My pen spat a blob of ink Like an asteroid on the planet of my page Chaos ensued It bounced and spawned other blobs Small and large And I waited for it to dry, saw the skylight reflected in each Tried to give them meaning: This is you, I pointed an arrow to the smallest; That is chaos, I pointed to a large one Landed between serious lines of my thoughts, Read into it nothing but a blob of ink Waiting to be absorbed into another constellation.
Berkeley is a very walkable city in a country where people dislike being away from their cars… It’s about the Addison Street Anthology… Go read it on lindaleith.com!
A meteor shower of little effect on the planet In beholders’ eyes became Highness expressed in a chaotic display of lights Bulbs over ideas Disco ball over dancers At dawn shut Leaving traces on neurons Re-ignited.
It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …
Syrupy Substance A spot of sweet glue ready for osmosis touched the back cover of my book as it was placed on the table. My finger wiped off the offending matter, enrolling the help of others to dissolve the sweetness (note to self: must wash hands), ordering the diffusion of an all-out warning about a rogue sweet spot, innocent-looking like a drop of water that won’t dry, waiting, perhaps forever, for the coming of an ant. A Trace of Garbage The garbage bag had a hole in it, and the ants followed the path it made from the dumpster back to the building, into the elevator, through the corridor, into the apartment and the kitchen where it all started, or ended. It was an epic story of antesque proportions, telling of unhealthy snacks, empty calories, nutshells, and plain old dust. A forensic ant-analyst concluded a trace of a vacuum cleaner bag had led to a fruitless day of cleaning and dusting, the myth of Sisyphus repeating itself as intended.
Ropes curled, neatly inside The disenchanted serpents of your skiff Floating away in the silence of a deserted pier The town shrunk to museum size Then blurred impasto Destined to memories and The traveling theatre of your dreams You navigate on seas now calm then rough Counseled by ghosts and gods Against pirates jealous of your light purse Guided by the stars Confused by the clouds Siphoned by currents You reach A new port, outside your map Charming you with strange music To set foot on dry land Behind you the horizon Absorbed your history and silenced the voices of the past So far away now That you take a new name.
There he is, dead, alone You cannot disturb him any more And you think that’s how he wanted it And you think your puzzle is incomplete. You look above for signs of an angel Taking away his soul As in the image in catechism. As in the image in catechism You remember the angel busy cleaning your soul But yours had cracks in it Caused by a fall Caused by you Causing eternal pain Causing unmanly tears retained Your head bounces on an aluminum locker Your head spins about unsaid words and questions Locked in for eternity Another mystery, as they had many You had to take for granted Your finger ventures its back On a one-day beard Your lips prohibited long ago On the freshly shaven cheek Reserved for a good housewife Now watching your gesture And you withdraw deeper Into a mound of puzzle pieces That will never come together.
Her fingers dance along The steps of her favorite waltz Coming to her ears Floating on a legendary river She counts: One, Two, Three And enters her reverie She sees the soft green eyes Repeats the dizzy spell Of a night in her distant past Rescued by his agility The strength so subtle Of a charming dancer Whose name she forgot It feels like New Year in Vienna The images of people in black and white The angels of her mind Counting to midnight On a monumental clock Their feet glide unencumbered On the powdered floor A fine dancer, she thinks The palm of her right hand Barely touching his left Their fingers curling Towards a desired embrace If only she could break the rules But the clock strikes midnight Her eyes open to the present Darkness she recognizes Aches and discomfort A reality she can evade Counting: One, Two, Three To see him, touch him, feel him Once more Waltzing into infinity
In this mid August night Enrobed in wool Wholly surrendered to gravity against the earth I watch in the dark sky Shooting stars coming alive Each meteor begging for attention One I follow from birth to extinction Says to me: “I am but a speck of light in the vast expanse of your vision. Why do you pay attention to me?” I cling to the uniqueness of my star As others display equal if not superior spectacle To the underdog of pyrotechnics And I make a wish that You, the unlucky winner of fewer summers in the lottery of life You, who take an uneasy step every day on a fallen staircase You, beautiful one, robbed of your youth be my star. Let me try to pass you The olympic torch and hope that one day you will run and illuminate the sky. Until then I replay the memory of The night of the shooting stars in mid August.
The Birth of a Neo-Expressionist Painting Memories clog the channels of the mind The fingers twitch from the need to paint Alerting sensations to the task. Eyes sit on the subject A mantra meditatively clearing ideas on a false start. A tentative dip in color An adroit skin tone begins In softness imagined, moisturized and hydrated. A dissonant vase made and cracked in a virtual world A nest in a corner of what could be love Unseen notes from a singing voice Floating to the suggested ears Give the body a frisson. A timely switch to a less dominant hand blends in A quasi medieval being massages the back, invisible Thrusting the body towards the viewer An unintended provocation. The painting is unfinished.
Bibi Tiphane 