David Katz Fall 2013 Poetry Workshop Stepehen Ratcliffe
From one street to another continent of one streets in all directions, the inevitable weekend drenched in soup and refrigerated bread the night 擁 t still breathes gasoline and rubber even at the next light 末 the night, my friends, has nothing to do with darkness: ordered in advance notation shipped ground to seven hundred separate places, each further than the other, and the persons living there each stranger than the previous and yet more familiar than the next the packages 擁 n them nothing as quiet as a well chosen gift lying in wrapping paper not yet ignited by eager fingers to a crackly mania of blood vessels. In which destination is it put rightaway in the trash, in which folded neatly and forgotten on the arm of the couch to be found the next morning by persistent sunlight through dusty drapery; in which stacked high on top of a multitude of siblings on a shelf dedicated for that purpose; in which thrown gently in the pile of art stuff for little children by the glue sticks and the tape; in which made 謡 ith the help of wire and patient instruction 擁 nto perfumed flowers, a bouquet of three in a lone plastic cup on a single parent dinner table; in which made into funny hats and worn and fallen and stepped-on cleaned-up after everyone is gone soaking in beer, applejuice and paraffin; in which folded many times and cut in diamonds and triangles to be hung on eastern walls in books on dead communities; in which be placed upon a standing lamp and make the whole room purple for twenty minutes before the smell wakes up a sleepy lover, before gathering the necessary resolve the nose might try to tell the distance across which the warning travels or the exact direction. And there, on a mattress on the floor in a room not very yours the smell of smoke might sound like bells on a european sunday morning, or a shepherd's call above restless blades of grass it might taste like artichoke after it's been cooked too long, its water left to pool into the cupped, greyed petals, and there lose the last of their enticing temperature or like a loud shout that only you can hear 葉 he sound of a television screen as it turns on and waits for further orders. Wake up lover 擁 f not your life, for sure your reputation depneds on it. Last night's giftwrap is today's newsprint and all over it are written with heat the names of forgetting faces the voices of deaf hairs on stained sofas the augenblicks of taunted country girls their white caps mudded in spring to be displayed by winter the flush cheeks of ill born infants and the looseleaf happiness of drunkards in sunny doorsteps.