(3) cigarette rolled by hand, match struck on a windy day. Do you know my fate? (2) cigarette rolled by hand, match with a box of bees, there is a rolled up dollar too, like a paper hat, maybe I put it there for luck. (1) I know I should not smoke, cancer and all. The hand rolled tobacco is just a splurge I have when I am painting. So I can think for a moment and step away. I had two matches left. It was a windy day. On the second match, I thought, "I better take this seriously."
(2) He almost stole a peach, sitting there, he nearly took it from the stack, escaping and not looking back. Yet something held him back. So he backed up, and went down the street, toward the sound of music, where people danced and gave him food to eat. He had stumbled upon a block party. Pounds of food, much heavier than a single piece of fruit.
(1)
You said you almost stole a peach?
Yeah I had it all figured out, my escape route.
Your escape route?
Yes I saw it sitting there.
So what happened?
I didn't take it.
You didn't take it?
No.
Then what?
I walked down the street.
You walked down the street.
I heard music.
---
I got there and it was this block party.
Tons of food and people, dancing.
Dancing people?
Yes.
They fed you.
Yes, more than I could eat for days.
---
Good thing you didn't take that peach.
Yes.
You never know what life has in store for you.
Background: This is a story told to me by my friend S.M., embellished only slightly.
what is it?
And who the heeccck needs it?
Dream bath
electric neuron mirror
string of water
running across a mirror
turn it sideways
it's the silk of a spider's web
in your hands like cat's cradle
cover your eyes
make a mask
see through the lace
breathe.
That's lucidity.
Allow me to elaborate
to confiscate the shadows
and the self doubt dancing
underneath the bridges
Allow me to make clear
the dingy fabric of your curtains
the windows of your
mind
your stained glass
church.
Allow me to wear white
not black like last Tuesday
and to play the blues
with tapshoes
on your anger's
salty grave.
Allow me to stop--lest
I get too dark and
dreary
I've buried all the
garbage and the
junk cars
and rented a small bar
in Philadelphia.
Poem and photos by Hannah Frank
The taxis and the saxophones are loose
if beauty waits a week then I could sleep
the smoke break of the suicidal man
the galleries display the desperate skin
gorillas eating rubies by the fist
The modern man, he takes in all of this
The sheepish and the meek will dance in arms
the strong and fierce will fight and bruise
The peddlers and the popes both ask for change
politicans bite you like vampires
The firehydrants foaming at the lips
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Bikinis leaning on the lambs while lions spit
Believe the preacher the pews are made of oak
It is desperately hot without a fan
Our electricity is half dead yet zipping, crunch!
Dip the ink pens in
swimming pools of supersonic myth
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Dressed in rags, the fiddler hides his eyes
Yet his music blends in with the motors
The dreary cypress tress of New Orleans
they poke out of my skin like bayonets
The darkest nights shed skin and hold no bliss
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Plumbing and paperwork, cloaks soaked in acid
Ceiling fans decapitated pigeons, it was a hawk
The snow is tattered yet pure white from the sky
The four horsemen read the for rent signs
belive me, it doesn't do any good
when they show up, there goes the neighborhood
Optimism missed the evening train
Yet the sun will rise with fury while neon blinks
To the passerby, by chance, need a lift?
The modern man, he takes in all of this
Poem and photos by Hannah Frank
Forever flipped the finger to the present and the past
The whole of existence in the bottle and the blast
The effervescent sentiment that bubbled in my blood
Had kicked my bucket of ashes and strewn them in the mud
Hark! Slow angel, beat against my chest like a dove
Dark! Swallow me whole, cover me like a glove
There is no silence left, in the pine trees
we are covered in birds
softly cooing
and singing
their righteous
songs.
7)
6)
Rain drops patter, parroting each other
A conversation muted in the mist
Ships roll in, it's just the storms of summer
Hide the sun with echoes, windy, brisk.
5)
The patter of rain drops parroted each other, in a poetry that grew, timpani sounding as the storm rolled in echoing shades of grey, blocking out the sun.
4)
The patter of rain drops parroted each other, in a poetry that grew, in echoing shades of grey, blocking out the sun.
3)
The sky heaved and sighed, in a single moment the singing rain was born. The timpani pounded its fists in the clouds, shaking, tears came to my eye. The patter of rain drops parroted each other, in a poetry that grew, in echoing shades of grey, blocking out the sun.
2)
The moment made before the rain was born
Stopping to listen, my old heart like a drum
Timpani pounded, and gathered the storm
echoing greys, blocking out the bright sun
-
Your poet's parrot, perched on one corner
of the cage, he sits there, across from me
Your coffee's growing colder by the hour
You bide your time repeating memories
-
Hanging in the wind, a scent on the breeze
You smell it slow then fast and your nose snorts
A sneeze releases the flying trapeeze
Your hands reach out to me but I fall short
-
I would not plan a trip, climbing uphill
Yet storm clouds gather at the window sill.
1)
The moment right before the rain was born
I stopped, my heart beating like an old drum
Cramping like timpani, gathering storms
echoing greys, blocking out the bright sun
Your poet's beret, perched on one corner
of your mind as you sit across from me
Your coffee's growing colder by the hour
thoughts are racing and then one takes the lead
Hanging in the air like a swung trapeeze
My hands reach out but I am falling short
I catch the smell of flowers on the breeze
As I plan out my slow and rough retort
I would not plan this, nor take it like pills
The moment before, at the window sill.
Hot stampede came over the horizon
The cactus and the cowboys both were sharp
Dim rays of daylight smoked behind the sun
Entering first my eyes and then my heart
Coffee made on the fire, in a can
The buffalo and the railroad roared
Brown wise leather face of the Native man
Progress is pounding, knocking at the door
Revolution stopped just short, pocket watch
in the old town square can tell us the time
The gold rock in the river that he touched
He thought he was rich but it was a crime
They came selling snake oil, and playing cards
The outlaw is now pensive, at the bar.
1)
Smoke and ghosts sailing across the sidewalk, like a snake, as the snow came in. Wet, fluffy flakes were face-biting, beautiful and mysterious.
2)
Smoky trails from ghosts racing across the sidewalk, like ships rushing to the horizon. The cold front had been stalking us, her cornflower blue haze had been hanging as the west wind announced her arrival.
3)
Smoking ghosts sailing across the sidewalk, slithering sideways and racing like misty ships towards the horizon
4)
Fluffy flakes bit my face as slithering ghosts and smoky mist raced toward the horizon at my feet like snakes rushing to escape.
5)
Smoking ghosts blew snowflakes into my face, biting skin and sending snakes racing across the sidewalk, white and misty.
6)
Smoking ghosts exhaled. Lacy mist slithered sideways like snakes across the sidewalk trying to escape the west wind and race to the horizon of the cold cornflower blue sky. The wet snow bit my face. The effect was beautiful, and mysterious.