They Grow An Awful Lot of Coffee in Brazil

a wind


blows



It churns and stumbles
through the sea

gulls



scream




their voices scatter
over concrete




the
sea

is

there

oh what a day in mary land
in a place admired by royalty
where a good and honest woman
said she lived beside the sea

oh what a night in mary land
amuck in all sorts a'cruelty
i do not hear the waves
though the sea lives by me

a'proper time's a proper time
i propped you up and called you nine
times on your mobile phone
what days are here! what days have come!
a bridge that leads us nowhere and none
who befall me will say where it is
i rambled far too far, far too much

but what a day in mary land
just shut up and let it be
no time for poetics
just leave the sea fucking be

faces look tired, too tired to be
the faces they were way back when
we were plotting our escape
you were going to fly
give blankets to people in the sky
but a weighted womb anchored you

we were going to get enough money
to buy every magazine
unfettered, we'd be together
but a long distance conversation
convinces no one that we
are like each other anymore
or, that we care

only one of us got on a plane
it flew faster than
a love that perseveres
stale nostalgia is all
that's left

Excusez-moi. Excuse me.

Sudden, it seemed.

Parlez-vous anglais? Do you speak English?

You appeared to me.

Excusez mon français. Excuse my poor French.

I was stumbling.

Ça ne fait rien. That's all right.

A hand and a hand.

Ça me rend nerveuse de parler français. I get nervous when I speak French.

Two feet and arms too.

Je comprends parfaitement bien. I understand perfectly.

You caught me.

Je vous en prie. You're welcome.

He was awash in light
He asked forgiveness
He was sincere
Or so I thought.
He lead me to a chapel
And told me to kneel and pray
He should know about me
I don't do those things.
The light was quickly fading
The Saint banished me.
For shame, for honesty
From afar I saw
What a pitiful deity
No one worships him
unless he's in their proximity.

I see a soldier on the battlefield. It is a scene I know very well. She is battered, weathered, and worn. A line etched into her forehead tells me of the battles she has fought. There is a war, a never-ending one. It is senseless, violent, and terribly brutal, but it doesn’t stop the soldier from returning to it every day. She commands troops who do not care and do not listen. They laugh, they gather, and they fire their cannons at her face. Her ears ring, her head feels heavy, and she falls. On the ground, amongst the fallen bodies, she wants to be content. She wants to be ignorant, compliant, and diligent. Looking over her shoulder, she sees a hundred or more successful soldiers. She reaches up to her face, cold fingertips touching hot skin. No blood, no injury, no death to free her. She stands up, steps over her comrades, and directs her troops again.

The Duchess will have none of this. Keep your bread, your hands, and most importantly, your self-capitulation to yourselves. I have to drink some chamomile tea and ponder about the bleakness of life and the awful, awful colors the roses have turned this season.

Her laugh is like beef stew. Hearty, bold, thick. Its warming aroma reaches me far from where it's brewing. Sometimes I enjoy it, though there are still times where I pine for the cucumber crunching chortle of a girl long ago. Like iceberg lettuce, still dewy, with sweet, round tomatoes bouncing like buoys on top. And then there was the dangerous tartness of a lime lined throat. It was a sly, sour laugh that led to the eventual bitterness of rind. Her opposite, the one with the toffee topped guffaw, a severely saccharine delight that could make one ill after an hour. My own laugh I liken to scrambled eggs. Fluffed, yet heavy, quick to come, yet no one craves a second batch. Hardly alone, but grouped with the sweet, the tart, the crisp, and hearty and bitter.

Obedient tendrils of blue
swing to here, to there
wherever I move,
their loyalty falters not

More than anything
I want to drop you,
I want to run
until my pounding chest
makes me fall to the ground

There are others
who would cherish you
more than I
Do not cling to me
my faithful friend-who-is-not

My little Blitzkreig
bundled up in my dirt-covered sleeves
pulling on my oily sheets
tu-whit tu-whoo
my melon head swells with love
and I wish you would just
smash it

a tree bare from Winter's sleep
finds leaves from a migrating flock
it's a colorless Spring for a moment
a short black-and-white Fall when they fly