blood ink student literary journal

[  spring 2005  ]


glenN robsoN



Hours and Threads


                  For Frank O’Hara

 

8am     The Holy Trinity Special: Three-dollar bacon, toast, eggs;

the red imprint of knuckles on a cheek: mine;

mug circle stain on the book – Les Fleurs du Mal

I’m reading (my own Ennui… O); listening to a skipping

CD of country warble the denny’s staff seems

            to think is normal.

9am                                              Head out along Ulysses’ dusty trail,

no, through a paved parking complex, the box-stores only

differentiated by their fluorescent-glow logos, shapes

and colours compelling the environment to trance, and waiting

            for the caffeine surge free w/ coupon to burrow into me.

10am                                                                                     Drifts

            through daydreams, buses, Edmonton (multiple transfers stuffed in

and sprouting from pockets), porcupine eyes and elbows in ribs,

backpacks warranting seat-space, impressions of others orbiting against

me, grunting silences; shall we dance? I think, smiling a little, saying,

sorry, excuse me, as if I need an excuse.

11am                                                                   Downtown, A&B Sound,

escalators down… again; punctuate each aisle with a gem I clutch,

sweating palms, brisk high: here, Squarepusher, here, Coltrane, here,

Schoenberg, here, some glitch musician I never

heard before, probably never will; a fellow customer, catches

            and releases my gaze for sport (sure, sure). No purchases

today.

12pm             Spend more hours on buses; my banner companions:

feeling blue? There IS Help, call 452…………………….

Take Baudelaire out of my bag, flip pages without reading a word –

black-ink blur, draft of his magic – then return it; read over a fat

businessman’s shoulder about some Ophelia case, last night on the

High-Level Bridge (didn’t we just pass…), wondering if she called

the hotline first.

1pm                               Home – where the heart is (isn’t it?) – I tug at an

unravelling thread on my sleeve, casting the line onto the floor, and

watch a nature show on the Discovery Channel

 

the narrator whispers an imposed plot   of two orphaned lion cubs   and their quest to find their mother

unaware of the camera   through editing   the scientist’s eye   they trek through the Serengeti   once in a

while   stumbling upon slabs of suspiciously uneaten zebra flesh   then flash   they’re grown   like Simba in

The Lion King   and able to hunt and kill and fuck for themselves                                                

                                                                                    – thinking,

                                                                                                it all makes                             

                                                                                    so much sense.

 

  

 

The Contortionists

            for two voices

 

Awakened, naked

Called without answers

Perimeter of forest

Flowered blockade

Liquid rays contort, penetrate

Strike the blank canvas we are

Teasing of barred light

Conqueror of night You are

All we Know

We discover upright

Spines aligned to the sun

Backs cold with shadows

You are temptation

But we Believe our eyes

(Fastened where they are)

More than our sight

Gold diffused through green

Dancing Unreal

Sway, rustle, and twist

Light we long to taste

Light we taste

Red orbs on dreaming eyelids

Ablaze, the thin layers of skin

We peek the glowing

Full beyond branches

Light we taste

We don Your scales

Don Your scales

Contort and shrivel

Shrivel and Contort

Married in Descent

Married in Descent

[  spring 2005  ]



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