copymachine

a zagged belt loops the lines of light across the glass

the clear plane lit through with green,

with blue

duplicating,

duplicating

the master bears traces of the author,

the heavy heft of her hand.

the new-baby page

still warm,

smooth, flat. 

the original indents of blue ink

fixed in magicpatterns of black powder,

little dots of dust scattered black across the paper,

evidence of imperfection trapped on the fresh page,

the story is forever fused

to the tiny random guests,

to silhouettes of little motes you couldn’t see,

their shadows left as souvenirs.

these dots were there with you.

good measure

warp towards me

prowl slash creep

keep it up, we keep it up

this fake cavalcade of

this way and that way

i feel the dream weaver

forcing my tortoise-horse

ripe denial

anyone would never

ever, ever

fading in and out

of proper consciousness

the weave

the bob and weave

belligerent equivalent

ratatat post-blap ghostface heart attack

zoom zoom barks the white shark with a black cat  between its teeth

marks of bright red blood burst cardiac

trees like watercress tresses rest leaves in the underground jungle

rumble, rumble. earthquakes break like heartache.

you give and then you take.

you give and then you take.

mirror mirror

i can see myself in your glasses.

the world swings in a fishbowl arc behind my reflection,

blue blooming upward,

gold ground below

a line of life along the horizon.

wild life,

crazy party energy

sound systems booming sound battles in decked-out domes

a telephone booth to talk to god

broken robots, star-cars,

bicycles and hulahoops and tutus,

naked ladies rollerskating by.

i watch this line of life inside your glasses,

swirling, unfurling around me,

behind my reflection,

the me in the middle,

staring at the world on the surface of  your sunglasses.

my eyes make a magic eye shift

and i see the you inside your shades,

in front of me,

your blue eyes behind, inside your glasses,

the spy behind the two-way mirror.

i see you.

you

the other

me

we hover 

together 

in the desert,

this shimmering instant,

the world swung around us in fisheye,

we pass across its surface,

we explore,

we float forth with the electric tide.

we pass through the trail of a silver jellyfish,

ball-chain trails,

a ball-chain hallway,

the tiny balls bouncing

tiny elves of ourselves

little images

hanging in lines

trailing across your face

hanging in your hair.

the world is so 

right there.

heat sweat

a filmy gleam on your forehead

between your breasts,

the small of your back

soft damp your shoulders,

your chin and your cheeks,

the still air itself sweating,

still and tropical,

drowsy and slow.

the night hovers like lovers’ breath.

logic

wrapping sounds around each other,

bending tempo, 

adding echo,

looping layers,

lounge groove and arabian oud,

hoof-beat and tambourine.

ghost tube

whip me in the face with

white paper, world

fan your mock towel at me

flying

“face your fear, victoria,” he called up to me,

treading water at the bottom of the cliff.

i stood at the edge of a waterfall

i looked down at the stone pool below me

i contemplated the drop

imagined the empty seconds suspended

willed myself to lift my feet and leap into the air

i did not jump.

i did not dare.

my brow twisted, conflicted

calculating the risk and return

my soles clung tight to the clifftop

the afternoon sun reflected in ripples

he tread water, slowly, below me.

i looked down.

i willed myself to jump,

to fall,

to feel the will of gravity,

to meet the skin of the river,

to confront the sacred ratios of the world,

the variety of density,

to push off the solid earth,

to freefall,

to be saved by the soft cradle of water.

i craved the instantaneous understanding of the elements.

i tensed, ready. i looked back over the edge.

my enthusiasm ebbed. i hesitated.

i felt the smooth rock beneath my feet,

the water between my toes,

the breeze,

the harmonious balance,

gentle,

tranquil.

i appreciated the safe gentle elements.

i looked back down at the water,

he was treading, waiting below me

slowly, so slowly, smiling below me.

his gaze made its way up toward me,

bridged the distance.

i felt the choice.

i bent my knees

my feet pushed stone

i held my breath

wind licked my skin

i closed my eyes

the river bent itself around me.

dig in

building castles in the sandbox behind your grandma’s house

the plastic buckets, their smooth colors

the field extending behind you, the sheep,

the green leaning above you, the blue beyond,

we, we two teenagers, standing alone together, looking out, watching you,

you with your shovel and your sing-song, toddler-talking to yourself,

we leaning against the side of the house, nonchalant, bored,

excluded together from the thirteenth birthday party inside.

we did not belong inside, with the birthday girl kissing her boyfriend,

and her friends kissing his friends,

we stood outside together and watched your sandcastles rise at sunset.

August Oregon sunset.