sirM's profile

I THINK IT HAPPENS LIKE THIS I think it happens like this. First, it’s like a magnet that brings iron to itself, Tugging pieces out of thick sadness But still bound, pressed by a central dream. Eloquence, fancy pants, Kaledescope, menagerie, A tonal cord for the symphony, a home, safety, Till it’s shrapnelled from the sun like filigree. It’s like a huntsman, then, alone, shouting for his dogs, Guttural, from the belly, searching for something lost. Paws crunch the froze...

I think it happens like this like a magnet that brings iron to itself tugging pieces out of thick sadness but still bound, pressed by a central dream. Then, it's like tiny splayed filigree, shot from the sun like a solitary huntsman, shouting for his dogs, guttural, from the belly, searching for something lost. Paws crunch the frozen snow. Coat left for the animals to smell home. Then, in one hoped for moment, tiny cracks from twigs. It must have happened like this.  

My ex-girlfriend used to say that opera was for drag queens and interior decorators. She refused to attend any performances after our very first “La Traviata” where she found the singing and the costumes “just silly.” She would quip with friends about our “la, la, la” time that night. The opera’s tragic death scene made her want to “kill herself.” Death never came “so slowly.” Etc., etc., etc. I listened to it for years. As a m...

A night at the opera.... The second plate went back. The waiter and I exchanged glances. A furtive eye-brow slid up in a quick quiver. It was the type you might imagine on a frog if it had an eyebrow just before its tongue took off for a fly or, alternatively, just before it jumped from a lily pad to avoid a big bass rising from the depths threatening to eat it. This case was the latter. Our waiter, I am sure, felt lucky to have his eyebrows intact after the beating he had taken from my frie...

These words regard the past reach backward for a beginning something once a stagnant room of antiquated things an armoir with a door that will not close dust on the window that will not open your lover, bare naked, waiting for you images shrilling through the mind with chains as through a Victorian house wailing in white calling for a place in the present. A part of you is dead already talking as in a dream spilling out of the mind but not like water or wine from broken stemware. The words ar...