Odysseus Before The Window.
I hear a trumpet this night that sounds
like a heart squeezed between two dawns,
blown by the memories of footsteps
trod on other people’s lawns.
I can visualize the trumpeter’s thick lips
pursed with pain needing to be shed, her cheeks
inflated, walls trying to protect; a sound produces -
seduces the spaces between the disks of my spine
as I stand naked to this night’s ambiguous shrine.
It is an implausibly hot night, the air
a lair within my head to catch thoughts
that should have been put to bed.
This heat makes everything unreal.
Trapped before the window - a mast
in this city’s ocean of night - unable to flee
or fight; the trumpet’s sound creates me,
berates me, calls me home
and away again as it pries into my mind.
I grow fearful I might forget who I have become –
the choices that cannot be undone; the actions,
thoughtless and destructive, that litter…
sun-glinting bottles strewn beside a highway.
This Vincent night – the city’s colours melt,
merge, bend with sounds, with smells, with memory;
the stars pushing through the smog are not
right and yet their swirling bright attack on the dark,
like that trumpet, gives me heart as I stand in the front
of this open window. The belated breeze hounds,
the brick spits heat, my mind treads old sentences,
merges verbs to nouns, imagines a thousand possible
excuses that are swallowed before the lie is set to flight.
She stirs behind me – I remember
it was originally her smile, then the way her right
hand twirled her reddish hair; the blouse
spread and the nipple not yet erect, kissed
and as I flared
I surrendered to the call of the beast.
I had hoped this was not a reality
or that this me standing here
That the picture I had tried to paint
as my life
and the trumpet was soothing
The Siren calling me out again.