Friday, December 18, 2009

3 pieces by Susan Lewis

Susan Lewis


First I’m wading through daisies, nosing your breath, then we’re like this, not one way but its opposite, in ever-more confusing rondo form. That we fail doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to align ourselves, give or take reality’s allowance. Do you hear the crickets yelling at those hungry birds? Do you smell the storm crackling in the hollows? I’ve tossed petals at the lot of them, they are not impressed. You would call me desperate, & I would answer. I would call you Babyface, or Salamander, or Mr. Critical, depending on the stuck market & the relative humility. Now there’s sorrow raining down from the agitated clouds. They, too are underappreciated, they might yearn for a more congenial atmosphere. Who blames the cook for a flip of the wrist? Who, indeed. Meanwhile you’ve aced more mean feats, making me jealous of my former self. Call it sweet-and-sour grapes, call it no-strings-attached, either way she’ll be sorry, & sometimes I am. Other times I tremble for more of the same.


Most knowing goes unlicensed. Most nonsense brings tears to your blinding eyes. Take A is for Effort. Take Practice What You Preach. There are layers here which mediate the difference. Start with the last thing you should ask, or the first. A matter of simple splicing. A matter of profiling, gene pools, & other murky depths. Miss Emily might love this lack. Miss Gertrude, not so much. Don’t scoff at this gaping vacancy. To avoid the bends, sit straight, adopt the branded lifestyle. Lead with your silver spoon. The first kiss & the last should lie beguilingly. Under the arch, posing archly. Snap. Bounce any kind of ball. Have you heard what passes for thought? Does your sympathy resemble contemptuous relief, embellished with identification? Have you thanked the Great Tubercular for his tutor sparrow? Will you open your mind’s cage & let it fly?


always pays attention. It reveals faces which look like mountains which look like faces. Also steel & glass, tits & ass. Its colors remind you of chocolate & loss. You feel wistful for the future you imagined you would enter, like a room. Instead, you have the room inside this wavering frame, to examine with someone you thought you knew, or afterward. It’s no use trying to be literal. It’s no use trying to force what happens next, which is up to the auteur, who wants you much as you want him, dead or alive.

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