restless arms and legs

stretched across the couch

he feels the cross beam’s steel

beneath him,

familiar.

The TV keeps him company

in the quiet shifting house,

pulling him through the night

into the next;

identical.

melancholy.

He climbs the stairs sometimes

to investigate strange sounds,

or check on Theo and his little boy

curled up on the bed

in the shape of a question mark.

………..

Francis runs across the street to seven eleven to buy smokes, and they talk. Sebastian stumbling thru his idiot swedish; buying them both another cup of tea; ordering a single espresso for Francis’ return. He watches her eyes hover between the lip of the glass and the fuzzy edges of her bangs; she balances her nose on the edge of the glass, staring off into space. He asks her where she is; t which she replies “mostly here”. He asks “the other fifteen precent?” she smiles knowingly. “space” he says, “yeah, ok”.

He tells her that she’s crazy; and she says “yes, but just enough to work” he laughs. They talks about ritual. tea and the cinema, whiskey. She talks about her mother and father; her mother talking, ceaseless, never reaching a point. Her father, in and out of the hospital mercurial. His most recent visit. Talking to people, laughing, swimming.

Her face reflects his melancholy sense of loneliness.

she seems equally lost; or maybe just to him with his anglophile social retardation and awkward idiot savant child speak.

…………

They walk down Linne, the three of them: Amelia, Francis and Sebastian. Francis stopping at every window in mock excitement; aglow with dreams of whatever ridiculous things he sees; pillow case, vacuum, buda statue. He makes a joke of the reoccurring patterns. A buda statue in every window. Amelia pokes fun saying “it’s a sect, I’m afraid to go to the salon here for fear that they will cut my hair” pointing “like that”. Sebastian says little, unable to keep up with such abstract shadings as sarcasm. he walks a step behind; laughing, he lets his shoulders rub against her as they walk.

In some alternate universe he imagines them, alone walking close, her high heels clicking against the cobblestone sidewalks of a mirror street.

………….

they stare out at the harbor, cruise ships like space vessles, jutting angular out of the cold still water. Francis tells a story while Sebastian looks out at the markers flickering lights; turning, he catches Amelia’s eyes; a knowing smile;

…………..

they walk back towards Jarntorget, and Francis digs an insta-matic camera out of his pocket. Sebastian leans back into her, again cheek to cheek as Francis cajoules them demanding a pose under the sharp street light. Sebastian whispers to her close “c’mon give us a smile”. the camera clicks. a touch. frozen.

…………..

they walk down andra long gatan now. one block, past Jazza and a few old rummy’s drinking in the dark. an abandoned drum kit half erected or demolished beyond the plate glass window a fat lazy zoo animal. they stop at the far end of the street, next to a clothing store. leather and chains, a wall of provacative high heels and boots with shiny stainless steel stems. Francis freestyles something witty and idle. Sebastian rubs his knuckles in the cold ocean air. She tells them, she’ll go up now, she only lives right around the corner. She tells Sebastian that the second floor window around the corner is her’s; He could throw stones at it. She hugs them both goodnight and they walk off into the night. Francis a lean shadow towering at his side, he imagines coming back later while Francis sleeps.

cold clouds drifting

says his favorite tree is the pine tree in the front yard

because the leaves never fall

of the respirator puffing

rocking you to sleep

hand held limp;

My first night on call

I sat shotgun in the hearse

window rolled down

darkness caressing my face

nicked and still bleeding.

That first dead girl was like you

my own age.

Was you.

Laying still,

blankets pulled down around her feet

childlike naked ankles.

So pale like you.

The gloves:

white latex

the illusion of distance.

Summer ebbs, meloncholy night

tying shoelaces

the hush of the funeral.

in your ear

impossible

to know

what is you

what is me

fingers pulsing

between your legs

a second

heartbeat

to be loved by you, held as precious

the alien way in which you could see

the details of everyday

and define them

in the strange methods of your arrangement;

a few gray hairs whisper now

from my beard and temples,

but the face doesn’t speak my age

that cold thing in me

a cosmonaut staring back at the earth

a memory

in the blackness that surrounds everything

circular movements

and silence

screaming down the stairs

pulling me from sleep:

I have to go—I need to go

something happened at the hospital.

He rushes out the door,

car speeding off down the street

dark morning sky

snow and stillness,

the gurgling sound of the fish tank.

One fish swimming alone.

with some devil

turning her tail

into legs

to follow him

a trail of turquoise scales

the color of the ocean

falling away

from his battle worn boat;

she leaves shinning wet footprints

crystals of salt

tying the harbor

to a tiny hidden village

nestled within the stone

crust of the archipelago.

She does not know

what it is that “boys” do,

but her dry lips crack

lifting into a smile

as she imagines his tiny arms

swimming thru the air clumsily.

Each place she passes

whispers to her,

the shape of his world,

a secret name.

on the sofa next to the piano

she sits, a prop.

Hours later

he finds her again

staring at the door in the manner of a cat

expectant.

She walks beside him

bare feet padding silently,

a series of practiced steps

from the elevator to his door.

Days later, still useless

unshaven

he drinks with Theo

New Years Eve behind them

on the screen of a television.

The bartender puts up the chairs,

flicking a switch

launching him stumbling out

to be eaten by taxi

or wander the cold slanted street.

On the bar inside,

one human heart

one dollar in change

and a set of finger prints on an empty glass.

He hears only the sound of his own footsteps.

a nightmare maybe

he rubs sleep from his eyes

I was alone in the ocean

swimming thru the water or the sky

lapping up stars and salt

floating

the sheets stick to the hairs of his legs

I saw you

face framed by a window,

a constellation of stars