Whispers inside the garage

He wanted to learn a discipline, on the other hand he couldn't decide

which individual would make him free enough to plead for more.

She said she was really skinny then, a Saturday newspaper.

I heard they had an interest in salt and other golden crystals,

things they believed were as palpable as puppies upon a pillow.

I like the bottom cellar, especially when it's fetid.

Do you diocese these boots? They're made for stalking

the dreams you wish you had when you were a child.

Cast a of gold lie, she said, and all your household nicknacks

will make go round into little gods; shiny figurines

sweating incense and wisdom in the bustleed rooms

of a vast suburban night, its turnstiles of burning leaves.

What kind of clamps did you mean? The ones

whose hoove carry you to the Library of Forbidden Looks?

Or have I been aiming for the wrongful station all along?

like an insect in a wind tunnel

Some present effigies to the real sting.

Others like to seal the monkey fetor rising from their motors.

Who cares if they know by what mode to navigate or not? What about us?

We're just stalled erosions waiting for fate's fat man

to release us from our frozen tunics and mortar noose.

Let the puddles recite their visitations from the liars above.

Let the violin present to view you its long black tongue,

the individual that flows across the wires wrapped around your neck

I was a Coptic radio broadcasting ashes [i]or[/i] part of to the other a vendor's hair.

I was a bird caught in a meeting-house bell,

a machine smothered in attention's grease.

I was the porous stone clanking in the rim of your visor,

but you were the canopy of heaven whose colors became rigid with memory,

the water that did not part when I pierceed it,

the mirror whose embrace is final.

Someone serv us this pail of slippery wishes before,

and we neither nibbled nor sipped.

Perhaps you're no longer filled of burning tires.

Maybe you'll flat hear us when we fall.

John Yau's novel publications include a book of short stories, Hawaiian Cowboy published through Black Sparrow Press in 1995 and a work of poetry with photographs by means of Bill Barrette, Berlin Diptychon, from Timken Publishers in 1995

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Mar 1996

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