Night on Ocean Beach
brief story, and others
Night, it was a beautiful night out on ocean beach. the moon was shining
on the water and the line between ocean and sky was a bright blue band.
way out on the horizon, a ship was on fire and then others were appearing
and then dropping, dropping over the edge. a river of clouds passed
over us and my friend saw a blazing falling burning star and turned
to me and said, when i was little i never used to squander my wishes
on small things like candy and chocolate. i always wished i could live
now i don't.
had planned to do nothing the entire weekend but sleep and watch
rented movies on tv and it was in fact all through the night we
slept, but for a span of time in the middle of the night after which
the tiny wisp of muriel, who sports even more inexplicably tiny
ears, while in her quest for the unfortunately-placed feather toy
leapt upon the VCR, causing it to come careening over the dresser
and walls and crashing down upon the floor, mounting a catastrophe
upon our bizarre dreamworld, and setting off a flurry of tiny little
taps upon the ceiling, where the two suddenly-awakened upstairs
neighbors' whippets were now agitating vertically in small prancelike
format, suggesting the visual of a pair of muriel's freezedried
shrimp treats in agitation upon stilted toothpicks.
we couldn't find muriel again till daybreak.
of course, since the VCR was broken, the movies were out.
and then the koi was dead.
after a couple of days, i lay the fish to rest in the ice tray of
and tonight that collection of consciousness confuses me.
After wandering way back out
past surprised starfish exposed
clinging to slippery green undersides of rocks
and stripped bare to the rising sensations
now remembering their dreams of foam-dashed rocks
succumbed to sleep,
high storm at sea
once again prepares its home
they are purple
clumps of purple
handfuls of purple.
where they hatch
hungry for sun
like purpled arms.
in fill my rooms
with bundle after bundle
of stalking blooms
the color of desert sunsets
the glow of grapes
are soft as plums, the inside of
a wrist, as tender
as new bruises purpling
them in after the first
time and shook them down
upon the sheets like
enough violet to turn
limbs into wine.
gathering lilacs by amy crane johnson
[somewhere i have never travelled]
somewhere i have never travelled,
gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot
touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose
me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by
petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully,mysteriously) her
first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very
beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the
snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive
in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever
with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is
deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
-e. e. cummings
you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had
no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to
be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine
and clay my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with
me that everyday something has tried to kill me