WALKING…selections
By Patrick Hurley
***
letters and numbers converge
then dissolve into pure sound
suddenly visible in the pavement
a repeated pattern of circles
late sounds come to us
approaching dissonance beautifully
eyes burn and water–
the airborne miasma
each cold breath a knife blade
and here a crystal jar of
cobalt ink lying at the edge
of the pavement
did it fall from the poor
calligrapher’s worn pocket?
will he now trace letters in sand
or on the surface of moving water?
litter thickens and loud
voices speak of commerce
insistent percussion sends
ripples through the sky
fragments leavings detritus***
vision of subsequent and antecedent layers
is sometimes accounted madness
hearing sounds that exist beyond
the confines of time cannot be tolerated
there is permanence and there is
the mutability of the superficial
the pavement is wet but
the warmth of the sun will dry it
colors are approaching their
actual hues once again
blue teachings crackle
in the still air
along the path lays
a rusted flute
pick it up
***
figures in a circle––animals
remade by strange mutation
first simple sounds
tapping on heat-fused glass
blowing through a
corroded cylinder
winding up a music box
found amongst the carcasses
a tape found in the ruins––
play it forwards
play it backwards
perhaps a sequence will emerge
the circle will start to spin
and the monsters that comprise it
will rotate in the opposite direction
movement within movement
colored fragments of parchment
blow in the wind
***
strange mathematics in
what appears to be a
northern village
structures are painted
in bright primary colors
the birds too have been
painted––the crow’s
bitter caw is now
a rich white sound
in the landscape
green’s sweetness
is leaving
now paths are streaked
with sour yellow
and salty red
somewhere a voice
counts to five
somewhere mallets
strike metal wires
this path south
is downhill
refuse increases
along the descent
seeking only addition
someone is immune
to the magic of subtraction
plus’s cross is just the
intersection of two
perpendicular minuses
***
the warm air is sour
competing frequencies
charge the ambient air
fresh tree stumps dot
the former landscape
walking on bleached bones
walking on shells
walking on fragments
lead paint chips
frame broken windows
corroded fan blades
turn slowly
security cameras’
forlorn wires dangle
no spells
no sacraments
no algorithms
stocky humanoids
scale crumbling ruins
they feed on the
flesh of the weaker ones
About the Author:
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Patrick Hurley was born in an unimportant midwestern American city in 1969. After wasting several years in graduate school, he published a book on Thomas Pynchon and taught writing and literature at a few colleges in Saint Louis, Missouri. He is now a full-time bartender and poet, currently obsessed with a long poetry collection in progress called Walking. He lives and works in Saint Louis.