in the pavlova recipe
Sorry, I have to take this,
the pavlova says. The microwave
is ringing and they speak together in whispers.
Down by the seas of roads and rails—tarmacs lined
with dashes on the runways to the shallows—
the metropolitan trains approach a nexus
where all begins and ends.
Once my life was stippled on those waters
and broken on those shores.
Simple has always been complex,
the hotel minimalist works at every detail,
opposing nature where no edge
is ruled and no tone is pure.
In lonely rooms I’ve seen
ten thousand corners
where processions in my likeness
have left their traces,
traced their own existences.
The hotel staircase flows with carpet
corridored with concrete people,
wired eyes and filamentary
they sing their times, sell their dreams
and know a little arrogance is needed.
You might call it confident belief, I did too,
but it never wanted me.
My mentors’ terraformed logic
was always redacted truth. They never spoke of
the dreaming moons,
yet in the hotel mirrors, I saw
a hollowed stranger.
I pretended, carried a sheaf of two
around the obelisks,
monolithic not immutable.
Minerva’s in a velvet curtain at reception,
with bells and her Euclidean geometry.
I ask for a map to the Elysian
tourist park, where corporate tigers and
growl and flutter, respectively.
If life’s a dream then dreaming’s life,
she tells me, and your imagination’s
always been a little lurid,
I notice I’m in my shortie
pajamas, the ones with stars and comets.
I really should have worn
an Italian suit and tie to bed.
I can sip Pinot and watch the rainbow lorikeets in the Camellia thanks to concrete, rail, and powerful focused thinkers. Also the birdbath.
flightless bird; I followed the shelving assembly instructions as closely as possible.