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A Wilderness
Arcade
by
Alex Stolis
Out Now
The day I drowned in the Housatonic River
after Suzanne Frischkorn
there
was not a cloud in the sky.
I'm not sure but it felt like Saturday,
the
kind of day when wax wings
could carry you to the sun and back.
Earlier
I collected stones, careful to keep
track of the wind as it picked up
from
the north. All I remember
is trying to swim in a straight line
to
the grey shoreline. Then thunder rolled
in and a dark-haired girl sang me to sleep.
Tarot
Card II
The High Priestess attends a Masked Ball
she
believes rain dulls the edge of unhappiness and in a world
out of practice with silence, she wants to forget about words
and
float beyond form or thought. she wants to sharpen
the oval face of sound, and imagines herself as confessor,
the
quiet muse, a journal. promising to leave nothing
to chance, she'll hold secrets speechless against her breast.
she
will be the keeper of lock and key while night suffocates
the last light under a blanket of stars. she believes it's possible
to
pretend herself into solitude, possible to cover small
indiscretions with a laugh and murmur thrown in the right
direction.
she wants to fall in love with no consequences,
teach the moon to recite her name: a prayer for the dying.
A Wilderness Arcade at 4AM
I
want to be on an island with Patti Smith:
bookmark words in the sand, dredge
the ocean for poems. I want to curl and twist
wrists into conch shells, flirt with madness,
pluck guitar picks from tree tops
and bury my head in the sun's shoulder.
I
want to wake to the bloom of white noise,
watch skyscrapers rise like salt-licks
against an asphalt horizon, cross my legs
on rooftops, strain to hear the sound of traffic.
Mostly; I want to be on an island with Patti Smith
Letter #11
8358
Sunset Boulevard
West Hollywood, California 90069
October 18, 19__
Dear J_______,
There's
a slope in the sky. Clouds are sinking ships and sun
light filters through shadows. Shade is created in the dust.
I walk into a memory that is planted firmly in the ground.
Roots
get tangled in my senses. The street is littered with signs
of life: a wet beret, broken bottles, stray dogs that run away
from the hand that tries to feed them. Storefronts are faces
that
need sleep. Headlights from a passing car interrupt
my thoughts. My eyes are helpless, absorbing every move.
I try not to believe that everything bleeds.
Yours,
L_______
i've thrown away everything i've ever written
about you, decided to get drunk and look down at the stars
from rooftops, break our memories into easy-to-slice pieces
and pretend i can't remember colors: the color of rain
as
it falls through your hair, the color of clouds floating slowly
down the side of a mountain. there will be regrets for things unsaid,
actions not taken, unsent letters sitting in unopened drawers
will
be enough to keep me awake at night. tomorrow will never
know how to fill the holes in the sky, today won't understand
there may be no room for second chances unless we're very careful
where
we put the first ones. i never believed in anything worthwhile
enough to follow through to the end. it's been enough to x out spaces
in the calendar, wait for the last cigarette to burn out
on
the table's edge, yellow stains highlighting imperfection.
maybe it's time to stop forgetting and remember
the perfect curve of your mouth.
The Last Judgment
will start on a dead end street at that just right time before the sun dies
and there is still enough light to read the street signs it will be slow
not as loud as you would think there will be no trumpets or thunder
no bright lights no angels or dead saints you will be able to hear
the sound of your own breath you will feel your heart beating and you
will probably think there is nothing special going on a dog will run across
the street and sniff at the sewer drain you will light a cigarette but it will
take two matches before you can have a drag there will be a drunk
weaving his way past you and you will be able to hear him hum softly
over the shuffling of his feet there will be a woman who leans against
you she will hold your hand and brush her lips against your five o'clock
shadow you will want to take her home you'll try to flag down a cab
but there will be no one in sight
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
The rights of Alex Stolis to be identified as the author have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and patents act 1988
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