Dirty laundry
My first edition of Humboldt’s Gift
careens by your black shoes,
a feeble contribution to the din
of rods and reels on the E-Z chair,
collared by leashes and a wooden
trout net. I’ve grown tentacles,
seeding the house with books,
typewriters, cameras, vinyl
and enough fly-fishing gear
to open a shop, The Bamboo Lounge, Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
which is what you call the living room.
We thrive on complicity: your panties
and bras on the floor, towels on the bed;
my heaped books and dirty dishes,
ashtray spilling near the patio door.
Surrounded, we surrender,
leaving the dishes for tomorrow,
the hedges for another day;
nourishing the chaos of domesticity,
we’ve found song, time to dance,
today can’t wait.
Elevation             Â
Coming in from the pond
with hip waders, camo pants
and a black t-shirt, hair mussed,
redolent of mud, cigarettes, tules
and the bass I didn’t catch,
weaving between tree shadows
abstracted by ghost light,
undressing my darkness.
Kafka
Last bend home
exclamated halt
at the stoplight.
I skipped The Trial.
Then remembered ending.
It was The Castle I shelved
last trip to Prague.
I considered an Oliver
the one you used, birdlike.
Type misaligned
bugs erasing a leaf.
Bought a pen set
and glasses instead.
Your paragraphs
stone upon stone
near the arms border.
You perch on your diaries.
Bole is darker by roots.
I change typewriters
to capture your voice
inky script your manuscript.
News ticker
I’m covered in cow blood.
What is it that looking good hides?
Why are the clouds disappearing?
You’re a whale. Your smile is empty.
How many balloons have you found?
I’m invisible, and yet
the world changes, a moth.
You’re a part of me,
the most elegant clock.
Pinch my nipples, atomic weapons.
Take the buffaloes away
That bird is a fake:
Orioles don’t drink
Oreo espresso.
Someday you’ll understand
St. Louis in a linen suit.
A novel is a train
with terrific tomatoes.
Is that a cactus blush?
I don’t need to listen
to the tales in your gown.
Snoring, I drown.
The arts committee
can’t turn me down.
***
E.A. Feliu is an author, artist and journalist who lives in San Diego, CA. He studied and taught English literature in Rome, Italy, where he collaborated with artists, composers and other poets, including Desmond O’Grady and Anthony Lawrence. He is the author of Postcards from the Tattooed Man’s Chest. He is working on Handlining Telegraphs, a book of tankas, and a yet untitled collection.
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 