RAIN CHECK POEMS

Aaron Simon

BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York

RAIN CHECK POEMS

by Aaron Simon
Copyright 2015
Published by BlazeVOX [books]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without
the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza
Cover Art by Jessica Dessner
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-60964-216-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015939195
BlazeVOX [books]
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Kenmore, NY 14217
Editor@blazevox.org

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TOUCHED AND GONE

We searched the wrong places
forced air, equivalence
outside the appendix
in dispassionate leaves.
But time never stopped
recusing its deniers
and Decembers dusky wash
brought us to our knees.
The first vintages are here
all the way from Kentucky
Its key-stroke or bust
Light box blues.

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SKY STORY
1.
I wont pretend to know the secret
its hard enough to think out loud
flying over the spotted coast
with no ideas of my own
Who said its harder
to give up love than life
the smallness and the greatness
like scattered parts of Icarus
that floated back to earth
Was it Cline
in a nod to the hpital
knowing one cant write with blood?
First do no harm

2.
Theres a lake in my imagination
only distinguished by its pinkness
I mustnt forget I didnt exist once
its the height of all sensation
But this is not my story
the airspace is controlled
small roads go to the lake
and those are real roads down there
My Titos Vodka is from Austin
Watsons Tonic is from Xiamen

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follow the cloud procession

with half-shut eyes
its why I pick a window

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BITTER HALF
The last word begins
like a poorly scored pill
I cant speak for you
cherry picking is one method
a frame within a frame
where the past is heavy with hidden costs
and you cant get out of the way
we dont need another hero
to return us to point A
the end of our transparency
is the beginning of composition

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RAIN CHECK
for Bill Berkson

1. I left early to get a table

Instead I ate dirt.
2. I'm not late, I'm lying
naked in the street.
3. Recall the heart witness
tyrannical purple sky.
4. The principal feeling:
The sky is straining to pee.
5. O Fates! O Body!
Rude sirens cause a scene.
6. Lightning gown.
When I resurface I'll breathe.
7. Olive oil. Alum?
I smell wood-smoke. Or wool.
8. Red light distracted
I sleep, you dream.
9. O memory! You're here,
with license to grow roots!

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10. Paragons, baize

night birds, heat.
11. Where was I? The dawn
air inside a basket.
12. Plan of circumstance
sidelined by a tree.
13. Outside the Palace,
with a bottle and a snack.
14. Forces collide. It happens.
I'll feel better once I eat.

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NUDES
More or less a vandal
I was turning a corner
wet with footnotes
couched between noons
You were there but not really
inside the lacuna
peeling tape from windows
readying a squeegee
We must talk before we write
or read in front of mirrors
commiserate with bodies
still learning to be naked
I don't like it either
especially on a Wednesday
after listening to voicemails
from a guy named Thad
Light crawls across my desk
then rests on my calendar
sensuality for some
a mere punch-card for you

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VERTIGINOUS DETOUR
Like I was saying, we the profligate
deserve every break we get
even now, dodging a storm
while dining al fresco under the bridge
And the wind carries your napkin away
My greatest fear is our only hope
that someday well learn
to sit up straight without speaking
Do you recognize this language?
Your eyes havent changed
since weve been here
I see myself in them
I look like a pigeon

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SOME HISTORIES
for Jessica Dessner

The world was bigger then

she was older
Death was known
his name revered
Fevers werent made to be broken
Love flipped on with a switch
We walked to the movies
trees gave shade
brothels spilled their light
The Orpheum was filled with orphans!
Crocodiles wept
Hearts and rivers overflowed
Never dull or glac
Incense burned on corners
wherever men tossed dice
Present meant something
like the variegated moon
and the suns infidelity
unnoticed in a crowd
Magicians and clowns weren't mocked
Actors slept in tents
Cars were only for gods
The solemn ones without kids
Promise moved away from the cities
insistent on fair-trade
poets kept baseball to themselves
Beauty never pulled away

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POEM FOR A ON INDEPENDENCE DAY

Are you my portmanteau?
Most mountains are nameless
pings from a giant
white cross in the smog
Donner Summit traffic
Youd be amused by the picnic sign
but youre in Paris
where its late
and symbols are tragic
Are you wearing black stockings
and nursing the void?
Drink up
then come home
the water is getting warmer

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SKY STORY 2
Forgetting to breathe
in fluted light
she redacts the sky
high over the terminal
like a bronze bust of Mercury
grounded by design
What does she know
of takeoff and landing
where language becomes pressure
a story of clauses
both profound and inert?
This doesn't need to be rhetorical
fog gives the perfect cover
a classic disappearance
she'll make up the time in the air

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HYPNIC JERK
The sensation starts
when I slice my thumb
opening a letter from Fannie
I don't know her
though she reveals the pain in anonymity
The thunder stops then it hails
the rent check bleeds
through my breast pocket
I'm lost in a roundabout
indecent to the naked eye
I pick up her tracks
outside the pharmacy
where a shrine has been extinguished
the natural world on index cards
reflected in oily puddles
What moves Fannie through the night
assuming she has substance
and are her words colorless when pure
like a fluorite?

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TYPE VECU
for Genet

Ive seen you here before

ordering the counter
but I never stick around
for the eventual display
toothpicks flanking mints
buttressed by a notepad
a pencil (for color)
its charming point and line
you finally take a risk
disappear into the freezer
smoking with the grill cooks
as the brunch line grows and groans
and like you Im lost
party to a phrase
taking tips from strangers
clearing more than plates

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OPPOSITE SIGNS
Its necessary for me
to dislike certain people
the ascetic especially
I cant do much for them
other than set the record straight
De Chirico was an accomplished dreamer
a man among puppets
the only bright-side
of a dimly lit room
Space affords curiosity
when the past becomes providence
something to read in the evening
just before turning in
This strange iconophilia
flings me into despair:
Fire God and Wooden Boy
embracing under the moon

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