tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15909916887887491132024-03-13T13:09:37.945-07:00A Journey InterruptedThe Poetry of A.g. SynclairAgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-74812840435466176832011-06-08T10:39:00.000-07:002011-06-08T10:39:57.364-07:00Facing West<div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;">The Jazz station is playing Chet Baker<br />
something recorded near the end of his life<br />
he sounded like chocolate<br />
if chocolate <br />
was ravaged by heroin<br />
and time.</span></div><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #eeeeee;"> </span><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;">In Europe, Jazz is revered<br />
crowds jam darkened doorways<br />
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles<br />
at clubs like Ronnie Scott's<br />
or The Vortex<br />
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.</span></div><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #eeeeee;"> </span><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;">The shoulder cracks under the weight<br />
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky<br />
and why they jump from buildings<br />
Baker, McCorkle...<br />
they wore their scars <br />
softly, I think</span></div><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #eeeeee;"> </span><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;">like rain.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="color: #eeeeee; margin-bottom: 0.14in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman,serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© 2011 A.g. Synclair</span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-17166302982420121412011-06-01T15:12:00.000-07:002011-06-15T08:36:22.412-07:00Auto Erotica<div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">On those long, loping, summer afternoons<br />
when the air has turned a thick, milky, mess</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">when breathing suddenly becomes a negative proposition<br />
I stop my breathing so I can die for a few moments.</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">While dead<br />
I promise not to write between our lines</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">I won't be dead long enough to write<br />
just long enough to live</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">just long enough<br />
for one last startling act of contrition</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">I can't be resurrected like some faux Jesus<br />
but I can always rise to the occasion</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">then I'm reminded of France, circa 1955<br />
and your little brown dress.</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">The peaceniks up north wave signs<br />
"Make Love, Not War"</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">yet we all fight and die<br />
in wars fought on mottled streets</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">where some fool once said<br />
<i>no heart beats alone.</i></span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">Why do the leaves turn their backs on us<br />
just before it rains</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">faster, faster<br />
we don't know what it means to be slow</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">your sex wraps around me <br />
like a swirling backbeat</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">rewind, play<br />
repeat.</span></div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">© 2011 A.g. Synclair</span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-48892958136363205352011-05-15T15:31:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:08:45.187-07:00Amuse Bouche<span style="color: white;">now I can say <br />
I've eaten raw eel</span> <br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I didnt chew the quivering flesh<br />
I swallowed, like I swallow</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<span style="color: white;">my own slithering words</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">and I laughed</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">when you told me stories</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">about little chinese men with gender issues.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">Now I can float</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">above the red clay</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I can dissect a piece of you</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">and hang it from a string around my neck</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I can say I love you</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">I can chew the eel</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">and know how it feels</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">to love your pale, pretty bones.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: white;"><b>© </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">2011</span><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">A.g. Synclair</span></span></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-16431175395351983972011-04-24T14:02:00.000-07:002011-05-15T05:32:51.388-07:00<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">Livingston, Montana 8:23 a.m.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">when I went away that blue morning</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">you were ripe as November</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">and I was scarred</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">there was no air</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">but enough sunlight for a lifetime</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">so I wished it away</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">and the rain</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">with it's tender hands, held me</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">under a blood orange Montana sky</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: white;"><b>©</b> 2011 A.g. Synclair</span></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-27888902484905970742011-03-24T08:03:00.000-07:002011-03-24T08:03:27.876-07:00<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, serif;">Proof<br />
(Love In A Time of Voluntary Diaspora)</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Gesture after gesture, we pause<br />
gangs of human flesh, wanton, exposed<br />
backs bent, arms outstretched, <br />
bloody hands slit by the oiled blade <br />
of the intangible orb. <br />
The bushels of proof, tied in bundles, <br />
as if knots of twigs, or bits of brush<br />
culled from the soil of our earth <br />
to kindle the flame of the soul.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This pulchritude<br />
not borne of acrid prose<br />
meant to violate the pure page<br />
or drift rotten across our tongues<br />
like a corpse, tossed about purple sea.<br />
Nor does it lie dying in the widow’s web<br />
or passed from breath to bitter breath, <br />
in a tangle of crooked limbs<br />
and gently breaking bone.<br />
<br />
For the proof of our {be} </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ing</span></i></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;">will bloom again in simple things<br />
like the frying of an egg<br />
or the twisting steam<br />
from a pot of Russian Tea.<br />
Proof lives just beyond our breadth<br />
snug in the arms of the aged willow<br />
and alive in the sunrise whisper<br />
of the morning paper<br />
landing on our winter porch.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-size: x-small;">© 2011 A.g. Synclair</span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-4983519892581696222011-02-10T08:27:00.000-08:002011-02-10T08:27:23.442-08:00At The Gate<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">endless loop</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">the circumnavigation of four,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> not horsemen,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">but just as foreboding</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> recurring</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">apocalyptic ribbon</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">visions rebound quickly</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">plunge deeper into </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">more</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> of </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> the</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">same </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> isolation</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">evolved of a curious mixture</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">the turning over of stones</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">miscalculations of </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> time</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">upending our supposed bliss</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">the poetic half-life of</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> absolute</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"> insurgence</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">© 2011 A.g. Synclair</span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-35009764653401406722011-01-05T09:20:00.000-08:002011-01-05T09:20:56.556-08:00Ascent/Descent<b>we scale the walls of treachery</b> <div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>pull the teeth from winter's yaw</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>with delicate fingers</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>deft hands</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>grimy, gutting glances </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>a bloodletting</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>consummated with </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>soiled paper sheets, you</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>milking shadows from the breasts of naked trees</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>closer to me than words on a page</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>these fragile things, like sleep</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>or paper thin prayers</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>illuminate you in fiery glass shards</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>for we are splintered</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>and sharp</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>for cutting</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>© 2011 A.g. Synclair</b></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-68862052550473315432010-12-17T09:53:00.001-08:002010-12-17T09:53:49.799-08:00Fort Edward<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">an old pulp mill </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">wrapped in the arms of sugar maples</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">sweet gum</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">hart's-tongue, and roseroot</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">white-tailed deer</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">the manascus </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">churning dark and violent </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">under a low, seasick sky</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"><b>©</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">2009 Ag Synclair</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(Originally published in Gloom Cupboard #114)</span></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-40216945866309762612010-12-15T13:35:00.000-08:002010-12-15T13:35:52.935-08:00Untitled Love Poem<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">the poet Jamison Gilley once told me </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">of his penchant for lying naked </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">in a fetal position </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">on the cold tile floor </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">in the bathroom</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">of his Manhattan loft.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">unable to move for hours</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">waiting to feel something</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">anything</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">and feeling nothing, seeing</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">nothing, being</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">nothing.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">and I thought</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">if I could lie down</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">on some milky black night</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">and detach my retinas </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">swiftly, like opening a vein</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">I could use my mind's eye</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">to see</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">how you pulled me in</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">gutted me</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">disembowled me</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">and bled me out</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">how you opened me</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> skillfully</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"><b>©</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">2010 Ag Synclair</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(Originally published in Gloom Cupboard #118, Amphibi.us)</span></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-88315243572157525712010-12-15T13:22:00.000-08:002010-12-15T13:22:30.070-08:00Ten Hours North Of Daytona At A Rest Stop on I-95<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">pissing away</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">three cups of</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">acrid, black</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">vending machine coffee</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">alongside men in wife beaters</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">who force deep coughs</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">and spit gobs</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">of tobacco staind phlegm</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">into a magical piss trough</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">where all things</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">suddenly</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;">become equal.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>©</b></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">2009 Ag Synclair</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(Published in Calliope Nerve 4 January, 2010)</span></span></span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-45403040305795454952010-12-15T09:00:00.000-08:002010-12-15T13:27:05.333-08:00Coeur d'Alene<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">I wondered aloud (to myself) <br />
why the two of us-on a train from Chicago-<br />
bound for the coast,</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">should be seated alone<br />
at separate, impeccably set tables for four<br />
in the dining car of the Union Pacific #1401?</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">Each of us with our paperbacks, junk bags, <br />
and frayed notebooks arranged perfectly<br />
on white linen tablecloths<br />
<br />
yet looking tired and worn <br />
beside Lalique crystal and ornate candlesticks<br />
brave enough to live on a train.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">I watched as you chewed the cap of your pen<br />
and hurried to raise your glass<br />
whenever the car would sway too far to one side,</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">and I imagined the possibilities-a table shared by strangers-<br />
the way they seat you in Jazz clubs<br />
if you come alone.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">We are lovers of books and trains<br />
sharing a table and a destination <br />
with hours to kill, and poems to write,</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">and in between bites of your pen cap- <br />
where plastic mingles with prose-it would occur to me <br />
that there must be very few travelers heading West tonight<br />
<br />
as a new arrival to the dining car<br />
stops at the table in front <span style="color: white;">of me <br />
and removes a paperback, and a dog-eared journal<br />
<br />
from a shoulder bag of some unnatural color<br />
and arranges them carefully<br />
atop the table where she will dine <br />
alone.</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">© 2007 A.g. Synclair</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">(First Published in The Foundling Review, July - 2009)</span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590991688788749113.post-19920590339314322972010-12-13T09:34:00.000-08:002010-12-15T13:29:18.179-08:00H<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">suppose an impressionist</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">dared immortalize you</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">on stretched canvas and easel</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">brushstrokes damp in sepia</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">and something called</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">Zap Green</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">I </span><span style="color: white;">could frame you</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">closer to the bone</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">than marrow</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">your air</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">the resurrection </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">of a hanged man</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;">© 2010 A.g. Synclair</span><br />
<span style="color: white;">(Originally published by Haggard & Halloo Publishing, December - 2010)</span></div>AgSynclairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09808208051082443441noreply@blogger.com6