Transcribed from Snowflake (Blue Flower) Journal<\/i><\/p>\n
Pompeii is Burning<\/b><\/p>\n
Stamped tin soldiers
\ncigar box guitar
\nan empty can
\n of red kidney beans
\n beside
\n a broken can opener
\n and a Swiss Army knife
\nShe lost the toothpick
\n first year in
\nthe nail file
\n five years after that
\nbut the knives
\n are still sharp
\n as the day she bought it
\nthe knives, like the lies
\n are always
\n sharp.<\/p>\n
Some stories
\n get worn over time
\n smoothed, rounded,
\n polished, comfortable
\n benign
\nShe keeps hers
\n lean and hungry
\n (for we are all
\n honourable men)<\/p>\n
Knew you not Pompeii?
\nPeople died there
\nat least that’s what they say
\nchoking in ash
\n so hot it
\n turned your lungs
\n to cinders
\n shadows still lying
\n in each other’s arms;
\nIf this is what
\n they call an aftershock
\nI’d hate to be
\n at ground zero
\n (the eye of the storm
\n is a myth
\n like Sisyphus
\n and Androcles;
\n a starving lion
\n will eat anything.)<\/p>\n
He thinks:
\n the pictures are too small
\n for their place
\n on the wall
\n (discount bin beige
\n masquerading as cappuccino)
\nA picture should expand
\n until it fills the emptiness
\n the artist as magician
\n capable of placing
\n images directly in your mind,
\n indirectly deciphered,
\n unhindered by education
\n enhanced by hearsay,
\n or possibly just
\n seen in the wrong light
\n the image becomes
\n Art
\n (that’s Art with a capital ‘A’
\n for those who are only
\n listening).<\/p>\n
Birds,
\n unlike people,
\n don’t need directions
\n don’t need to ask,
\n "what’s my motivation?"
\n The final cut is
\n indistinguishable
\n from the blooper reel
\n in the tangible world;
\n there are no second takes.
\n Birds
\n don’t need to be told
\n to seek higher ground;
\n they’re already up there
\n already hip
\n to the secrets
\n of the city dumpster
\n and the food court crumbs. <\/p>\n
In the margins:<\/b>
\n what are you doing tomorrow?
\n and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
\n creeps in this heady pace, from day to day
\n "this place is the beat of my heart"
\n "if the storm doesn’t kill you, the government will"
\n submerged elevators, broken wire mesh hearts,
\n & quicksilver tears<\/i><\/p>\n
Lay me down
\n in a field of poppies
\n cotton candy colours
\n nodding
\n in a sea of green<\/p>\n
Someone told him
\n never to look back
\n but neither the threat of salt
\n nor the apocryphal tales
\n of pomegranate seeds
\n can hope to compete
\n with that twinge
\n in the pit of your stomach
\n that says, clear
\n as pycrete,
\n I’m sure
\n I left the stove on;<\/p>\n
And Pompeii is burning,
\n Delaware’s bleeding,
\n and Venice is sinking
\n beneath the green waves;
\n who knew that death
\n could smell so sweet?<\/p>\n
Tuesday comes
\n after Monday,
\n at least that’s what they say;
\n people died there,
\n choking on laughter
\n so hot it turned
\n your heart to ashes
\n blown away
\n on the next
\n stiff breeze.<\/p>\n
In the midst
\n of stagnation
\n the hero transforms:
\n liquid to solid
\n to supersaturated
\n super-solution;
\n only it’s not
\n your grandfather’s
\n fairytale
\n set in the realm
\n of Escher’s pen,
\n where the endless stair
\n becomes a hill
\n that never sets,
\n a winter
\n that never rises,
\n words that freeze solid
\n and fall to the ground
\n so you have to thaw them
\n by the fire to hear them.<\/p>\n
Can a song escape the singer?
\n can you put a bounty
\n on an idea?
\n can a toy car jammed
\n into an old car seat
\n really save your soul?<\/p>\n
She would see the glass
\n as a weapon at hand
\nHe would see the lens
\n full of rainbows
\n and long-playing prog albums
\n (the round kind
\n with bumps on
\n for the needles to read,
\n for those who are only now
\n waking up);
\nThe homeless man
\n who used to play air drums
\n on the George Street bench
\n (he’s dead now)
\n would see a portent
\n of things to come
\n and, drinking it,
\n become the Messiah.<\/p>\n
In the margins:<\/b>
\n and heaven would ring
\n with steel drum reggae bebop
\n and dancing in the streets
\n sepia piano tones
\n and false drawers that don’t open
\n plastic flowers, backgammon & tea
\n Never stop digging;
\n some day you’ll reach
\n the other side of the world<\/i><\/p>\n
– T.H. (May 2012)<\/b><\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Transcribed from Snowflake (Blue Flower) Journal Pompeii is Burning Stamped tin soldiers cigar box guitar an empty can of red kidney beans beside a broken can opener and a Swiss Army knife She lost the toothpick … Continue reading