The Visitation

c0afc59c29a71821ce3e5b5a2e8e10a5 cezanne

The chimes of the balcony

trickle into the memory

that I was not alone earlier on the cobbles.

Followed by your echoes,

weightless and elegant,

like a flowing fabric

or the shadow of a delicate fan,

you came like a welcome reprieve

from the humidity that knew no wind coming off of the sea.

All of the valleys were choked and stagnant

until your scented form brushed by

like the visitation of pikake

or a rain that knew forests better than concrete.

You are the balm by which old selves begin to retreat,

the relief of twilight after the heat,

all the small glittering fragments,

fleeting as loose fitting rings

as day slips into night.

These moments can accumulate in trees,

with angelic voices and the flight of eucalyptus leaves

from your silver sleeves

it breathes freely by land’s end

and on the terrace with paper and reverence

I’d make amends,

with fingers and pens

longing for useful lines to describe

the legend of your disappearance,

like a sun behind the sea,

I’ll follow in your wake

with letters sealed in ink endlessly.


Cover Image “The Kiss of the Muse” by Paul Cezanne


Aloof Muse

They’ll fall on her tracks
with a trailing motion,
a multitude of mice
with a towering devotion
following her invitation
a text, the perfect prescription
to bandage the need for attention.
What did you expect from addiction?
What did you reflect in this room full of mirrors?
Fractured clones
lost in the fog of her gaze,
that vacuous place
of depthless perception.
The game she plays is staged
her costumes change
and yet there is this appeal
to empty form and pretense
which reveal her brilliance
to be the absence of light.
Your endless spins
on this black circle
has yielded to a willingness
to be another needy lapdog
anxious for her entrance
gazing into that darkness
with subway expectancy
waiting underground
for this aloof and impersonal vessel
to enter your unsteady station
and lead you away from yourself.

Female Figure by Cathy Connor

When the Wind is a Whim


It’s early morning on the day of departure.

Leaving this island again,

a kind of exile,

this home without you.

Though you are there

the core is bare

beneath a lush surface.

In your face a familiarity

a place time released sand in,

if you were once a traveling companion,

I now go alone to get closer to you.

Closure from you?

Like paddling through inertia,

thoughts sea swept into the distance.

Distance, something that always did us good,

limitless author of options for

those too individualistic

to stick to one another for long.

So we remain enamored

by the solitary journey

that hammers its adversity

into this domesticity

like the common belief

that we’re somehow unique

rather than entwined.

Seems the truth is defined by both

and neither of us is truly in control.

So we journey on alone

and wear the changes proudly

as if it is the only fabric that endures.

You’ve helped me to embrace it,

accept it, reject it, rail against it

and go solo into the neons and night skies

that cross a vast ocean

to land me on a notion

that this city we built was only a prelude

to all this drifting further west.

East? West? 

It’s all one circle in the begin again.

Now here at the cliff’s precipice

I’m ready.

With a swift throw

to feed fire to the wind,

to go with illuminated wings

floating feather-like

into wherever its whim

may bring me next.