SINISTER DREAMIn dreams she was left-handed and her hair often changed color when her body turned over. Pillows didn’t seem to matter. She would use her right hand to sign because—in dreams—you can’t hear. She often dreams you here to write music for her left hand while she chooses lyrics from signs painted on hotel walls. The colors are artfully fading. All that matters is seeing the same word, over and again. Dreams are terse. They don’t cover plot. Melodies—all hers to hear-- one note with one hand. Notes matter to the ear hiding in her left hand. She’ll spell them to you. Their colors change constantly. Her grand design is to draw you with her. You’ll sign a pledge to be her perpetual lover and to tease her hair into loud colors that you see but she can’t hear. You help her rule her left hand and they must put an end to matters large and small. Whatever’s the matter with her dreamt self is a sign that she can’t decode, like left-handed cursive. She starts to read and starts over. You hold her hand. She’s glad you’re here-- deaf, quite unable to read colors like palms. She rolls right. The colors flash and settle on blue. It doesn’t matter towards morning. Her body tense to hear an alarm (your kiss, your song, your sign). Early light and a day that’s not over Until she wakes her sleepy left hand. Then coffee matters. The flashing sign, repeating colors outside. Just over sunrise. You hear trucks. The drivers are left-handed. CHRISTIAN TOPOGRAPHYHis sign reads “Cosmas—India Sailor”. Before him, on pavement, a framed blackboard is covered in dirty wax. People ignore him. She used to stop but kindness failed, or time pressed. Now she walks across the wide street-- not proud of it or ashamed. She must meet people for lunch or power. She watches. She sees his hand move a stick. He scratches Three words in wax. They’ll stay there, unread, all day. And all days she wonders what they say. Later, Cosmas is gone. The tablet remains unread. She won’t take it home. Three words: Not A Saint. BALCONY AT THE FILLMOREUpstairs at the Fillmore, watching the dance flow, tidal as waves, drawn by power chords. You’re close to a table. Your un-punk stance, your pose fools no one here. So slowly dance to walk through legends to legends. The trance of backbeats and solos. Try to look bored-- you’re not. Upstairs, the Fillmore throbs dance-- Tidal. The waves of songs, power of chords. LITTLE EASEBut the heart has its own memories and I have forgotten nothing. Albert Camus The Fall The key between his teeth opened no door he saw. Perhaps some complete circuit broke and lights snap on. The only thing he knew as his tongue kissed metal—he could not drop it. The floor might swallow. He might choke on air. He clamped his teeth. His lips went blue. His hands grew numb. He shivered. Heat dropped and night gathered strength. The air was choked with feral vapors, stronger than smoke that greased barred window and sealed one door. He saw two hooting owls that barley broke the silence. There were things he wished he knew-- her secrets or his. Things he worked to forget. Was this sentence or mission? He forgot, long hands stretched so high. His neck choked with fear, recalling what should be forgotten-- Daylight. Her cool eyes. What it meant to stand. He knew bad things would happen when dawn broke. Swallow the key or spit it out. That door would crack. His meaningless form would drop to the floor. He’d open his futile hands. IN COLORTaking the first turn behind a blue horse, you know you’re lost. A palm opens at the end of an alley, bright green rings on each finger. Open the red door-- that one on the left, sidestepping the ocelot. Find a window. As you slide through morning starts a wide yawn, swallows you like a rosy ear. Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu was recently published by Encircle Publications. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like everyone else, he’s unemployed. He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two full length collections so far. His first chapbook won the Negative Capability Award. Titles on request.
A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ A primitive web site now exists: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/ I sometimes tweet @Mark J Mitchell_Writer
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