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Everyday Icarus [A Series: 8 August, 2005- 15 August, 2005]
The Feather On This Table Is
The Title
mlevell ©2005
The Feather On This Table Is The Title for Troy
I understand predetermination
You are reading this aren’t you
like a poem in the sink
The road you chose to take you here is here and not a road but a survivor
It all happens between sight and object
like Sancho Panza could not communicate being fire so gave his body to the wind
This city was here before its name before nests
you have no name Really you are naked and probably never made a shirt
Names inferiorate
Hidden so open we are as blind as air Drawing lines we invent for survival
It’s wax
History is wax
the horizon that doesn’t work the way it’s told
Wax survives
for Ryan
Tiredness screams in luke warm porcelain using everyone else’s vocabulary Too fathomless for translation
Licking bruises to paste wont make feathers stick
I’ve tried to understand why Sancho Panza stayed
eyes hoping windmills carrying a broken rake
“I don’t want to be somebody anymore I want to say something”
My ears stuffed with dirty bathtubs (I can’t explain
While you sleep on the mattress submerged deep inside your chest
Our statues are still in the mountains waiting to be carved by thousands of drown windmills stuffed with shards of leaves
for Angel
an enormous hand percolating the horizon
“I never saw you stop moving”
with an enormous hand impossibly honest like winter
Housing the girls you stole from light
in glass windmills percolating the horizon
Where are you now
there is no pocket large enough to hide the winter of your fist
“I never saw you stop moving”
Your wings of tempered smoke
for Teresa
“Run” she said “to my treehouse of 2nd hand feathers”
She kept the spring from us hid in Daddy’s coffee can that used to smell of grease and trinkets
(I admire the way her stuffings are in love with Don Quixote
(The confederate pistol she hides beneath her tongue to keep from teaching
“Run” she said And opened up the channel in her ear
for Michael
The Poet confuses predictions with reception
These poems expect the response of constant creativity
The arson tailor stands sample case in hand held tight like a dream about flight
These poems are about names looking back right before the exit of the cave
Sancho Panza is a name like Wax or Memory
Don Quixote is a saint that sees the nudity in editing
the poems
are Daedalus
for Soma
People spend most of their language telling other people what they do
“I stand up and the sun comes out”
You can’t control memories no stirrup fits their inconceivable rampage
In the park of the possibilities of hands chalk drawn sidewalks (after yawning out of shape in the rain are called back refurbished by a media that no longer exists
Memory is the color that paints the space overwhelming in temporariness
for John
The magicians play chess
Notice every curve in the room)
(and giggle at the imposed space between people
In the landscape of poetry where every Poet is an element these poems are beneath the 17th street bridge
Above instead of a road people gather in for granted geometry happening and drinking everything beneath the grinding of mill blades sounding as important as a feather
At the chess table Mates meet mates
As they make (the whole room moves
This exists as much as anything can without being
(Somewhere in the poem Don and Sancho never move only being real
as much as anything can without being
Sequence of Repetitious Bodies for The Ghosts
The same old carpet of language
But where is the ceiling where is the floor
Every sentence is an homage to History
Don Quixote takes his lance of left-sided ladder to rip the carpet from his eyes so everything else is flower veils
Flower bales Sancho Panza squats behind to keep re-making magic
to keep a real piece of narrative with holes not for vacancy but being occupied
Names perch on the edge of the cave ready to be scattered dandelion white
Don and Sancho turn and turn to disappear
Will the names jump jump up past consequential dust
up to all that’s left
up to the Reader ( |