City Rain

Rutted eaves, a furrowed sky-scape settled like blankets, slate and shale, felt and lead, lain on red brick, mortar, reinforced concrete. Sponge porous, the slatted roads suck drain-like down the city rain, whose clouds have skidded punctured against spires and phone masts and age-stained tower blocks. Windows peak out on seventh floors, skylights face up and out at ninety-thirty-fort-five degrees, catching desperate grasps of shaded light from betwixt the sundial towers. Drainpipes sag and moan, rabid pigeons sodden with pH unbalance stagger on concrete slabs while far, far below a sea of black umbrellas undulates in currents and tides, swelling against doorways, rushing like clouds of sediment, unsettled and frivolous beneath black canvas, metal spokes and hinges. In the gutters, newsprint flakes and congeals and names and faces dissolve into nothing, while heels grind and retreat and leave nothing but stale breath that is lost in the moment and the wind.

A weekend in Paris

Nouveau lintel, flaky pastel
Champs de-Leave-me. No not now.
Grainy. Shimmers like flash bulbs.
Streets like spidery gauze,
Monsieur are you Gallic?
Eyes cut like absinthe;
Green fairy sits, alights, flutters;
she settles like a smutty dream.
Leafy, grassy, limestone,
Rue de Whatever. Pay the Euro-Francs
for Metro-crepe-souvenirs.
Double diex Vogues, dancing, wilting,
Bullet up Eiffel lifts,
Climb Renaissance stairs.
Napoleanic nothing.
Champs de-Everything.

Writer's Block

Hand me a pen,
clutch in fist,
stroke like Nigella-
sweep and dust and mop and curl and dance,
sing for me Barcelona,
sing for me!
Oh my arm aches.
It buckles, it sags,
it warps in flagging nodules;
the pen is weighty.
Touch floor with my heel,
touch table with my wrist.
Pins and needles, numbness,
I can't feel my arm.
Left hand- not ambidextrous.
I'm stuck.
Stick in the mud,
Toad in the hole,
Camel through the needle's eye;
Writer's block.