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Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit September 00

Songs For September music: MS Music Producer  funkyslodance ROOM A room has no concern for the captured light of infiltrating gloom where red stained glass imprisons the late afternoon sun. Bloodshot eyes peer out from the cherry-dark wine of a china press studded with porcelain fangs, the half-shadowed tea cups that lengthen like Chinese fingernails across oriental rugs, peacock feathers, and urns cut from dragonfly wings. An alabaster cherub with curly toes takes on a rosy glimmer and slants his shadow like a troll amid toadstools of lamp shades. In the spider monster's lair the eventual play of sunset dances on dulcimer strings of finely strung gossamer, splayed into white-haired infinity. From the glowing oxide of a table top a single tear of blue flame beads the edge of a beveled mirror. Condensed sunbeams slat through venetian blinds onto hearth-laid brick where the open mouth of a fireplace registers a primal scream; the andirons melt like a playground abandoned for the night. In the last waver of willow fronds and gingko leaves the bubbles of an orangy dullness appear and settle like the spent atoms of a sparkler. In a last minute flurry of fish scales and icicles the chandelier glints out of sight. The dark ceiling lowers hooded Gregorians in the final chanted act of vespers and censor smoke while dirty, cracked windows of lanterns file by and disappear thru an ancient, inaccessible keyhole.   HONEYSUCKLE vs ALL NITE NEON When the ole man passed on there was no-one left to inherit his land. He outlived everyone. His ancient farmhouse slowly filled with dust and mold awaiting the yellow bulldozer. An unkind chewing of clapboards and gnashing of trees and fence tore away a frail history of pale, white honeysuckle, but not with the same white nailed tenacity that clawed its own preservation out of split-railed acreage, though it tore up the wondrous Tea Maples that once held together many a fabled moonlight and lemonade night with the springiness of corset ribs; tore down the fence I once dangled on as tangled in as honeysuckle, a gross undoing more enigmatic than falling teenage bra straps that tested my first love affair, convened here where her honeysuckled hair first taught me how to survive my instinct. Dozers tore it all up to make an all-nite convenience store, scraping away the toe hold of renewing dirt that propagation's many rough things are, but not furtive enough to be on modern turf against naked neon.   TURK MOUNTAIN I found my spot sitting atop that old station wagon painting my heart out with ink-wash, refusing to move even for love. She, whom I adored was utterly confused about who I was. "You jerk", she muttered. And so as darkness poured over us with the rest of Turk Mountain's shadow, I would not climb down to her, not to her little throat sounds nor to all of her basket lunches nor to all of our time together.    Jimmy's poetry table of contents            © Jimmy Warner 2000