means this one
tail-chopped wing-sliced beat-to-shit
not ever flying not ever again hopping
through its short black life
hidden forever in chassis-shadow grief
at a red light
sitting in the office in the sitting in sitting in the office and on
talk becomes the glossy path to forgetting - just sayin’ - talk
then finding the workman out the window random on the street put away
then a dearth of flowers pointed toward the sky o we were talking
then about sad transits the opening field toward the city now then
boilers elevators guesses tiny numbers and small paper meetings
where nobody meets inside the sleeves of the argument of my name
turn it around and start speaking french and say it and say it
repetez! repetez, geezer! mummer of answers to the ending hours
this is the lasting hungry one the hand outthrust to mercy to birth
This won’t heal.
This will never heal.
This probably won’t ever heal.
not so insightful or articulate
“ … although I did notice the mother's face becoming unfocused in the 2-3 minute bed talk sequence with her daughter.”
A moment’s material failure to focus.
Who could comprehend the mother’s face beyond the terms of this flat space?
Or a film in which the mother had not been a good one of her kind but had been inattentive.
She stands in the brown light like an early 20th century machine. Look there.
The mother. The mother. There’s an escape for the mother.
All was offered and given to accomplish no certain end.
Except in her shimmering downward can the icy business now be shown.
The mother now appealing to the simple stars she takes for answers, for flying saucers, for angels.
The son stands apart from the daughter, his sister, while the mother completes her delicate research.
She has learned more about winter. The children may be frozen flags. A short line of similarities such as his to hers and back to his.
The mother restates her case. But silently. In the father’s absence. These moments are almost never about the father.
About some inexact projection.
look look at our misery … heaps of dead gadgets ..
and here I've gone & forgotten you in the storm
of little things … can it come once more from the
top … you slide over and tap and knock me
in the head … a meanness I repeat every time
I stand up to look at the room and talk to it
… it's in my face and pushed out into a victim
space … all of us unhandsome by morning … all
a meanness we mean … as some of the crackup
comes to a bet … will I understand 'a la fin' how
our edges might abut … not like seasons but
asphalt and concrete … the curbs of our sense
in voices … some charcoal for fresh fire or
mystic hunches bent over new cars … once a
very bright toronado … that this low art will
anticipate some really pure arrival … we guess …
purchased to actually serve our modern question
about stage machinery … the parts that come
apart for easy cleaning … we surrender to it
my friends I don't have the time to explain …
but I'm sorry ... and I'll grieve it to the end
i found a planchette
a planchette under the oak
it circled round and spoke
a letter of the ground
© Tom Murphy