A rock in the stream The Garden Party Just Drink Venus On the Pier Untitled Wax Wings Snake Eaters Between Ice Ages Domed Melody The Holiness of Ryan

All Poems Copyright 1998, Jim Etchison My skull is full of ice. On this masterpiece moment. Though my eyes are seared As I stare at The orange sun Melts it. A river runs within me; Spraying from my fingertips, Gushing from my mouth, While I move in a fountain of EKG patterns. I will dance. From my index comes anger From my ring comes love From my thumb comes beauty From my pinky, secrets, and my middle, strength. My mouth will gush. Songs for ex-wives and lovers, Of a river full of cleansing rocks, Songs of myself, Dissonant, clear, then jumbled with toxic textures, But in the end, resounding, On you. And you. Forever. Until it swells shut. Though a spear, then many, might fly from the florid shore, My dance cannot end. I cannot end my dance. No, I will not end my dance, for my dance cannot end. I cannot end my song, for my song will not end. He will be by your side, of course. You with your ivories, Him with his tree-jumping. And I, with my notebook, have caused my children To bring me here as well. To this yawning lawn, Where, should I choose to yell through bony teeth You would interrupt your teacup talk with those nearby, And from your plush confine, beneath that Box Elder, You would see me, Perhaps offer me a sip of whatever we will drink there, And remember that we once drank together, When we spoke that strange language. But he will hear your whispers And gently pluck the leaf from your hair, He will be lying close enough to see your eternal smile. Should your face be turned toward him. Still ... so long as there is choosing, I will chose this place -- a mere large stone's throw away. Since I am of no use to anyone but the stone carver And black-suited salesmen. For as you know I have my reasons why I've let this life build a mountain range between us. That crooked line that divides our heart from our duties holds an unflinching cruelty. But there are some choices whose sleeves the grubby hands of duty cannot tug. For if I can't be next to you, my love, In this yawning lawn, Then I would like to be nearby. This choice is mine. And I will wear my finest suit. And watch forever you, in your finest dress, In hopes that the pounding feet of millenia Might fold this earth And touch fingerbone to armbone. Ankle to knee. I question the rivers and oceans inside a gardenia. I question the hand that pushes glowing cumulous clouds onto our sunsets. I question the Brownian motion in my coffee cup. I question the quaternary code that some grand mathematician fashioned into liquid lips that sigh and speak words that I, precisely, want or need. What is the meaning? What is the prime mover? Is there a great provider? And what of the essense of coffee? And who are you? I listen to the silence, watching flames of condensation rise and fall along the sides of my coffee cup. Coffe is good. Just drink. You have malingered far too long In the western sky These past few months. And, since a felon always sees and winks at crimes he once committed, Your planetary ploy is not lost upon me tonight. As I follow my own orbit And glace west Over the starlight-cloaked San Gabriels, To see you still there. Orbits do not measure time, They evidence desire. And your desire, you loitering goddess, Is reflected in your face. As if faces are the phantom limbs That tingle And itch. "You love too much, and you're too focused! Fly free ... fling yourself out of this rut! So what -- you were separated from the sun, Rejoice in your distinctness! Once you stop caring your bigger-better sun will absorb you. Don't you know?" But I should close my mouth. For each day, my strand of light has formed a braid on freeway lanes, Around some invisible source. When I look upon you, my face reflects yours. And in some small way, your face reflects mine -- for light is a borrowed vanity among us non-suns. And so I will borrow you, if you please, To reflect my mini-luminescence Upon her. So that if perchance she looks ... Though she won't know, She will see me. So many glassless hands propose a toast: "To the sea!" Squinty-eyed twilight men continue their acquisition. I appreciate their hope In finding joy in the little ones. Under a piebald gray sky I should be working. But my toasting glass is thrust only toward a sea of stacks. I wonder how success would feel if it were measured in meals of mackerel? I indulge for a moment that I, in my acquisitions, Might be the silver and green flippity-flopper -- resisting the pail. One kind fisherman, on the half turn, sets his hook and reels in a fighter. He holds the contorting creature for an extra few moments over the wooden ledge. He is offering a final chance; though to the fish this is no sport. Water of life splatters back to the heaving bosom below. Elsewhere, more bait sails out Like a bottle rocket with smoke string. The fish spins and twirls on the dock, Sparking with life, a screaming Piccolo Pete. With car in gear I've passed a million broken lines on roads Criss-crossed states and boundaries, Encircled you with the movements Of a feckless protozoa. I've passed beneath a million twilight clouds to slake my thirst -- Passed from fountain to fountain With the passions and hungers, Of a beast of the field. Then we touched in that infinite moment, And you became the landmark To regard my frenetic motions. Now, as I move, A milestone is there. Telling me where I have been, And how far I want to go. Until Fantasy is faith, and fiction fact As each twilight turns to dark, I will exhale against the glass of the cold night. And then in the steam of my breath, I will write your name. Daedelus -- that great inventor -- should have known better Than to construct such Babel-wings. And send his son with a forehead-kiss Into the sky. He did learn -- too late. But the swirling descent of Icarus Caused the world not to rue, and learn, But to puff. So others fall in remembrance of him. Makers of grand things: Boat-planes, bullet trains, dirigibles, and cars, Circuses, skyscrapers, and seamless scars "Fly higher! Run faster! Carry more weight! Throw farther! Make a louder belly flop! See how far an egg can drop!" What things are already made: Croissants, and roccoco chairs, Cough drops, mixed nuts, inseams and insoles, A street sign that reads "Cave Junction Pop. 530," Yellow post-its with special numbers in red ink, Salvaged popcorn tins, wedding glasses, Tiny outgrown Keds (the treads still new), Maps of old home towns ... Were all once waxen. But have retained their shape After repeated lift-offs by intrepid builders Of wax wings Who hastened their ascent into the sun. These artifacts are yours. Each have tiny names emblazoned in hidden places, Names such as: "Icarus Son of Daedelus" "Orville" "Amelia" And "Marci" No, Daedelus did not know better. And we, too, have placed our own forehead-kisses, But we have overcome his enemies. And our children will overcome ours. I wonder: when the rain will soak the two brown owls -- stepping high like sentinals across my lawn. who lured them here from lair in tree by brook. what silent cadence tip-a-taps thier beat of airy steps, where the tiny hollow bones of owls will one day bake beneath the gentle sun. why yellow eyes can tell of things that only owls will know. They turn and see my face behind the droplets in the glass, blink once each, and stand windblown in the cleansing rain. An ice age thawed today. Imagined Borders heave and spark. Coins roll into cracks. And a dancing man throws curses At my passing car. I'm driving clutch, With no shoes on, In a fine white rain, Behind a long grey meadow, Where muskrats live in holes. The cool wind and rain roars in. I am a steamboat captain. I should start smoking a pipe. I'm looking off the road at the holes, Because roads lead to other roads, Other roads punctuated by Circles and squares of light Flecked grey by passing feet Splashing rubber to mud Metal to rock. Circles and squares, But holes lead to matted leaves And musty smells with half shells. Let the car watch its own roads. An ice age begins tomorrow. This poltergeist flow This liquid lute-player This digital forest ... My timbrel heart beats, while blood and bile Slide like a wire brush on a Zildjian cymbal. Valves open and shut while marimba mallets, Mark the percussive regularity of a domed melody. The audience: Reels in pleasure while the sublime instruments, Violas, English Horns, Oboes, and tiny harps, Create such whimsical, languid verses, But during my horrid chorus, They pray for rain over my percussion section. A choir of Foursquare altos humm superego arpeggios. Then, as they rhondo round the clock, They are wrangled by the id of my brass, And raped by my egotistical woodwinds. But the conductor continues to flail. For his eyes are closed to the felonies occuring under the tubas. Some expected saxaphones, But if you sing this verse, You'll have to sing the chorus too. Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalaaaaaaaaa! I live in the finale. Where the standard instruments are a mere accompaniment To my cocaphanic symphony, starring chirping alarms, whining sirens, hissing steam, slamming doors, breaking glass, flying saucers, clicking cameras, flashing bulbs, snapping-crackling-popping Rice Krispies, sliding scales, faxing resumes, licking stamps, marauding heathens, buzzing saws, hacking axes, setting suns, and the orange sound of a moaning ex-lover in the arms of some prick who drives a BMW. They all crescendo to a collision. The grand te deum. The audience roars with anger and delight. Then they look at their watches, and race home to catch Late-nite Nickelodeon reruns of Nanny and the Professor. The conductor collapses in a heap. The tapping of his baton against the hardwood floor, His final sound. What mottled hair? What wicked smile? What brooding thoughts? What victorious yells? What glorious grubbiness? What shy insecurity? What magical monster-conjuring? I marvel at your picture, wishing I could forever sleep with you under the crook of my arm, dreaming of playthings and roly-poliness on terraced hillsides on slippery sleds, almighty in your impudent immortality. I with my crippled heart, forever your father. This is God. You are God. Your sister is a Goddess. We are all Gods. All Poems Copyright 1998, Jim Etchison