Entr'acte italic

A cathedral/ in German, 'Dome'/ Pallestrina/ Angels, Genii Loci/
thirty men and women, in bear masks/ naked/ cameras form a semi circle/ inside the police line/ 'do not cross'/ so I cross
Lithe silver bridge/ driving rain/ umbrella ballet/
A ramp connects/ a small family chase/ shrieking, laughing/ me laughing, too
a girl found a 'seat' in a girder/ so could we all/ angels ranged about
The hall is the museum/ no painting, no collection/ could articulate/ this/
and I'm left, overwhelmed, small/ wondering if this obsession/ with spaces and empty form/ is such a good idea
I shop for my sister/ find a tiny catalogue/ of Japanese textiles for her/ & force myself to a show/ can't navigate this heroic remix
after Man Ray's iron/ with nails coming out/ find a little cinema/ at last, the dark/ Entr'acte/ apposite intermission/ this is what the huge hall lacks/ intimacy/ the problem of Mies/ Plato's viewers/ 'd have been blinded in the light/ my eyes relax, but not my ears/
yes, a quiet dark space to be still/ amidst the busy city/ I arrive, only to leave
I heard a song/ that made me cry

Wolfs

I keep on seeing wolverine friends walk by. Be they huskies, wolves, long dogs and grey, even a chance fox in the basement - but this was freaked out where the wolfs - I like the word better without the 'v', itmakes it more like them; strong, marginal, spare, knowing and wise but with the scent of danger and wild longings about them - where most of these omen friends seem almost placid - and maybe their wildness has drained into a feral or domestic basin, as so many seem to tug tethers to a man, its true - they are there on every corner, at each approach to nowhere.

What is this? I say 'omen friends' 'cos whilst so many jog by, content and quiet, focused on the way ahead (where to? Do they drag their de- domestised feral men-pets behind them north? To the wild woods? To the creek or the mountain crag where the moon bids them cry out their long wolfy names to the four winds?), they each speak a secret..

The same secret? The same spell of nonsense, quietude, profundity? A wolverine quire conspires to sing a one-note symphony to my quivering ears, to my whiskered cheeks? What is this note, this spell, this secret? Were that you could tell, little handheld, stupid ether, blank void. Were that my asking you this with little pokes of this telescpic stylus would result in some resounding shout a big 'yEs', a flash or beaten pan in the mudflat nights.

As I write (and as I interact with my geo/physical friends, increasingly), I sense a madness, a homelessness of the mind. A space before the question, the silence before the waves move.. The bump in the cycle as the lead wheel overlaps again, a tremulous little hil to climb and fall again. The wolfs are at my door tonight, and tonight I've no question but the wild. Tonight I'm leaving. I'm gone.

a list of recent nowheres

A young girl's bed, right now;
The latest world cup video game,
By the sea,
A rooftop - the moon and skyscrapers,
Family history.
A golf course by the river,
Through a wire railing,
over a bridge crossing.
Driving out to desolation beach,
Naming what had washed up,
Or had been left there.
The nowheres of memory,
And of projected futures.
Griefs abounding,
Stroboscopic.
I am homeless
My home is lessnesslessnessless
I stay in the attic
Above the office
-- artists, healers below
Advertising and retail -
With the speed of electrons
I elope from pretty cages
And with the forces of gravity and magnetism
I smash through your jawbone.
Adorning your cranium,
Your crowning glory,
Your straight hair is sacred
to me,
Your neck, your fingers
The history of concrete
Forgotten heroes
Fallen, still fallible
Dust.