I’m not quite comfortable with that fireplace, amor,
or the smoke from all the books you’re burning.
I was working through the Dewey Decimals,
I’d kept a little eight two one.
You told me everything defined is lost
a soul’s reflection in a mirror.
I thought it best to undefine myself.
We need a chimenea.
I’ll remodel with the chainsaw.
The chainsaw roars, she says a little more
I cannot hear.
The latest robots dream of tail lights and freeways
in their sleep beside the road at night,
but nocturnal waves are rushing down
O’Connell Street, dressed
in moonlight foam and spray.
At President Avenue, the boiling flood
turns right, following the traffic signs,
seeking out the oceanic mother.
When their metal chassis sink into the bay,
the machines awaken briefly as they drown:
where darting fish investigate
the flashing indications.
My street’s a coastal wetland now,
the residents either human or amphibious,
and the homeless push their salt encrusted
shopping carts along the sand,
scour the crumbling driftwood houses
for ingredients to prepare
a seafood bisque or spaghetti marinara.
It’s best to travel inland,
and asks if I will join her.
My reasoning comes from knowing
all of failure’s secrets.
Thinking is the breakfast of the baby bear,
exaggeration leads to logic
I say no, a word
a shade of peach,
and ask if she will leave alone.
She says yes,
indigo on my personal
Now she’s gone. I stay I wait and dream.
The maple in the yard is shedding.
Its leaves are shoals of angel fish
patterned peach and indigo,
carried windward to the sea.
- Goldilocks and the Three Bears (the goldilocks principle)
- O’Connell Street features in the o’connell street ocean as well. This particular O’Connell Street isn’t wonderfully noteworthy, it relates to my personal geography. It does get a mention in Michael Dransfield’s “Lines for a Friend, 1948-1965” (Collected Poems, University of Queensland Press, 1993):
You will not see again the way
the morning sun floods down O’Connell Street …
possible showers in the late afternoon (detail above)