Transcribed from Snowflake (Blue Flower) Journal
Pompeii is Burning
Stamped tin soldiers
cigar box guitar
an empty can
of red kidney beans
beside
a broken can opener
and a Swiss Army knife
She lost the toothpick
first year in
the nail file
five years after that
but the knives
are still sharp
as the day she bought it
the knives, like the lies
are always
sharp.
Some stories
get worn over time
smoothed, rounded,
polished, comfortable
benign
She keeps hers
lean and hungry
(for we are all
honourable men)
Knew you not Pompeii?
People died there
at least that’s what they say
choking in ash
so hot it
turned your lungs
to cinders
shadows still lying
in each other’s arms;
If this is what
they call an aftershock
I’d hate to be
at ground zero
(the eye of the storm
is a myth
like Sisyphus
and Androcles;
a starving lion
will eat anything.)
He thinks:
the pictures are too small
for their place
on the wall
(discount bin beige
masquerading as cappuccino)
A picture should expand
until it fills the emptiness
the artist as magician
capable of placing
images directly in your mind,
indirectly deciphered,
unhindered by education
enhanced by hearsay,
or possibly just
seen in the wrong light
the image becomes
Art
(that’s Art with a capital ‘A’
for those who are only
listening).
Birds,
unlike people,
don’t need directions
don’t need to ask,
"what’s my motivation?"
The final cut is
indistinguishable
from the blooper reel
in the tangible world;
there are no second takes.
Birds
don’t need to be told
to seek higher ground;
they’re already up there
already hip
to the secrets
of the city dumpster
and the food court crumbs.
In the margins:
what are you doing tomorrow?
and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
creeps in this heady pace, from day to day
"this place is the beat of my heart"
"if the storm doesn’t kill you, the government will"
submerged elevators, broken wire mesh hearts,
& quicksilver tears
Lay me down
in a field of poppies
cotton candy colours
nodding
in a sea of green
Someone told him
never to look back
but neither the threat of salt
nor the apocryphal tales
of pomegranate seeds
can hope to compete
with that twinge
in the pit of your stomach
that says, clear
as pycrete,
I’m sure
I left the stove on;
And Pompeii is burning,
Delaware’s bleeding,
and Venice is sinking
beneath the green waves;
who knew that death
could smell so sweet?
Tuesday comes
after Monday,
at least that’s what they say;
people died there,
choking on laughter
so hot it turned
your heart to ashes
blown away
on the next
stiff breeze.
In the midst
of stagnation
the hero transforms:
liquid to solid
to supersaturated
super-solution;
only it’s not
your grandfather’s
fairytale
set in the realm
of Escher’s pen,
where the endless stair
becomes a hill
that never sets,
a winter
that never rises,
words that freeze solid
and fall to the ground
so you have to thaw them
by the fire to hear them.
Can a song escape the singer?
can you put a bounty
on an idea?
can a toy car jammed
into an old car seat
really save your soul?
She would see the glass
as a weapon at hand
He would see the lens
full of rainbows
and long-playing prog albums
(the round kind
with bumps on
for the needles to read,
for those who are only now
waking up);
The homeless man
who used to play air drums
on the George Street bench
(he’s dead now)
would see a portent
of things to come
and, drinking it,
become the Messiah.
In the margins:
and heaven would ring
with steel drum reggae bebop
and dancing in the streets
sepia piano tones
and false drawers that don’t open
plastic flowers, backgammon & tea
Never stop digging;
some day you’ll reach
the other side of the world
– T.H. (May 2012)
