Cynthia Sailers – Two Poems

Cynthia Sailers

Two Poems

YOU ARE HERE
     this is a title with no poem —Larry Kearney

in my mind, I try to cling to an object in an object world there are paintings on the wall, but I can’t remember them there is a man sitting in a chair there is an anonymous man entering a room.  I think he’s gay but I try to imagine him with want for a “careless father” to be a statue that falls to the floor while I’m working a library desk with any distraction to not look at the globe he’s laughing at me while saying, “real space smells like ashes” you can only see in my face “a jail is inside of me” you can only see the job of beauty is to be dried up or cleaned out spilling coffee from a cup there is no child who is that different a mortal heart because for pleasure it breaks so close, to be deaf. it is not my mother’s tinny voice we ran around. but yet, I found a picture of three soldiers wearing an old, private wardrobe the town only slightly stirs from running out of time to burn my heart or better yet to get going, imagining your crotch is just south of here an ugly black octopus once thought of as Russia just wait and see my lonely pen at the last fencepost the range that kept me peering at a map at his knees I was thinking Atlantic Ocean, I was thinking air routes to Britain wherever you are, there you are burnt out of my heart, a kaleidoscope or a group of pomegranates, a group investigation: “I am told there are people who do not care for maps, but I find it hard to believe” (Robert Louis Stevenson) but in some cases my photographs just didn’t turn out, and in some cases it was just a bird dripping, or peeing in the middle of the road. there would only be souvenirs stitched by women or baskets made maps are already fetishes for the finished whole, the word “lost” a forty five day walk against everything we could know, what our true position is in small opinionated maps of the early 90’s a number of years ago, we have shed our skin in a thousand different places now Armenia has made it with 3 million or so people the size indicates the number of times I need to be reminded that there is a boat, a dress that floats back onto her legs to make the mind unsettled in a frozen body to be a soft cushion of distraction in a novel about captivity to identify with those who are locked into their rooms being not so beautiful with one leg spread open with refusal to float or be flat against a wall, “without a path” in my worst behavior I struggled to arrange an arrangement where we obey possible scenarios and nothing’s left undone, undoing pages to excuse men who like to play with dolls with innocence killing something now or not that gone what your wrist wraps around the delicate tender undershirts in moist weather the wars of solo names to call back in the presence of “hate crippled” but one cannot hate the one who occupies a spread so unsettled, so displaced. A Dictionary of Geography Nothing will come of nothing like in Chris Marker’s La Jettée. They fall against the frozen backdrop of a city, but find they have a love soon one day, they’ll discover an answer to these questions.  Still not alone with those pornographic magazines.  Someday you will not leave me in my historical memory. Like tragic figures in an isolated mess hall.  I have a preoccupation for your many belongings, and notebooks full of ideas.  A land in order to cultivate some crops or mock sun.  Some projections aim to facilitate fruit trees on a flat surface map. It is impossible, however, to carry a compass around with you.  There are steppes over southern U.S.S.R. that are much more resistant than those poems you gave to me about very colorful fish. Like the famine or female in the upper photo shown appeal easily to the five senses. Agreed with carrying a ruler around.  Agreed with several rolls of tape, to guard us against something like the ice sheets of Greenland. Normally, some minutes divided by them like a violent wind that rises suddenly.  Borrowed from others near a coastline. The high tide is higher and the low tide is lower.  The lower head often called the copy below.  Some individual landscapes easily breaking down depend on control.  You could do him like a Siren suffers. Black and blue the eye notices the thickness of place to place The great lakes are an interesting choice. The grafts that join them should they jump back onto the train. What traits do we consider worn? Hovering above to project into you.  An ode to salt-water and colored legal hands.  A thorn mingling in too much sperm I could even get turned on by that. But you can’t have a real relationship with reality.  You have read too many books.  Where a film review is your first memory. Taking my picture, taking over my picture. What is not desirable, a messy head of hair, and worlds and entities that are worn away by the current like my ankle below.

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