September 25, 1998
Canyon
within a few moments
the poem has receded
to a regular mountain
in my chest
trudging through cracking ice
up into the labyrinth
you get lost in
a neighborhood that twists
turning nonsensically
I like a grid you say
taking my direction out
of last night
to our last supperit is I who brings it up
with the necessary bravado
to get us beyond the ledge of talk
into a canyon
we never frequent
usually a drive by
the rim suffices
sitting there
the desert sun
masking my face
with cinnamon gold
the glare of neon Chinatown
eating through words
I cannot swallow
the line
you say
I have never
wanted to cross overmy skin reddening
I nod
it is no desert canyon warmth
but the blue smoke of a cigarette
the canyon walls
are getting hot
receding it is Boston
Chinatown
borders drawn
watching you diverge
down the clean black line
in reverse
I follow the course of your words
easily
knowing the route by heartthere are no deaf ears
for the words
to fall upon
it is just night
the road silver with ice
the return to my bed
scaling this poem
to examine the canyon
from above
before leaping off
Commonwealth Avenue
today
on the street
two lanes of trees
brownstones
the house
where I first
made and lost
love my drinking
sunshine splash
hangover street
a glory street
of lovers
dialogues and walksthe copper
bent over man
staring placidly
straight ahead
under the horns
of angels
continually in song
I had a thought:
I never want to grow out
of being
an artist child
I never want to stop
studying
those shapes
attached to smells
forming colors
with words
thrown out
flying
jubilant
5/31 3am
you are a poet
that likes to eat
he said
referring to the necessity
of my six am coffee pouring
existence
it is three a.m.
and I am awake in sleep
hunger is ripping
through me
Visa took care of lunch
but it is the other
nameless hunger
that milks
the ulcer
the drunken priest
in the rehab
said tobacco and coffee
trigger the brain
to wait for a fix
taking notes
I nodded off
knowing when I split
the seams of the envelope
would go
but miraculousy retain the letter
transcribing this desire
wider than the hips
of a Matisse
The Reading
you began
four minutes ago
retreating
to your holy gray machine
to write
words
I cannot see
I write
to simulate you
walking home two miles
away from your careless
black locks
wire rimmed truth
gaping from your mouth
my question only skimming
the surface
of this muddy pond
of inquiry
lapping up
my face
you writing
alone at night
wandering into your maid's room
on a hill in Hollywood
rocking you to sleep
until I wake
holding air
in my lungs
gasping for you
Copyright © Erica Kent
All rights reserved.Erica Kent moved from Boston to Portland in July. She attended Marlboro College in Vermont, spent one year in Los Angeles writing screenplays and "learned I cannot live in shark-infested waters," she says.
