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    Wednesday, March 02, 2005

    textures

    Water Works

    texture
    i.
    turn the flat metal handle, push. swing upward with the glass panel. wish that your finger could skim the bay. seals are belly flipped at your disposal. waiting to feel that ripple-that balance that water can carry from a touch. throw them a cracker taken from the box on the desk. watch the ripples take it under. dip and dive under the blue of it all.

    texture
    ii.
    barefoot-narrow wood paneled deck. sea salted spray. a world of dips, appearing in waves. 4X6 feet is compact yet kaleidoscope fractured. dependent on direction-north facing brings—the blue jelly fish indigo in their bellies. the sand dusting their rubbery insides like powdered donuts. earlier I said, “don’t poke, walk ‘round.”

    texture
    iii.
    cold metal benches, painted white flaking a previous blue. the ferry is swaying up, then down, then up. balancing a plastic cup on my thigh, ankles crossed. birds dip into the swell of the boat, wings splayed back, never beat, looking to reach a bony foot onto a bar. gripping tightly it waits. head cocked to not one side or the other. skittles flying by.


    Home Front

    texture
    iv.
    hearst castle white gleam. rain rain rain. rain whipping. rain turning. rain under the umbrella. quick snap, camera flash yellow, around a cheating covered finger. tsk tsk tsk or even a big woah, head shaking. “wait now, no more of that.” zebra striped behinds from beneath a frothy window ledge, look just there under the cherry blossom pink. just there, just look.

    texture
    v.
    gluck gluck gluck. a rising up and then down and then rest. again. the sand is splayed out in a white sand just stormed sort of way. pockets of elephant seals here and there. then driftwood here and there. fenced separations. the sound travels to the 1 and when we leave our car wheels ride on. galuck, galuck, galuck.

    texture
    vi.
    opossum is tree sitting, skinny little fingers reach reach reaching. hooks on bird box and tips. tree branch tips, ‘possum tips, dog barks and sits. sits and waits, then sits and runs, sits and stares. play dead little one, play dead. later we’ll knock you out cold with a broom bottom. relinquish that grip on death and run—tipsy short legs—run.

    3 Comments:

    Anonymous Anonymous said...

    galuck galuck galuck

    11:51 AM  
    Blogger Michael said...

    hmmmm. you know when you're standing on the El platform, and the train is coming to a stop, train cars are passing you by as they slow, you can kinda see who's inside what's going on in each as it passes, but not really enough to know what was really in there, I mean you just get an impression... that's what these remind me of.

    I like ii. best.

    7:31 PM  
    Blogger Kristine said...

    This series is definitely a new experiment for me. I never write poems like this and I was really aiming to capture, much like mike said, that one moment, that one glimpse you get. I'm most certainly sure revisions will follow.

    8:57 AM  

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