The frayed edges of the hole in her denims
that's as gaping
as a zipper mouth,
and looks
just
as
vicious.
Boys she likes
and likes
not at all.
(Men that call her "sweetie.")
Amelia's delicate fingers
and the ballet of her fingernails
warp bruises
into rose vaginas.
And make hurt
smell
good,
and decay
taste like
the wet of your first girlfriend
and the sweet odor of fear
she let off
when your tongue searched
and she lay there--
legs cocked on your shoulders--
quiet,
never sighing.
Amelia hasn't found anything
that scares her good and healthy yet.
When she does
she'll know love,
and I'll stop thinking about her.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
Before the decade spat us out,
on our bicycles we had options,
the electric blaze truly sped by
with the years
and Dad's knew their sons interests
lay in Rock, where musicians in de rigueur denims
sign posted the alpha roost
and we all had dreams of blondes,
their beacons crafting
secrets and desires about growing up.
This was the surest way
to catch an education for life
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
goaded by a stereophonic monotone:
a flumine voice waxes with lovelorn dregs.
i heard the plump word of rescue
dangle from the heady decibel of song,
winterward, blue-veined and stillicide.
no more, shall the wind traverse the impasse of the verdigris. the incertitude
of beginnings sigh ultimately.
o people, your darling children soldered
to your denims. o rosefrail and sightless
bannerets — we mourn such coming.
it sleuths with a tangle of fingers
underneath fringes of flesh-warmed
draperies with a different temperament
as moderate as climates in squandered tropics, flows with a truth wishing it
more of the untruth:
never shall return, in faraway lands,
never shall look back and lay in prairies
attenuated, continue to sing oblivion.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
and wonder where all my poems go,
the value they impose -- only there's implosion and not so much sense
so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle of a pilsner
as i hear one of the patrons call out
my solitude like a ********** on all fours;
one afternoon pursues a following.
i have wasted my time writing and stopping
to watch stray hounds pant and
**** on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the papers retch at tyrannies.
hands for mechanisms configured to
a heady bias of probabilities.
the house next to me is being
overhauled and i imagine the incredulity
of things not their own meanings.
a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread, a decrepit bed for making love
or passing time or wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone is reading my poems and weeping at the cadence.
most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things not mine to commandeer.
the sound of stone masons hammering
boulders double the melancholia.
the deliberate sieving of sand and stone
felt like sandpaper air.
the matutinal sky split into dire condition
much like mine: becoming and unbecoming.
all the ******** are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
and mobiles covered with dust,
the captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
of the departed.
i look up and see my face in the sky:
if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.
more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
somewhere in Padre Faura.
madness hurries like a lover and hands me
a picture of the moon.
i've got something and that's good enough
as the police leave the grime of times
and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
as the priests step into the showers, naked
and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
as the cat that was hit
by a bicycle
goes back to the dark
licking the salt off the wound,
bone fractured, still alive on the hot roof.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
Oslo that summer
having left the base camp
and the tent
with the Australian guy
(he was with the Yank girl)
you walked about
looking at the sights
Moira beside you
in her denims
and white tee shirt
and her hair frizzed
after a shower
(which she had taken alone
worse luck)
and she was talking
about the Yank girl
with whom she shared
her tent
O the perfume she wears
I’d rather sleep
in a tent
with a camel
than with her
and her voice
***** my head
and do you know
I've heard about
her love life
from the very beginning
I’d rather spend the night
listening to a duck quack
you nodded
and listened
taking in her fire talk
her four letters words
filling the air
floating there
like black
angry birds
you can share with me
any time
well you could
if I didn't have
the Australian guy there
smelling of beer
and talking about Sheilas
and how he did this
and that
you said
no
Moira said
and have them
talk about me too
no I’m not that
kind of girl
besides
how would we work it
to allow that to be?
don't get so angry
about things
why do you Scots
get so moody?
it's not just us
she said
it's the ******* world's
view of us
as wee tight ********
when we're not
anyway
she went on
giving you the stare
what do you
know of Scots?
lived in Edinburgh
for a while
you said
nice place
so much history
well there you go
she said
anyway what’s that
got to do
with the Yank *****
and her perfume
and the love life
of a ******* rabbit
nothing I guess
you said
I think she's over here
studying art
O then
that explains it
the way she has
the I-couldn’t-go-a-day
-without- a man's- ****
-in-me
kind of talk
and philosophy
Moira said
spitting out words
like broken teeth
what about a beer?
you said
chill out
and take in a view
and have a smoke
and I can tell you
of my love life?
the beer's a good idea
but I’m not so keen
on the tales
of your **** life
she said
so you found a bar
off a street
and sat outside
with two beers
and a couple of smokes
and you wondering
how she bedded
and how indeed
to get her into your tent
and what to do
with the Australian guy
and the Yank dame
and off she went again
moaning about
the Southend
teacher guy
did you see him
at the from
of the mini bus
giving it all
that talk of history
and that Lancaster *****
all ears and ******* teeth ?
you sat and smiled
listening to her
talking of herself
and the world's grief.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
It blows, and suddenly the pavements are filled
With men and women going everywhere,
But none are going anywhere.
Women in pretty dresses are not going to dances.
Yesterday was long ago,
When tomorrow set shimmery curls in their hair
And summer slipped a diamond on their fingers.
Men in soiled denims are not going on safaris.
Yesterday was long ago,
When adventure held the scent of salt-air
And their names were on the roll-call of ambition.
The whistle is a smokescreen,
And somewhere, on the other side,
Lies the "Open Sesame" of youth.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
the car outside. you in your plain clothes;
I solemnize over this slow hill of flesh
when you lay down after the dredge.
it was your old automobile. somewhere in the
console, piping in the shell of night, your once
swift-footed self.
it was for Mico, you said.
this thing of time that was once early.
you in your white shirt with blotches of
yellow, like some aureole-bitten lip of bougainvillea.
some cold smitten flitter peering out
of the window of your gray head, your sage,
prattling about its conscious footing, this automobile.
are we but disputes and all that sense,
eluding us? somewhere in Malolos, the fatigued
machinery with its lilting rotor
modulates a once wild memory:
you, still in your white shirt. two bodies
drained of inertia – otherwise occupying song and silence,
our volition nothing but jarring (unmindful of its scathing dialect),
our terms to ourselves fabulated, the savannah drunk
in dappled light that evening – in front of the hospital,
mum as a nurse.
you pass on the keys to him,
learning new language. by the thousand strophes
of this lurching sea with its plodding delay,
your once bright bone, quickening in slow delight
now, as his face obscures yours with wonderment,
this evening – both of you in your denims,
all three of us in a huddle stamped
with heavy understanding.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Dancing at night in dark blue denims.
You left the taste of lemon
in my mouth when you asked me to drink it.
I smiled out loud when I heard of your visions.
Dancing in the diner parking lot.
The cheap speaker you brought
is still playing our music.
I yelled that we were infinite just like you taught.
Dancing at the railway station by rail cars.
Looking at the stars,
thinking about the ones to which we belong.
I point to a pretty pair and you smiled at the dark.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 1:34 AM UTC
It's dust, mostly
the kind that burrows
deep into the creases
of his forehead
and hides inside
the crinkles
around his eyes
It's forever stuck
to the soles of his boots
and never rinses out
of his denims
in the river,
not entirely
And it finds a way
to roll with beads
of sweat in dripping
lines exposing
parchment skin
but somehow never
penetrates the ring
around his head,
preserved forever
by his stetson's brim
And it's also ashes
from chaparral
and tumbleweeds,
lit up in circles
where he camped
leaving a trail
of where he's been,
like breadcrumbs
swept away in a
restless breeze
It's the creaking sound
of leather in his saddle
and the rhythmic
thud of horseshoes
pounding sunbaked ground
It's the wind in his face
that grits his teeth
and squints his
glassy eyes
It's standing in the stirrups
to fly above the racing plain,
keeping balance
with the whipping mane
It's the endless sky,
and the horizon
that never fades
But mostly,
it's the dust
that he holds
in upraised palms
slipping through
his fingers, disappearing
from his touch
in the wild and still
untamed range
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
This old and twisted thing,
arranged in awry futility
like most lives circumspectly:
a pair of denims
washed in the Sun,
a slow laburnum glowering.
face-ovals perfumed with
the camphor of such departure.
the hand waving the weight
of the night's obsidian
is the love i take in - dull or sharp -
as it arrives, tired as a crankshaft
or a waned piston
this junked engine, wheeled off,
looming a light-clenched house
with its exhaust of excess. declension.
rife as a numeral being. repetitive like the drivel of radio talk. heavy like the sudden drop
of Sunday on the plod of chapels,
once more into this.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
Ad astra
1
From the city I know you were from,
building up the perimeter in summer – it was plenty searing.
Must when I found the town already, triggered and almost accomplished,
searchable signs for searching parties involved like grass on the lawn,
scraps on an empty lot – when in summer it got very hot
and your salt smelt of the sea crushed in between my territories, start the word.
Flesh deems it so in frame, walking with us this very evening crafted
by a waking remoteness.
2
When it rains, build this city from here on – relieve it of its terrors.
The memory of an old cathedral being burned down to the last cross,
the volume of prayer genuflected within pews, or anything that was hieratic. Rain in the
afternoon was what your entire ocean meant to me, crossing its span of promise,
sure of its weather. Rasp the skin tight like gears fine-tuned. Borrow its heat when
it drizzles. Do you remember my face when you pass by familiar pavements, stalls,
hospitals drenched in prognosis? The even flutter of a bird? What does this question seek
but your truth – like an elastic map stretched to infinite directions.
3
Here is where you were named darling. Taut your name had it belonged to someone else.
Sharp were your features. Your definitions smooth. Your textures visible with difficulty.
When you wore denims rising from the cuff of your knees you showed
me a blotch and other fraternizations. Moles as variables. Your body as graph. My senselessness,
somewhat a trying delineation. Thousand fingers mesh altogether to formulate rescue,
mind a garden of salvage enough for two. Or underneath the sphere of a body,
neither rain nor sun could stop to flourish me completely. Yourself full of
symmetries – the universe cut inside and out, trimmed to lasting – ubiquity, inhabiting the temporary.
I transact with this darkness yourself containing light, like a window to your home
when you’ve moved on to a different continent, I myself staring right into as if the whole space,
in search for a singular glint I could make up for a cluster
to make an elusive thing such as you walk backwards, from the entry, just before the guardhouse, to meet me.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
Professors with professions listen on the sidelines to my cryptic confessions like I'm still under the lineage of the plane papacy taking note of my blank boredom.
Don't even know if I deserve to saint this message.
Look warm,
they'll think you're a sky walker,
be hot they'll think you're an odd joker,
cause these days there's no truth to bat an eye on,
Even christians bail on the touchy topics,
I too would rather travel the tropics,
But we can't piece up the peace in these last days.
It's a relative subjective river that you can choose to glide on.
Why do foolish ants labour to protest works?
Perhaps it's a minor issue and we're digging too deep.
Perhaps the devil's wearing denims down with bootleg discussions,
that bow out but never stand in the gap,
Perhaps there are finer issues like my blessings.
Perhaps everyone will eventually find their way.
One man for himself...
I used to pray for mercy,
then I'd pray to messi,
It's like now I prey for merces,
distractions and direction,
promises of perfection,
leave me licking lumps of wounds that the leaven left.
We all want to hear something new,
twerk the message and please the pew.
I can feel the Ichabod as the teaching scratches my ears.
Can a name be enough?
Can a call really save?
Or is it just a ploy to keep the black man a slave?
- nyant
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Young Music
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Brook Trout Press
Grimsby and Toronto, Ontario, Canada
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 9:55 PM UTC
I remember the taste of her lips
As my arms went around her waist
Never letting her go from my grips
As my eyes met her eyes with haste.
I remember the world vanished
Trees disappeared, nothing but a taste
Time stood still, all thoughts banished
engulfed in a salivated paste.
To the world, we were shattered pieces
Like new denims completely spoiled
By permanently indented creases
As gene traits and double helix coiled.
To the world, we were broken
But to us we created a beautiful scene
Stories continued but unspoken
Of being and remaining forever sixteen.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC