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//Figuration Nº.3//
She runs her hands over wine stains
fondly -and saves dead flowers
Minds her p’s and q’s
and dots her I’s
as she slowly,
packs away.
These are getting to be a bit out of order. I mill over some longer than others but they're all tagged under 'figurations' for quick reference.
This one's a figuration of someone I know captivated by life's abstract impressions and expressions in the form of stains, spots, dried leaves and flowers or funeral offerings and what-have-you.
//Figuration Nº.5 (in memoriam)//
A man fills himself with dog smiles
and dies a dog’s death.
This is a poem about an old guy I knew growing up that lived on my street, and below is a bit of prose from the initial notes I scratched out on my memories of the guy.
---
He somehow wound up stuck living with his two invalid sisters in a clapboard house the entire time I knew him surrounded by a yard with a slight fence populated by nine crazy shelties, crumbling birdbaths and one of those gazing orbs that look like an overgrown Christmas ornament.
Consequently he shuffled around town most of the time chain-smoking from dawn to dusk, and dusk to dawn in these C.W. McCall type sunglasses with a perpetual marmitic-sepia sort of sunset cast over his eyes, taking out the bins of people that had let another trash day slip their mind 'because he could', 'because he was shuffling to the doughnut shop to get their day-olds anyway' he'd usually say in the tone of a concrete mixer chewing something over.
