Pockets Full Of Coffee Beans (And Other Reasons To Read Something Else)

Under the cliffhanging cover of a ledge of roof, the girl in the slate-grey sweater glanced down at her feet. Held one foot up in the orangeish glow of the shop-lights. Her shoes were terribly interesting and impractical; she was up to her ankles in cold water. Water sluiced down the drainpipes and spilled over the edges of the eavestroughs, spattering against the ground uncolored paint. The streets were streaked with reflected light, the cars flashed by like fish.

She was late; motions of her wrist and eyes and lips speculated about getting wet and precluded the possibility of the rain ending. Sound and blackness splashed out onto the street, and she looked back and forth, pushing back damp strands of her hair.

She was twenty-four. Born May 16, 1983. She was a walker; she looked over her shoulder at you and was gone. She had learned without watching about langour and slanted looks, the motions of eyes and wrists and lips. She was a taker, but whenever her thoughts remembered themselves, she tried to give. No one knew her middle name.

She looked after an umbrella-ed man, agonized, made a wish, and blew out her candles. Her shoes shone with water as she ran lightly across the street and disappeared into the people of the city. She was a walker; she looked over her shoulder at you and was gone before you could ask about her name.

lorem ipsum inquisitat

Have you noticed the ground, so steady and callous beneath your feet?
And have you bothered to be thankful for it?
Did you listen as the green blades like little knives exchanged parries and ripostes?
And did you translate it into your own tongue?

Do you believe in love at first sight, the power of God, or forests at night?
And have you bothered to step onto the swaying bridge of action (around which hangs the strange air of faith; under which runs the unkind river of failure)?

Was there something you wanted to say? (or am I misreading that semi-illegible scrawl of your eyes?)
And did you think of opening your mouth before your eyes?
Aren't you forgetting your first love when you walk so carelessly on the holy grounds?
And have you bothered to retrace your steps into a well-watered curtain of repentance?
And have you bothered to desire a change, a flight of birds, a renewed reason?

Weren't you achingly glad of rest when you first found it?
And are you going to go on forgetting what it's worth as you hold it casually by the throat?
Weren't you achingly glad to rest when you first were laid down?

What less could you do before the face of justice, falling into lines of open-armed pleasure as you walk in in gladness of rest?
And have you bothered to remember there was nothing less? (have you bothered to fall with laughter into open arms that ask nothing of you?)

Can you ask nothing more of the broad-shouldered days of summer than brown skin and a piece of laughter?
And do you mean to ignore me, so peacefully disabled, so tortuously controlled, until fall stumbles onto us?
Do you recall where you meant to go, before the path grew over around you?
And have you bothered to lie on the ground, listening for something to guide you?
And have you bothered to listen for the echoes of guiding feet, pounding feet, righteous feet?

What if the ground sways? (what if it sways when he walks by?)
Will that ingratiate uncomprehension, grinning, disappearing slowly, to your unconsciousness?
What if the last remaining route is over a chasm like losing yourself to an enemy?
And have you bothered to lace your 14i black boots? (have you bothered to wonder what good they'll do you?)

Will you hear me repeat one last liturgy between gentle coughs?
And will you think to rearrange your face into a half-smile over the saintly words and called-up memories?
Will you let me try one last experiment over your tattered, stubborn body? (will you neglect to remind me that no experiments are necessary?)
And have you bothered to challenge me on this, to pull at my scalpel with the insistence of a hungry child?
And have you bothered to open your eyes in my direction so I can see them as hungry as they are?

What if the ground sways? (what if it sways when he walks by?)

Will that move you to move with it?

the velocity of souls in green fields of water under the hands of barren iron people

eyes on the sky between
Mars and Saturn,
eyes on the ground,
.....black dirt,
.........grey stone,

rice paddy
..rice paddy
....rice paddy

baby, you're going home.

fingertips, razors of grass, broadeaf
hands up, waiting on:
..time
....time
......time..

time doesn't leave you alone.

high on the ramparts of guardrails
............ (and views)
under the arches of skies and your muse

money
..cigars
....chalk
......and dreams

rice paddy;
baby, come home.

The Old, Acceptable Nature (Hourinthias)

...and in the forest

behind, she heard the

creeping Hourinthias

still making her way

determinedly after,

one clawed hand

extending the pieces

of shell in pitiable,

hateful supplication.

Aristhene set her face,

forbid herself to hear

and rode out of the trees...

-----

Aristhene and Hourinthias

---

Verse VII

-----

Book VII, Chapter XI

-----

The Legends of Seven Counts

-----

The myth still clings with insect's hairy

limbs to the sidewalls of my heaving brain.

Seven counts- the oldest legends of sacred

numbers and times- still trouble my sleep.

Hourinthias! A dark stain you are, seeping into

the fabric of history. Well did the prophets warn

of your coming. I have seen what evil you have

done unto my own; myth or truth or fact, still;

I see what evil you have wrought in these times.

My own, the old, acceptable nature still holds

you in sway. Troubled with visions of the Senate

rising against you, you build careful eggshell empires

to hold your words safe. Even my most valiant efforts

at redemption for you result in little more than

the shedding of this piece, or that. See, behind you

Hourinthias, doe-eyed, ludicrous creature, picks up

the fallen piece in her clicking claws, and proffers it,

thrusts it into your succumbing hand. I was granted

no weapons of the gods, but merely a path I could

tread. Hourinthias dogs my steps, makes crude signs

to me, heaving her ponderous body towards me in

offers of friendship. No alliance have I made with her,

and yet she calls my in her scraggling voice; 'Come,

come to me. I will give you pretty shells to hide in."

No liar am I, no slave of the old, acceptable nature.

And yet I know what she sees me as; I am to her a crawling,

naked thing. Fine words? A noble path? She knows

only the pleasure of covering over a creature with an

eggshell. Oh, sanity, forsake me not, for Hourinthias

will never see me for a proud, dark-haired lover, artist,

but only a naked creature she must ridicule into hiding.

She cannot see me riding out unfraid; only she sees that

I have no shell; and knows that I must fear. No reasoning,

No protest will send her away. She follows me, just out of

sight. I know to well what use there is in ignoring her.

My own, well did the prophets warn that you must

struggle like new birds from your shells. Well did they

speak of the troubled times of Hourinthias. The old,

acceptable nature clings, flylike, to your skins. Cast

it to earth slowly; turn away your face-

wage battle against the ill-favored Hourinthias.