the grey and red wheelbarrow. on which nothing depends.

Tim Key--Xmas Poem

">

Tim Key

">

New. Snow, Falling,

Lit Corner, Room.

Firelit, snow.

Winter, Alive

New Snow. Old Backboard

Yoko, Moving Box Head

Yoko, Bleeding.

Art #2: The Bus Stop. Rain.

                                      

The rain fell.
Ping.   On the metal.  Art tilted himself                                                                                                          
back against the glass.  Water ran down the length.
The bus might never come, he thought.  And then
what.  This cover must give way.
He saw the rain wash over him, without abstraction.
What is happening to me, he thought.
The colors bleeding through.  Almost
real.

Art, The Abstract Canvas

Art leaned against the wall in his one room.

He thought abstractly.  As was wont to.

The day held.
What next
he
knew
not.

Donna Regina

Uneasy, ephemeral, gauzy.  Good.

http://www.mediafire.com/file/4tuooqmncou0nce/Donna%20Regina%20-%20More%20%282007%29.rar

Window at Central

Golden Gate: Atlas of the Known World

You are here,

where the sun has sunk

below the beginning

or the end of the world, and it is easy to see

how the sun once seemed

so sharply defined,

the horizon looming as a level plane—

and a vessel, laden with goods

or stores of grief,

ran the risk of falling off

the precipitous face

of that old world.

But no, now we know

that the light, dearly departed,

is gathering somewhere in

the western sky, shivering

through the gill slits

of the vertebrate fishes,

radiating in waves across the laconic sea.

There are questions to be asked,

but only here—beyond the instruments

of measurement—where you fade

into the foreground, without foreknowing,

and distance is everything you are.

The world lies a flat projection,

or spins, as though anchored.  What, then,

is the true shape of the world?

Perhaps, as it did for Columbus,

standing at the mouth of the first river

of paradise, the world opened not round,

but in the languid shape of a pear.

Skin the color of frost.

The watery ache at the inoperable heart of the sea.

Terrestrial.

Unearthly.

Golden State: Unreliable Narrator

The seasons are more than they seem.

Who would have thought the dogwood tree in

such wild flower would sliver

away into such a sickly state?

It’s something to anticipate.  The direction, once begun,  is

always down. The soundtrack contains

 a note or two,

a melody there, then loses time.

The end is severe.  Weren’t there

a few golden moments near the summer river?

 Those dissolve.

The same song plays over in your mind.

An innate understanding of what

rewind means.  Back where we started,

as a bridge is built from both sides at

once.

Every story needs one.  Some are reliable

and hold up in high winds, swaying with the weather,

at the same instance others collapse in the water,

sheared metal, different bodies falling, waves across and up the shore.

The narrator lets the characters go.

Knowing the Golden Gate is named for a passage

and not the color of the span.

This is important to know for

it was painted to blend in with the

hills around.  It takes a certain

kind of grace to be less sight than sound.

Necklace, Light.

Grommets, wing-nuts and one solid washer inked with our signature, "Alluvium."  

Oh, Mercantalism.

By the by, we sell jewelry for men on this site.  Women get short shrift in this area, having more than enough out there to choose from,  so we are not sorry   Our men's collection is slight yet focused in its lens on found objects, shit that looks old, and authentic masculinity.  If you see a piece you like, speak up, and we'll make one for you at an extremely reasonable price.

Manly, yes. But I like it, too.

Jewelry, for Men.

This is a bracelet we made.  We like it.  All of us.  We could make something not dissimilar for you.  Ask.

Phyrric. 2

Light, Water, Window

Utrillo: 2

There are two sides to every window.  Through which something sensory can pass through.  Placing an open jar in the middle of an otherwise unpeopled room can yield little in terms of tangible artifacts.  Closing, tightening the lid does nothing to encapsulate what arrested us in the first place.  From the outside looking in, Utrillo conjures up a room and its inconceivable indoor heat, which stays on the other side, steam from the kitchen across the glass.  As they say, these days must surely pass, though clearly spoken from a perspective that allowed for warmth in that way of thinking.  Stepping across the slovenly wilderness of the asshole part of town, his foot presses down the blades of wild grass that bend back.  A man up the block fumbles in his pocket for change.  Lint, a chipped breath mint. So little can be

held in the hand.

Utrillo: 1

Part one:  In unknowable cahoots with an unreliable narrator, Utrillo’s life is addressed. 

It so begins on an historic day, though Maurice is incapable of participating, having no fixed

 address.  The setting of his travails is recognizable in some ways--not so in others. We know little,

 really, of anything.  

Maurice Utrillo lived.  He died sometime later.  

What we do know is elusive.  This is both about him and not at all. It is his story. It is a life he might not recognize.  It is yours.

1  Election Day

It so happened it began to rain that darkness

spreading through the day.  Anyone (who was almost every

one) certain to stay

away.  Unwavering, the wind struck down the inert

few who waited, filed under the eaves.

Caught up in the current, the leaflets

spun up and out in an invisible eddy,

left there, unfolded on the ground.

No sound.  Unread.

Utrillo stepped onto the earth,

though this was unlike the first

moment, given birth.  “His coat” described only  what was left of it.  It’s not as if he

were anywhere en route.

Cinder-breath—stiff-limbed, maladroit

in all manner of speaking.

The day (such as it was)

undetected, night leaking

through.  There is little or no connection between wrapping your mind around a thought and wrapping

yourself in a blanket.  Though maybe thoughts needed warmth, connection.  Yet what little

comfort they gave. Despite the sky that self-reflexively opened itself or the water that came spilling down, Utrillo ambled about.  Town

lodged in his throat.

Agile Rabbit #2

-Portrait of A Well-Digger’s Ass By Francis Bacon-

Here it begins

though no sky

that dark inside

the mounds of earth

piled higher beside.                                                                                                         

The point is in sinking

like the world itself drinking

him up though he knows—

the deeper he gets

the closer he goes—

excavation the goal.

Yet still, the weather.

As though that’s all he were.

So hard to recall when the descent began—

that initial hole.

It seems like forever

the digging that spading

all downwardly wading

his mind like a splatter

contained in a whole

with the walls, earthly matter

bleeding freely and cold.

Portrait of a Well-Digger's Ass (After A. Wyeth)

The pick-axe

strikes the air

between the leafless trees

dying out of earshot in the field of weeds.

In the dust the bones

push through the skin—                                                                                   

night penetrates the eyelids

as the wind breathes through

slight flutter

in the lashes.

Suddenly flares up swiftly

like sparks in the darkness

when the end arrives—

a brief illumination locked

in the innermost back of the eye

where whatever was splays

the jaw wide open.

Down the slope forget-me-nots

the other side not now

though bloom there

mid-arc

in the mind’s downswing.

He feels a fervent

blister where a callous had been.

Each swing tears away the skin.

New tenderness

fills his hands.

Red State # 21

The wind respirates down
the hall of the abandoned hotel, contours the spackle and cracks in the wall. If you could see the stains where the people were.
Assembled floor by floor above the city yet it does not rise.
If it were a child
you would say what bad posture, always slumping over, especially when you
weren’t looking.

The hotel itself recollects nothing except
what others leave. There is afternoon light
through the lead windows that turns
what’s left of the carpet white. Not
much occurs at night, save a few birds
that alight on the sills and
spill shit down the façade.

They say it was designed by a black
man who never stayed there.
Meaning he was not allowed.
The first was Lena Horne
whom the crowds came
to see—they ordered drinks
and fell into the evening.
And when they woke
in the morning beneath the
birds-of-paradise,
it could have been almost
 anywhere.

Red State Child Psychologist #3

Peter Pan

has thrown himself

under a train.

Rue

the day

of everlasting

rain those

never ending dreams

pounded to transparency.

What good will

it do to tell

the children

they must grow

older strange hair

sprouting from

stranger places

their unlined faces

someday turning

creased and worn?

It’s the adults

lost, forlorn,

pocketing once bright

pictures of

railway stations and

far-off places

creased and folded

by the new sweetness

of those unpremeditated

glances

and limitless

chances just beyond

the camera lens.

Let them gather

With their gaggle of

friends and chase each

other round and round

the grass.

Oh please don’t tell them

of Peter Pan

and his demise—just

let him pass.

Don’t say

a word until

it’s time.

Red Sea: Transit

A grey day in the city of light
though it has little to do
with Paris—a terminal 
at the
airport’s edge. 
There are no discernible clouds,
just an all-over cover, and a wind
that unstifles the trees.
You want something,
that unasked for movement that comes just in time,
when your life and all that is arrives.


Fuck it
comes out of your mouth,
too loud.
People at the other table turn,
then turn around—
back to smoking, 
to the window
where the world is—a bit of brightness
inside the grey, the
planes in a line
and the wind won’t die.

Robinson Learns to Separate #2

Mr. Robinson Learns To Separate #2
        (After Kees)

It starts
in the morning--the sun--
unable to shed
light on much of anything--
as if it weren't already of
the aether,
far beyond the earth,
setting 
and re-setting itself on fire.

So much of life is merely self-reflexive--
I feed myself (sporadically, at uneven intervals)
and late at night
I think (myself)
into the rocky shallows of 
the dark lake
some exits up the interstate.
Thus to 
lacerate
(infinitive)
is just that--
ongoing, too deep to bleed--
a series of self-induced
wounds no one would notice,
or care to see.

The grim
reality is the clarity
exhumed from a body
(just beneath
the last, cracked right rib)
as it bolts upright
at nothing there--
and later,
even with the light on--
still nothing,
nothing still.

Vertical Pier, Wind, Waves, Greyness.

Cardinal: Felt

Cardinal Scream

I Am Cardinal #1

Agile Rabbit #1

Robinson Steps Out

Fuck You It’s Thursday

This morning at 4:50

there was no sun

just a dark wave

I folded into

it could have been any body

could have been anyone

Fuck you, it’s Thursday

and fall is here

the trees are

losing it or letting go

which I just can’t say

And if by chance

 I run across you

on some noisy afternoon

the music in the background

playing  Grinderman’s  No Pussy Blues

don’t worry I won’t sing

I can’t sing to you

Fuck you it’s Thursday

and fall is here

the trees are turning back

or turning away they have no say either way

Fuck you it’s Thursday.