Minor crimes and casualties

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                           

Corrine Fitzpatrick

July 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in this word there are

problems – mysterious siren diluted

in the night. in this word there

are people

familiar rhythm of a road.

in this state there are rivers

the world does waltz, at

least so says the frame

 

 

 

 

 

 

when all one’s forces have been dissolved into speeds

                                                                                          after Jalal Toufic

 

                                                                                    Much of what is actual is not real.

 

I speak to you from the bottom of

            sound sleep, where all is yearning

                        for the root –

farmers pause to till

 

future energy is nearer than we think

how is that for sex appeal

 

 

           

                                                                                    my physiognomy is your realest

                                                                                    spectator

                                                                                    cloaks intimidation toward vote

 

                                                                        concept barrels towards moat

                                                                                    daybreak snared by lovers

 

 

 

 

            I love this nervous light,

 

anonymous and changing like duration, I offer you the somersault                kindness         
            please undress           play dead on field of green green pinnacle above
please undress
            heat is clay       I am solid no, I decompose

 

 

 

 

            emptiness has something to shout

           

 

 

   tired tired eyes of hazing

go boldest in the throbbing night

   unjustice so bold becomes basic, allowed

to quell the rising shout

                                                                       

 

 

 

                                                                        trees align along winds’ path,

            rotation sweeps to song

                                                                  recurrence of one’s loss ushers day along

                       

                                                                                    sunrise coordinates expand

                                                                        throw specifics into doubt

                                                                              utter into soft relief to opt for one way out

common phenomena occur right above

 

sunlight is incident

 

sunlit incendent

   my mathematical

moment       

 

                                                            heart of gold misread                                    altruistic plea    with
                                                                                                                              each rotation bent
                                                                                                                                     time zones are a
                                                                                                                              compromise

 

 

The point at which I reached the limits of control was              the writing              
my greatest fear is violence

                                             

 

Go to a place

 

 

                        at home at any time, when neighbors are away

            two pistols        a taser   baton and pepper spray you have a rifle and a shotgun        grenade
launcher in your car

 

under clear and sunlit launcher       alone with good ideas

       glass and rust red modern house         thousands of sour fruit              the last of the din of that
giant heavy black instrument

 

            shimmy between, sit     

                                                confront elusively

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

very safe in water

 

            when everyone is sage   active volcano in the midst of a lake                               mild climate
roadside fruit and a riding trail                    

 

                        in bed and not alone                drunk at any time                                          early home and
small shared house

            at home in bed             dark shady bay                                                        
                                                   on a tiny island                   

 

                                                                                    

            your hand on the back of my neck

 

 

nostalgia is our meeting missed            

 

 

       test run provokes our conflict desire

   hour being whole to each part

    battleship planed across grey divides

seeded below seismic fault

 

 

 

the gradual drift of population charts constellation of my clan

  topos tree meanders, stagger goes for long

the meeting missed is sense of home, belonging to lost cause

 

 

 

                        a boat

 

adrift amidst expanse of sea

 

            museum locked inside

 

     relic of antiquest days

 

            no phone will ring the booth

 

 

 

space between thoughts

                        for Bob Bielecki

 

 

            we are moving now into the warm

front, that took someone by surprise

            yesterday

 

 

     on this deck chair I gain distance

from a contrail, perceiving    

               sky as static

                   turn conducts my view

 

 

    by frame I mean the field of my perception

in the present sense – wildlife –

       then lateral movement to and fro,

                        one line becomes its point