From Winamop.com

Poems
by DS Maolalai

 


 

 

Eileen Myles.

 

I hadn't read a book

in 21 weeks

more or less

but I'd skimmed

that Eileen Myles

Best Of that came out

and my girlfriend

had told me

if I didn't dust the bathroom

and clean out the shower

then soon enough we were going

to be through.

 

the sky was pale,

implacable

as a white ice-cube,

all white

north and east,

and the birds had stopped traveling,

started spending time in trees.

 

I leaned back

and looked at

what was stacked on my windowsill:

3 winebottles holding candles,

a box of pennies

and 8 books bought last week

in a quick fit

of literature.

 

my girlfriend

was away until monday.

plenty of time for cleaning;

I turned on the radio

and tried out Myles

again.

 

 

 

a black line

 

 

Cold mornings.

 

drunk again,

typing emails, girlfriend

in bed, blinking at 1

in the morning. the light

on the walls, cold

and uncharitable

as frost

on a suburb

lawn.

 

fresh as waking

on cold

bright mornings.

uncomfortable

as a cold

morning.

 

 

 

a black line

 

 

Raw august apples.

 

at Joan.

 

she told me

when we were going through

charge documents

that she was still on

only 19k a year

after at least a decade

working. and every place

I end up

there's always someone

there like that. and it's an older lady,

(usually it's a lady),

unmarried, unmarriageable

and miserable,

without any strength

beyond the bullish power

to stay and the will to live

and live on through suffering –

but always determined

to make everyone

as miserable as they are. and I try –

I do try – my best

to be friends with them,

because nobody

asks to get stuck and uninteresting. I try

for less of this disdain; to see

past their bitterness

like raw autumn apples

and the opportunity

to share a pie. but god

help me; sometimes

it's difficult. not

the unpleasantness. no, I mean

the attempting to make the work

matter. a 19k job at 65

in a company

which doesn't see you

as anything but that

is not something

you should see

as anything

like

important.

 

 

 

a black line

 

 

Buildings and bridges.

 

the light

comes off buildings

and bridges

and flips

upside-down,

to wrinkle

the river.

 

the city,

one huge

and shining coin,

tossed in the air,

tumbling,

going over.

 

 

 

a black line

 

 

Ronnie's Local

 

was just this bar,

you know? a place

of broken

doorways. pieces of city

dragged in

off the roadside; old seats

and parts of cars.

 

like a shape

on a beach somewhere

made out of crabshells. driftwood foraged

and dead dogs' bones.

I was there

one christmas – it was brilliant. after

I'd been

in canada

for 3 months, and still didn't have

many friends. and others,

 

just like that,

just looking

for someone to talk to. then

I went there a lot. it was

handy, and the beer

was good.

 

like a rock

sticking out of a river,

snagging at weeds

and tumbles

of scree.


 

a black line

 

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