Tuesday, September 29, 1998

LABOR DAY WEEKEND AT THE OLD BRICK KILN

Labor Day weekend at the old brick kiln, at Remillard’s, or El Quijote.

The Gitano sings No puedo ir in the old brick kiln.
His face wrapped in tragedy, is almost comic,
but his voice travels, wrapping itself snakelike 
through sensuous bends and crenellations 
of the old brick kiln chambers where, as kids 
we used to sneak in to play in the thick dust.
The flamenco dancer’s hands speak to the night
wrapped in triste, and  la vida es el muerte.
He is plucking syllables from the air
and his pelvis pounds out the consonants. 
Vowels escaping on the outbreath, 
and the stars convulse into tears 
caught in the night’s dark throat. 
Desire wears the face of a dancer. 
The old brick kiln where we once explored, 
was rubble and spiders, for nearly a century,
it rose and fell under Jupiters neglectful influence, 
and fell again under Mercury retrograde.
After the flamenco set, Herman, Verona and I dance 
and sweat under the stars, on the roof 
of what was once an honest building,
now filled with earth-shattering disco 
to end this summer. Killing Me Softly
brought me back to Amsterdam, last summer,
and all the men killing me softly with their songs.
The disco ball drops, scattering stars onto the bay.

29 Aug, Larkspur Landing/San Quentin

Thursday, September 10, 1998

Ego dancing


Down at the lake my equilibrium is restored by watching the wild geese swim towards the sunset. Preternatural fall is in the air. The geese fly back towards the darkness that is east. I am drunk on light, or is it the glass of wine? I've packed all my things, I'm ready to go. I need to finish up with a few household chores, defrost the fridge, back up my email. I fix the hem on his new pants, iron the tux shirt, take a shower. It feels good to wrap up the loose ends. Drawing the runes gives me courage... He's late, home from school, and I'm down at the lake avoiding him. How our egos dance!

Wednesday, September 9, 1998

HALO


The lovers entwine, 
the geese bond in pairs, 
my truck and I, 
an unlikely couple. 
It’s magical when the lights 
around Lake Merritt 
ring the lake 
like a freeform halo.

 9/9/98