There and Back Again

Storm goes for a walk on a Friday afternoon.

The Duck: A Film by James Autio

Bird on a Wire

Summertime

From Rack and Bastion

First,

she was curly

and parts of her

face crinkled

just cute so.

I’d done my time

on the rack,

leather strap

looped tight

over foot and wrist,

been pulled and yanked,

grown narrow through the trunk.

I’d spent years

laid across

an inquisition tableau

by the teen angel panty-bunch,

each screw twist

sending shivers

of stretch along

my unhinged frame.

Strange.

I found my

tensile self

adjustable.

I became metal.

When curly came

I had already

been shaped

as a curtain rod,

and she sang

to me and hid

alongside my draped hide

and bastions. She

stripped me down.

I knelt before her

and worshipped her

at the piano bench.

Then we got tabouli

and the daily news,

and read together

about war.

      *      *      *

First published in Drunken Boat.

James Noir

Sheep with Balls (detail) - Acrylic on Canvas

Oil on Canvas (James and Donna)

Såsom i en Spegel

1.

Såsom i en spegel and in medias res the spider creates

heaven and earth and skirts across the pond’s mirror cloud.

And feet press into velvet moss, and the hill and sky,

the silhouettes of litter-birds as areole the bare limbs of elms, 

and apple blossoms fall like flakes of sun on a stream’s edge.

Sweep.

I’m through the mullion slat, the hazy glass, in an upstairs room.

Adjust to shadow. I’ve seen spiders through slits

of worn wallpaper, beyond the cracked plaster hiding muffled voices

that guide my day like bible verses. Dance. The closet door latch

hangs loose in its untrue jamb, held back by pinch of oak friction.

I reach.

2.

Where have you gone off to now? Stroll the shore while your sheep

bleat their malcontent; hoist your overloaded egg bag

to mount the stile; even splash ankle-deep in the cold clear

to confuse the packhounds. I’ve no mind for this darkness,

nor desire, nor shame, for I’ve heard the crackle of a bush in flames

and quarried stone to lay out a garden path. I’ve pressed seed

into dirt pot, raised window-box sprouts by force of will. Now,

the voices have stopped and I’m alone again.

I’m looking for your clutch of arms, soothing voice. I’m

calling your name to the trees, scanning the sea

for a glimpse of you in the skiff. I’ve even lowered myself

into the clutchhold of that broken boat out past the jetty,

and gone womb-fetal in the dark slant of a shipwright’s dream.

Reach me in the dark.

3.

At dawn, a bird wing flaps in the sun. I sit before toast and juice.

The floor stands in need of sweep, the cobwebs to be dusted. I

wait on the hard wooden bench watching pulp settle

through the glass. Darkly,

shadow spiders wrestle in the cracks and corners

of silvered mirrors. My toast has gone cold, softened with smear

of butter. A helicopter drops anchor out in the yard.

You came to me in that hold and held me through a cold storm,

your skin gnarled and twisted as tree bark. In my dark unsure,

you penetrated me with light and kind. Now,

my mot-valise is packed in the foyer, waiting

on eight eager legs. I’m allowed a last hair-check in the mirror.

Chute Man

A man hung from a tiny parachute

drops into the darkness of an umbrella stand,

and the strange thing is that

this takes place in your foyer near the shoes

and under hatrack. Should one of those toppers

slip from a nub as (let’s face it) hats sometimes do,

the man might be forgotten, entombed

inside an empty death hollow.

Such a man might survive for some time

in the darkness, having no drink or grub, but

at a point the throat tires of the screams, the body

feels depleted and the mind,

once capable of such pretty feats,

succumbs to the heavy black.

And at that very moment, the tv

in the next room is playing reruns

of Ozzie Nelson asking Thorny

that question that seems to stump us all:

            Say you’re driving your car

and you’re supposed to

stop and wait at every red light. What if

you see a lantern?

And that little man who has long-since eaten

every last string and parachute shred

says You think YOU’VE got problems.

First published in Ugly Cousin.

you and me, babe

by Kim Groninga and James D. Autio

 

Prickly things find float on breath

and stab at little legs asleep,

knee scabs from sidewalk skip.

You and me, babe, bowl of stew

where stems and shoots will grow

and loop. Reach for our salted lips--

staid and honey under canvas flaps

near the fire pit. I'd rather hedge 

this land, this life, than break bread

or boundaries, or bones of birds--

that which the wrinkle crutch dreads

though, with slight conceal, we're fond

of death. We've seen his eyes. We've found

his hairpin path through calcium and brine

adrift in a pickling jar, alone and sane

to make dance for atone soirée

and still. For this we pay.

Our currency is wire and wound.

Pride for the love we feigned

as twill misers at the edge of wealth.

Goldfinch (acrylic on canvas)

The Peddler on the Road

The device on the trolley is sold as is:

starter cord frayed and a hobo’s filthy lips

to the spigot. Now, the sack of wire

and glass vacuole is yours for a song.

Your former wife, I recall, was the one

who took out a superfluous part

while adjusting the toaster slot.

Hell, have it. It’s yours.

Sunflower image found online:

We

We are the hollow stems.

We are shades of color.

Our eyes follow the sun.

When rain comes we bow our heads,

cool water trickling down our necks,

seeping through soil

to fill the empty spaces.

And that cold on our toes

is like life from the Earth, itself,

struggling to climb toward the sun.

We are the conduit.

We are the quivering leaves

when night-rats return to claim the field,

but barn owls won’t bother themselves

about our trifling concerns.

They swoop. They snatch.

The crunch in hayloft rafters

leaves us free to be,

to mill about outside.

Our eyes await the dawn.

       Sunrise.

We are the hollow stems.

We are faces giving praise.

       *      *       *

This poem won first place in the Connecting with Art: Firing the Imagination Writing Contest. 

First published in The Rapids Review: A Literary Magazine, 2004.

To Sharpen Partially Subordinate Furrows

Smiling unicorn, a bucket full of rainbows.
Snout down in the trough.

Lächelndes Einhorn, ein Eimer voll Regenbogen.

Schnauze unten in der Abflussrinne.

Corne une souriant, une auge pleinement arcs-en-ciel.

Lèvre vers le bas dans la gouttière.

Hoorn een dat, een trog ten volle regenbogen glimlacht.

Lip naar beneden in de dakgoot.

Hoorn that, a trough fully rain arcs smile.

Lip down in the gutter.

Hoorn qui, une pluie de cuvette entièrement courbe sourire.

Lèvre vers le bas dans la gouttière.

Hoorn which, a rain of basin entirely curved smile.

Lip downwards in the gutter.

、洗面器の雨完全に微笑を曲げたHoorn。

溝のリップ下方に。

The rain of the washbasin Hoorn which bends smile completely.

In lip lower part of groove.

A chuva do washbasin Hoorn que dobra o sorriso completamente.

Na parte mais inferior do bordo do sulco.

La pluie de la washbasin Hoorn que pli le sourire complètement.

En partie le plus inférieur du bord des sillons.

Η βροχή του washbasin Hoorn παρά πτυχή το χαμόγελο εντελώς.

Εν μέρει πιό κατώτερος του χείλους sillons.

The rain of washbasin Hoorn despite aspect the grin completely.

Partly more inferior verges sillons.

Der Regen des Waschbeckens Hoorn trotz des Aspekts das Grinsen vollständig.

Teils untergeordnetere Kanten sillons.

La pluie du lavabo Hoorn malgré l'aspect le sourire moqueur complètement.

Affiler partiellement subordonné sillons.

Rain of the Hoorn wash-hand basin in spite of the aspect the smile mocker completely.

To sharpen partially subordinate furrows.

Protector

      Pack rabbits hunt by night.

Moonrise poplar lace shimmies,

pearls rapt in foil fall

on dark broth,

and still we return

to lake edge, shirtsticky

boot through sledge tar.

We pawthunk and amble

downbank, become iridescent.

Crystal juiced and waylaid,

shorts on a bush, your

soft shore legs glow so.

We leap (as bunnies),

break black scrim and backfloat.

You cup a fine course; I

allow myself eddies and swerves.

     On shore,

the beasts empty bloodruts

with mournful wails.

For you, love,

I’d jimmycarter rabbits with a canoe paddle.

First published in the now defunct The Fulcrum Online.

Pupa

Crepes

Eagle (acrylic on canvas) by James