Words
Words....
November
bathtub dinner setting
a drink, a book, a pen
and the places I’ve scratched raw
burning up and down my legs
but the heat doesn’t last
no, never lasts
long enough for me
boiling turns lukewarm in
a single nod
heat it up and
sinking for a deeper dip
the deeper, the colder still
much like you
bourbon spills from the glass lip
and like caramel blood
swirls through the bubbles and sink
rests like a raw ribbon
at the heart’s ceramic floor
all this paper
this paper gets wet
pen and drink cross paths
hair rivulets and the fingers
and droplets run down
the slope of a nose
hangs
holds
holding
waiting for nothing at all
I reach for a book and
the phone
rings
--- published in Void Magazine, March 2006
All works copyrighted by James H Duncan.
Edroy got to hollering
about beating the mortal shit
out of someone
anyone
everyone
you
and the wise whiskey regulars tilted
away from his demeanor and stance
veering away from their stools
as he sauntered by
kinda brutal cockeyed and glowing blue
from the neon signs abounding ‘round
the drunken stork of a man
and each step sent a wary wave
through the bar
“hell, not this shit again”
“where’s his woman at?”
“he’s had more beer than God”
the barkeep spat on the floor:
“I was pouring it like water
and he drank it the same way—
look out!”
Edroy staggered and slugged
a townie sitting by the jukebox
and sent him
flying
across a table
the townie’s plaid jacket flapping
like a flag half mast
the townie’s wife screamed
and then it was quiet
until one, then another, and then
the whole of us moved
back toward the bar
into our usual positions
Edroy, pleased to have
connected with something, sneered
at nobody in particular and
took one step toward the door
then another, and then he was gone
another midnight rat, safe
another soiled cloud beyond the moon
the woman helped her husband
up off the ground
cleaned off his coat
said some unfair words
called us trigger-happy jackoffs
spat at someone who laughed at her anger
and then the townies left
“I don’t even own a gun,” I said
“you should”
someone put quarters into the jukebox
Johnny Cash sang some blues
and that was that, I guess
Thursday at the Dirty Fox
Everything and the hourglass
pressing fingers, the gentle weaving of words
waving, waning before weary snow-capped eyes
pushing mountains, miming every cautious thought
pondering the subtle motives of the heart unconscious
the smallest shared things, adored, adorned quiet at night
an eyelash on your fingertip, waiting on wandering wants
--- published in The Aurorean, 2008
The best part
the best part was her shoulder afterward
the skin was always somehow still cool
and tasted smooth and giving
but then she’d shower and come back
with the towel wrapped around her head
like some tall turban and I’d kiss
her shoulder again and it was even better
melting like warm satin against my lips
it got better every time, and over time
it became even better than anything before it
but she was loving and quiet after
in the dark where we dreamed if there
was something better outside in the world
and there was, for both of us, but that shoulder
was all I needed for a good many years
-- Published in The Aurorean, Fall 2007
with baited breath, wait
cautious, cautious letters
mindful transmissions to fill the void and
2 a.m. lampshade wonderments
I recall a time like this
last night
the night before
and before
wandering wires crossed in time
peeling carpet to find
polished wood
time, a nocturnal figurehead
determines nothing in this seat
under this dimmed light
hours mean nothing
it is the veins of ice melting
vibrations through the nervous system
blink, blink
and the glasses of wine
these are the second, minute, hour hands
that make this old clock’s heart
beat faster
--- published in Thrift Store Majestic, 2006
All I know of Karma
let’s hop trains, you say
run away to the west like children
as I stand over the deep end
on the diving board holding champagne at 9 a.m.
the sky is the water below and the shimmering
above me is flush with simple transient movement
as a single brown
lifeless
leaf
dry like a Buddhist parchment
skitters toward the edge and holds
the concrete like my toes hanging over
the diving board
born of the east and knowing
all I know of karma
I would dive into the deep head first
but
the leaf holds in the wind, so
I cannot fail my life
with so much beauty left to fight for
--- published in Ballast and Plainsongs, 2008
