Author: William Cowan

Landlubbers, the crescent moon has arrived
with slanting tales to populate your sleepless nights.

Laplanders, the croissants have arrived
with breakfast tales singing a version of Paris.

Lugubrious joiners, the crestfallen arrange
the breaking hearts in versions of temporary relief.

Laconic gymnasts crest the heights.
The braking assistants bring them belief.

Largess gained, crevices open,
with links to cells that have not yet spoken.

So which derivatives finally brought you
Down to these placebo tract sprawl avenues
Away from the cusp of excitement?

There was no one to confirm your rapid
Demise. Edited out, it was implied.
In retrospect much reflection tastes of ashes.

Some chose Buddhism it is floated
Out in the cocktail talk. Wandering among
Real trees, not just those in HD is draining

Replies the encumbered broker, unbending
But fitting his title more each day. Waiting
For the Feds to finish reading his files

He is miles from the action, seeing
Anew that there is no food service to call
Out here and no delivery of plaques for being

Gone from the picture.
Others hold your place.
Others have stepped over you on their way up

In this transitory moment
In our country’s watching
The coming lights speeding toward us in the tunnel.

The sleeping mind arises.
It reconstructs pictures into meaning.
Flashing lines appear from the dark.
I learned subtraction until I was full.
Leaving the movie I drive off
Into the screen where all
The clowns died laughing,
And so we go to
The funeral of pregnant pauses.
At this juncture I’ve forgotten
More than I ever knew.
Stepping through the theatre crowd
Carrying the last plastic flowers
The vendor had we shiver
Before the machinery now cold
Under starlight.

red

the underbelly of something
dying
the blood coursing thru veins
bulging
the sun squatting just before
darkness
the billowing morning flags
over the people

blue

the faded edges
of forgotten places

the waters once were

the empty room with filled ashtrays

“Gauloise Blue,” Robert Motherwell

green

backs
with envy

on the other side
hoping
it is

yellow

pollen
a child’s sun

dry land
lemonade
piss

being called coward
the face of the old
a submarine to look for

black

clubs    behind eyes
spades    prospects
hearts    without
beautiful    you

* * *

I no longer need to speak to you
When a nod will do.

This is a paring down to essentials.
Now the air between us is charged with a relaxed fervor.

I no longer have to touch you
Constantly like the collector who

Holds a possession that holds him.
When a spark brings a flame

I will pretend a little goes a long way.
I am applying for a position here,

Accept this kindling.
Hire me.

you surface
like the returning
drowned
resurrected
soft & beautiful
swimming
out of your dreams

You have come to be closeted in the wind & so
I ask you to take my hand, touch
The gravel traces that run
Thru the weeds on the sidereal clip.
They dangle from the projector,
The projectionist too tired
For the catapult,
Too tired,
For the sad tales we cough up
Into his arms.
Ah, you have touched my heart
With your weary composure.
I will ask you no more to run
Across my screen.
We are popcorn bodies
In an empty theatre.

We become delusional when looking out
We see only for & against
Go on loading up on imaginary needs,
Interfacing solely with like-minds & choirs.
Some of those choruses may acquire pitchforks
As times grow grim, and disinformation
Clogs our airwave arteries.

The incandescent time has gone.
We are on low burner as autumn arrives
Slowly in whiffs & waves
Chasing summer into shadow corners.

Under the media spell we ignore
What we sow by how
We phrase conjectures to confuse
The easily confused. Our failing construct
Multiplies, diseased parts included,
Around the globe. In Shanghai
The glitzy skyline mirrors our
Glittering facades. There is no
“Human face of socialism” there,
On the make and don’t step in
Front of traffic. The left behind

Are in a bind. Here
We enjoy our remaining clear skies
And clouded government.
The soap operas continue
To fog our insight.

“If elections really made a difference,
They would cancel them,” someone once said.

If we do not pick up on this,
Pick something out of the rubble,
Start anew then those chances
Will recede back
Into the chatter that controls.

Include everything and you leave
Out the essence. Leaving out all things
Such as emotions of any note make it appear clear,
Colorless as it is turned over.

Hurrying to this thought,
Putting away the tasks to hear
The transient trains that glide by the screen
Is a way of collecting our parts:

The photographic memory that holds
The numbers on the boxcars, undifferentiated,
Of equal value. Place them here,
Pebbles found at a beach

Examined for their mystery.
We put them in a drawer.
Years later they will be as they are,
Aged meaning remembered down a long avenue
Cleansed by rain, by our tears.

the wet tires
on the black
on sand

the woodpecker
you don’t see
tick, ticking

the slippers
you can’t find
in the dark

until you do
the sound you can’t
imagine until you

hear it
the humming wires
overhead with

& without the wind
that rasps, creaks,
ebbs, ends

in the calm
full of subtraction,
substance

sustenance
that clears
the field

This poem is also a reaction to/review of the album, “ajar”
by Otomo Yoshihide, Keith Rowe, and Taku Sugimoto,
guitars