September 26-October 2, 2005: Douglas Holder and Alan Elyshevitz

Douglas Holder and Alan Elyshevitz

Killing Time at the 99 A skeletal man his torso barely supports a crisp white shirt- his forehead violated by a jet black wedge of his toupee– and a businessman’s perfunctory flirtation with the scripted chatter of the barmaid (she assures us a few times it is not the heat but the humidity that bothers her–) looks to his audience staring into the icy abyss of frosted glasses, an old man pipes up and fawns over a prized cat who I think with such suffocating attention must be miserable and I drink to all this loneliness made visible Man With Guitar And when he riffed his girth was no obstacle He rose like beckoned from above His head craned like a meaty swan following the music like some driven Egyptian hieroglyphic– face twitching as if it was synchronized His eyes tightly locked on the singers And all I could see were his agile, manic fingers. For her it is as simple as breath–as stark, as plain as death or rain There is no distance– the music flows in waves from her black tangled hair drops in sweaty tears from her brow- lingers, smiles in the creases of her face, shudders from her breasts Above– it trills and flutters, an exotic-plumaged bird aloft– and then the voice crescendos to some deep nocturnal dream, far below– and I wonder how it came, and where will it go?

The Engine Tutoring me on the parts of this engine you lull me to sleep like religion The mysteries of manifold wires and the holy blood called lubricant you honor as if the souls of our forebears inhabit the cylinders Who are those icy men and women in the old photographs in your dresser drawer? What made that childhood scar between your fingers? When you summon me to feel where a hose leads I twist my graduation ring round and round on my finger to coax some talent from my hands while things we won’t speak of hum in the background running on inexhaustible fuel This poem previously appeared in Wavelength Akhmatova #6 The saints seem to budget their answers To prayers You’d think otherwise, With their loyalty oaths and all those Crowns bestowed on hemophiliacs And with such impressive c.v.’s Of simony and illuminated manuscripts And cathedrals that fell through The floor of mathematics Anna, your prayers are too far-reaching For saints whose bones a priest lets you Kiss for ten zloty in Poland Or fifteen francs in southern France Take the gold, Anna, or the mate who Quits drinking, or the infant with ten Working fingers Smile at the priest And walk away This poem previously appeared in Wavelength Akhmatova #4 I owe you succor, greenery, sap And crickets On your messy Knees, reasons and thumbtacks Have left their marks It’s my fault, Anna I didn’t Keep kosher nor tune your ukulele And when I opened the door to the tropics, Your cat wandered off in the snow Forgive me: for shifting the waters, For diverting the salmon from sex Galore, for hoarding the river In a block of ice This poem previously appeared in Fourteen Hills: The SFSU Review Research and Development The world is dredged for headlines: baffling African plagues, greeting cards that explode in the mail Our fears diminish after three square meals, when we pick the taxes from our teeth, unwind and turn down the noise We burn scented timber and stare through glass at the gibbous moon, feeling light-headed, weightless In layman’s terms there is no explanation And those who are gifted will not speak to us — those who tamper with gravity in secret windowless rooms This poem previously appeared in Alligator Juniper