soups of old dreams

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(11/26/09 19:45:50)

ezOP

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i wanted you to be here as well, the open windows
open door of late novemeber florida. the room
painted key west motel/condo beside the seine, no not the seine
isn't there some other river in france i could know about?
to the east the room becomes the orient, chinese caligraphy
on the wall, the returning soldier wants to know if i know the words
but the excavation of the poem is not that simple
translation is a rickety scaffold that sprouts branchlets & berries
where i becomes us with an added stroke. she is a linguist
the soldier, silent when politics
enters the room. her step father and i
exchange pleasantries from opposite sides
of the ailse, w0ndering what mirror
the other wakes up to each morning
the soldier

plans her wedding, talks about babies
with her pregnant cousin, they sit side
by side in a worn loveseat, looking
thru the winnie the pooh scrapbook she bought
for the expectant mother, this girl she once changed
the diapers f herself, swam in the hottub
with her and baby brother, who towers
over her now, he must have grown two inches since
last novemeber, when she left for the desert
the dust that blew over time, ripped
the chronicals to shreds
stored in facebook
now to scrap

into the next report home. fully sanctioned
by the machine that feeds her by policing
thesource of thwoesoghasodifsdk


transmisiion aborted. it is what it is, empire. deal.






()***








i do not know what wall has come between me
and thre rest of the world. i put one foot in front
of the other, feel the tug at the ankle. so
i tear the lettuce, bake the yeast rolls. i want one now
with cold turkey, mayo, a bit of pickle and onion
or if that isn't available, some cornbread suffing will do.
but i'm pale as my stained dress i've really let myself go
i didn't even put on face cream
until everyone went home. i wanted
to fade into the kitchen
and not have to deal with
people's feelings, i mean ok
let them have them but please
don't try to engage me
with your world
view , i like
my tarpa
per
shack on the bayou it won't outlast me by much take
what you can when i go. raw sugar
plays on pandora i've missed
this song, your sweet rush
the settling down into
krone, not ready for
the cauldron
i burn a red hole in my dress.










(*&_____




see it was like , she wrote the same damn thing.
we got bored with it after a while, the heron talking
to the frog, the flight of cotillions over the marsh
the song of the bumblebee, the lament
of the flower. those dumb flowers
yearning for the touch of butterflies
with their own agenda
and that of the wind.


one second. turkey sandwich.

















(**)






pandora's listening is limited to 2 free weeks. or a dollah for the rest of november.
if i had itunes i could listen to soma again. i wonder if the netbook will support it.
the kitchen is clean, the dishes put away, the flood on the counter dealt with.
the soldier and her family are home again, done with the care package
of leftovers, she packs her bag for the flight back to her station.
she has two years left. she knows she will probably be sent
back to the desert or perhaps further inland, to the craggy
mountains where rebellion grows fast and thick
as poppies in the canyons. her pregnant
cousin asked if she will re-up at the end
of her enlistment. her mind
changes daily. her aunt is opposed
to the service, but she lives
on the fruits of its
policy, like the drosophilia
that buzzed around
the bananas, ripening for bread
on her kitchen counter.
her says to her step father this is what i love about this country~
we can disagree and no one is pointing guns at each other.
yet, thinks the soldier. we're not pointing them yet.