Shippy Poem
Burlington
A philosopher of little fame spoke of the world on its knees, what if some day we don’t have knees, or what if he meant that the earth is on its knees, not its inhabitants. What if we don’t choose to go to our knees, what if a snow storm comes through and knocks us
Commonwealth
Down. Unreasonable traffic causes delays, leaving people stranded on the streets as bikers and joggers get home and go back out again. The carriage path well used although carriages are a product of a bygone age.
Shipyard
The lone door sits lit on a gray street, cobblestones line the gutters and pigeons clutter the rooftops. A foghorn fills the space between you and the ground, but is quickly pushed away as the latter rushes up to meet the former. An ever-present, seemingly benign and helpful thing pounces. A red veil is drawn over the scene for you when you turn to look at the door one last time as a sole silhouette shakes its head.
Dancer
The veil is lifted and the threshold is suddenly occupied by a writhing woman. She is living out her childhood dream of being a dancer, bells and baubles hang from her wrists, ankles, and hips. She spins like a top and moves like a gyroscope, leaving circular, looping trails in the air. With a shake and shimmy the room falls silent except for the tinny sound of music through a phonograph. The record slowly
Rejection
Turns. Moving away I slowly curl over into myself, my shoulders eating my head more and more with each step. I watch her back as she turns the corner and goes to the park to cry over the swans in the pond. The proud birds will lead by example and her head will raise and stand tall, and I will see her and smile. If she saw me smile she might ask me why I do so, and I wouldn’t be able to explain. And I’d hang my head as guilt swept over me, a wave of emotion that leads to contemplation and long walks.
Cliffs
The trees stick out over the sea and up from the top of the bluffs. I know no one’s supposed to be back here but it’s just too beautiful. A storm rolls in, covering the sky like a big down comforter. Someone else has been up her. Seeds and discarded fruit litters the ground, smashed and scattered across the top of the cliffs. A nightmarish sight in contrast to the greens and browns of the trees, red, purple, yellow, and orange laid out like a homocide, waiting for the detective to arrive.
French
Film Noir, a beautiful genre of classic movies. Every movement deliberate, every emotion masked yet crystal clear. It is necessary to watch Film Noir in a dark room, in a comfortable position. If you do not then you will not be able to focus on the subtleties that are presented. A smirk,a raised eyebrow, a well placed clue that you may not catch. And remember you have to catch every clue so you can help the characters. They need you to shout out when someone’s behind them on screen, or when they’re about to overlook something important. Alert them to a woman with a knife or a man with a pistol under his coat. They need all the help they can get to make it to the credits, to see one word roll up the screen:
The End
Fin.
The Revenge
It came back like the Jedi, with motives. You thought it had finished but it had crossed you over and left you in a tizzy. Now you’re tied in a knot and stuck in a box like the contortionist we saw over near the beach last week. Doing tricks for change you spend on things you don’t need. A picture that you can’t hang, a record for which you have no player, a hat that doesn’t fit, a solitary left shoe, and a pair of right gloves.
Gravel
The only clues left at the scene were a pair of leather gloves and some gravel in the victim’s pocket. The detectives were stumped, it was death by strangulation but the victim didn’t seem to exist in any database, and there was no lead to who the murderer was. It seemed as if this was a scene from a movie, setting up the introduction of some sort of characters that weren’t quite human. And soon the movie would turn into an action flick, filled with explosions and fast-paced camera work.
Pantomime
“A little to the left, raise that hand and shift your hips down,” the photographer told the model haloed by a multitude of lights. Yet more lights went off with each push of the shutter button, slowly blinding the young girl as she bore an invisible burden on her skinny shoulders. Cycles of eating came and went parallel to jobs, leaving her thin frame wracked with coughs and shaking from cold and illness. She smokes to help curb her hunger, an unhealthy choice, but one she made to sustain her career. Many models don’t make it after the first
Lost
Shoot. I’m lost again, this time in a mall. I hate how they put the maps in places you couldn’t find without one. No, that nook is not a nice place to hang a poster, I refuse to have to look at an unhealthy model every time I come around this way, trying desperately to find some other direction to go. I can’t even find the food court that is advertised on signs hanging from the ceiling by rubber chains. My shoes squeek against the linoleum as I walk through these halls searching for an out that I can’t seem to find. Eventually I’ll steel my courage and jump through the window, out into the parking lot.
