still life
of a library
of a room too big
for the word room - the
word begs more "o"s to
stockpile space.
Above, the rain shouts
on the sky-light, a
light fleet-foot motion...
Inside, I
sit papered with white
books too big for the
table's room - I spy
angel men
chatting like the soft
dither of type, a
trick of noise. In a
reverie
I can turn a quick
trick with one or more
of them. (Looking down
my leg, I
notice the socks in
my leather sandals
have holes.) I need to
scream. A scream
as large as an "o" --
thin nimbus breaking
around my dark male
paradigms.
A scream like mine is
rhapsody for this
still-life. My shriek shouts
through the sky-
light, and rain is now
motion inside a
room too big, drowning
my image
of angel men. They
are types that dither
in another man's
insatiate
stare. My attention
is drawn back to the
weather within, and
I notice
"o"s like raindrops -- they
repaint the room, and
slowly cover my
leather feet.
1994
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