| A Cold Hell A cold hell, fear between the neon, taxicab strangers, killers in trucks, the man around the corner conceals a knife, like sin.A confrontation, in the hotel room, he & his desperation, thunderstorm-thoughts, battle fatigue, adrenalin the winner, no sleep this night.A light shines, through the blinds, a sweet cocaine, morning overcomes, beast locked away, soul’s scream buried in a murmur of clean clothes. Morning WatchIn a morning darkened to rainfall, the boundaries of the earth are set close in. Hands heavy as if tied to drawer handles, booted feet ache with generated heat, too long the letter to write, too short the conversation, too far the ten horizons.If wattle were transport & adobe carriage, the branches arching the roof would be an arc on the map, the wind a vehicle. How the air has turned alien lately & the earth unfriendly as if preparing for fire to come & conquer.The answer to the question lies in a closed loop, no manner of entrance or exit, closing tight enough to grasp light & to hold it back, compact a white river into black dust that comes alive, alive as the land laid bare before the parapet. Plans to Leave In the early morning, I make plans to leave. Heavy clothes stay behind. Boots & sandals, two suitcases & a trench coat go. Move in with a friend. Find an undemanding job. Rent a studio with a view, settle in to read & write. Ask for no entanglements. Make no commitments. Incur no debts. Do the real work: walk the streets, see all, listen to the encountered.By afternoon, I have not moved from the desk. Consider pain & responsibility. Stare at the bookcase that my hands built strong & ugly for the love of books, colored bindings, lives of more solid men & women, the bed behind me, waiting, scene of more struggles than months in my years. How awkward, this, the heaviness of the ex-piano player, the one-time hockey player, the former husband & lover.That night, the hot bed & damp sheets seem crowded, thought restless in its fear of being read. Back turned, face to the wall, the suitcases press down with accusation, still empty, still dusty on the shelf. The passport remains in its usual place while my pillowed ear twitches with each heartbeat, familiar sounds, reminders that another day has passed as I make plans to leave, a move that cannot take me from myself. Might Could Work Might could work with sentiment & not much else: the sudden spew of words on a page.The writer pulls his shoulders back, plays the pride card, & in an unanimity, says This is good.Except that it is not. Needs another touch, another eye, another voice to complete it, so in the drawer it goes. About the Author: Gene Stevenson: I write to make some semblance of order out of disorder, to make sense of the unthinkable, to make still photographs out of daily rushes. My poems have appeared in Chicago Tribune Magazine, DASH Literary Journal, Dime Show Review, Gravel Literary Magazine, The Hudson Review, and Swamp Ape Review. I have lived in several U.S. states, as well as Istanbul and Rome, and currently live in North Carolina. |