Vienna 1914

Here you are in front of mirrors
naked then clothed in suits of dead fathers.
Here you’ve painted a tree
Which is really you stepping over
fields and fences.

Here you’re a prisoner covered in red coats.
Jackdaws settle in trees outside your cell.
You write, “A single orange was the only light.”

As soldier you do not fight but guard prisoner,
as your uncle Leopold guarded you
with his mustache and cane.

Here your mistress kneels on all fours.
You position her according to large mirrors.
She buries her face, appears headless.
She might be a table.

It is 1914 there are whole towns of women
turned chairs, figurines, pieces of cloth.
The men are heads, hands, shirt fronts flashing.

Because her skin is paper you dab it with vermillion.
Its toxic mercury light breasts, heels, and ankles.
Mined in China, Sin door to Indians,
it is the mark of marriage, more expensive than gilding.

This woman will never wear your mark.
You intend to marry well, one of two sisters.
Their father is a master locksmith.
They walk in clean Protestant light.
Besides, marriage ruins good mistresses.

At news of your intentions she leaves you
in fields of rock with torsos and faces.
Now it is you that kneels, ankle lodged
between two stones.

Sharp toothed artists of Vienna,
you’ve given us men with green faces,
eyes rimmed in red, afraid of losing
their right hand.

They observe it severed in dreams.
They treat it with electro shock.
It jumps and jumps.

Like you we open and close windows,
piece meal pay checks, walk doorway
to doorway dirtying floors.

Like you we wait for catastrophe
and know it has already happened.

Lean Ether

open to a blank page just in case
just in case this document is ready to become a documentation
a documentation of that which is already happening, in progress
a contemporaneous convergence, if you will.

crude, and yet we all agree: Beautiful
though beautiful hardly fits the bill as an attempt at describing
describing but just scratching the surface, grazing the veneer
these are the words. this is the phrasing.

each line is a happening in it self
itself taking shape as the words spill out and spill onto
spill onto and across in the form of a poem, fashion a verse
make from nothing but the words in my head: Something.

Catbird

there’s a catbird in the Xylosma
not nesting, exactly, but living
or hiding from the rain that’s recently returned
after just one day to drain
assess the damage and be thankful for none

the catbird flits about
and I can’t decide if
it is doing so nervously
or in a rather cavalier fashion
chi-chi-chippering away
either to herself or at me

she’s peeking through the cool dark of her dense shelter
from branch to branch hopping
getting up to eye level
maybe to assess the threat
and be thankful for none

I, perhaps nervously, step away
from the bulging hedge
begging to be pruned
pack a bowl
and smoke it
as the catbird looks on

The Last Stoup, Issue 10, April 1993

Mason’s Stoup 10

In Between

driving
but dilly-dallying
really
daydreaming
over the hills
the miles of vines
the corners of which I’m cognizant
but just barely
the dead barn owl with one wing flapping in the breeze of a car just gone by
the cows
cute but stinky
and thankfully organic
the jibber-jabber on the radio
the cool rush of air from the window on the far side of the truck
the miles
really
the miles
they rush at me and under me and into infinity beyond the back bumper
and then the sun pushing up and into
pushing
the sky in the mirrors brightens and lightens and makes itself known
and when I look up at the mountain range that stands between me and the massive expanse of Pacific
the fog just barely spilling over
pink

Source Code

unbending on breaking into a series of handshakes and deals
contracts written into existence post facto
words situated to fit the situation just as the unfolding takes place
(is this equal and opposite?)
more than making a fuss over
this documentation
more than just a casual observation

the parties involved take parts neither are quite sure of
the definitions of which lay unfinished in a heap somewhere
notes scribbled, things referred to as “paperwork”
ellipses taking the place of, or implying meaning where any has yet to settle despite the appearance of agreement or sense of propriety

this is where bleak formality is layered in
where the comfort of conformity trumps the ideas of action
where the questions, in all the forms they’re known to adopt
whether posture or postulation, blossom into a thing more important than that for which they strive
– the answer is the terminal, the question, the journey

between that which is developing
the cause and effect
the nuance
the roles implemented
the desire to imagine
to backfill and anticipate that which is not apparent, becomes the beauty of the action taken
makes connections
makes that upon which we endeavor a voyage instead of mere motion.

Remembering Mason’s Stoup

The colony provides a certain sense of security.
We dreamed of boundaries
and of distance, of lines imparted on charts
scrawled
and, then often
reconfigured on what would eventually
become the maps on which we base various aspects of our
belief systems.

These are just lines, you see,
on paper
no less
or cloth
divined not by the hand of God mind you, but out of a vague mix of un-knowing perceived advantage
& the kind of greed inspired by what must have been thought of at the time as an infinite resource.

On one side of any given line
imagined, drawn, or published
capacities are anticipated
territories squeezed into acres are thought of in terms of
yield & bounty
investment & return
and the dangers of the yet undiscovered.

This is the point where potential is neutral, where there is as much to offer as there is to lose.

Habitation is a state of mind
as is ownership, and claims staked
in the name of…
for the queen of…
with God as our witness.

Imagine the audacity
or was it the will to live(?)
to step
as if naked into what could only be considered the unknown
the planet’s edge
the edge of what could be.

Imagine the dreams
the thoughts of prayers coming true
the wide-eyed wonder of a world brand new.

This is the frying pan.

This is the fire.

Mason’s Stoup 9 – Fall 1992

Mason’s Stoup 9