Vol 1 No 2 2007
there there
÷
i used to get “A”
I really did
swear to god it's true
for handwriting this was
public school in the 50s
it was a blue fountain
pen in peacock blue
ink & my friends
think this is outrageous
coz since then ive gotten
a little messy
scribble on wind like a crow
that was then & there
was no thing iffy about it
F would be terrible
A was in F
able in its own way & i
in mine affable
laughable to you i spose
i pose all the time
it’s true the pages i write now
look a bit like varicose veins
blotchy with turn & return
first verses i wrote there & 11th
they could be tracks crows left
tah-two tah-two tah-two
two-timin two-steppin crow
tattoo she beats into my days
they are that thick
ink all over their feet
various & tabooed pleasures they felt
& left for all to read
small kid lugging mud on his boots
& his mom says look
just look at what you’ve done
÷
there
there
she said &
there it was
it was there
there & where
was it
it was
there
& every
where it went
it went
it meant
du vent
she said
she said there
is where
the wind is rent
there it is
she said
what’s the matter can’t you see it
it’s all
right there
it’s all right
there there
you said
that’s what
you said
& there you were
it’s all there is you said
ou he said
la she said
oh you mean la
oui she said la la
oohhh he said
no no she said la
yes that’s what
i was saying he said
hoping you said
ooh la la he said
she said but
she said she didn’t
he only said she said
till they didnt know
whether they were
coming or going
if they were here or there
if they would ever
lay in on the line
÷
squiggles & curly
queues would they be cues
would they be pigs
tails you said when the ball rolled
stone from the cave or you pre
tended & ran around un
attended catching the house
the ones who couldn’t
read the signs getting caught
aawwwww c’mon
gimme a cue
how about one goddamn straight answer
the truth for a change no more fancy letters
enuff of swallows sculling down air & bugs
you call phonemes it seems a bit much
these franciscan creatures that scan & move
& speak in holy writ
mosquitoes at every turn
sealed with red hairs &
geese every spring & fall driving
roman wedges into the sky
ive had it up to here
every single one of us
what’s with these pelicans swooping in grandiose arcs
people would say they were bellicose
if it weren’t for the fact
they're on some kind of lark
I’ve had it with birds especially
cranes doing rolls & loops
practising up to be pilots
one eye out for the ladies
that's bush & i'm
sick & tired of it
÷
one game
you like i know
you want to play The Queen
of Hearts it really is
i know but you are stuck
in a slough of despond &
can’t wait to discard
wish to whisk off
you are impatient for your turn
so you can slough me off
your game of whist
triumphant when you play
the trump you thump
down turn
it over turn
it turn over
thumbs down
turn me
down again
÷
this time the pen is
a pin she pushes
shoves it deep
until it disappears
into the cushion of night
the comfort of darkness
begins to darn the night
its ink tangled and in collusion daring
us to read or write
all thumb & thimble
she is more than able
she couches
her words in
pricks and teasings
and later in the morning
crush of light
she tropes in and
irons out
the wrinkles of his confusion
she has been giving him
the needle pulling
the thick thread of horizon
through the eye of the prairie
tugs it up tight as a gromet
where the sky has been
ript needle in hand
she is taking measurements
she feels under foot
tries to stitch the seam
between earth and sky
where every morning they are
threatening to tear
apart the sky tugs and is ready
to sail off flapping
tent in a stiff wind where all day
robins up to their ankles in green
tip their heads &
cock their eyes
and so they loop buttons in and out
do their best to repair the grass
tie down the high blue sky
all day long they pull
the camomile in and out of the driveway
mend the words they pin there
darn near
the world wrapt inside
their intricate embroidery
the red ribbons of their attention
grommets with which they tighten
hope to fasten
a canvas sky into place
÷
we lie at the bottom
finest fit of word & world
inside the hard crust of consonants
dream in soft vowels
within which we extract sounds
secrete lacquer of moon
below sail and hull we shellac
small disturbances we secret inside
wrap ourselves around
bellowings they might think & raise
alarms ring bells
words glowing over pouring off
when we rise & leap when
those on board throw out
nets haul us
up out of the dark
where in quiet luminesence we shine
stand over us in teeth and eyes
prodding the shells & sorting
until we are
drowning in light
Dennis Cooley