Veronica Giuliani

[9 July 2019]

hot winds off desert sands
cool in cathedral shade
vineyards and canals and hopscotch
sheep graze in fields
queen kneels before her throne once more

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Trellis [a character sketch]

[8 July 2019]

He sits there, on the park bench overlooking the lake. His legs swing back and forth, absentmindedly, not quite touching the ground.
It’s summer. The lake water and the sweat and the dew and the water in the air mingle back and forth, exchanging themselves with one another, condensing on empty bottles and dark windows and skin, reaching a holy homoeostasis.
It’s dark.

She lies there next to him on the bench, her head in his lap, his small coat on her body, bright green and yellow and purple and racecars against her denim shirt. Her eyes closed. Her hair tangled and damp.
The air smells of freshwater and moss and long grass.
Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.

He feels her, her warmth, the rise and fall of her chest, the moisture from the dew and her breath seeping through the leg of his shorts and onto his skin.
It’s still dark.

A wave breaks against the shore, spraying foam and mist on his face and in his eyes, becoming brackish. He wipes it away with his left hand. His right hand strokes her head.
Her weight bears heavy on him. His leg is growing numb, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t seem to mind.
Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.
Just keep the blood flowing.

Kick kick.

He takes off his shirt. Dinosaurs. He folds it up into a ball, gently lifts up her head, slides out from under her, and rests her head on the pillow.

Blood rushes back in to his legs.

A breeze blows through. Cool air. Dry air. Washing over his skin. Soaking into his lungs. Washing away the sweat and the grime.
He looks to his right. She stirs a little in her sleep. Her head is cold. She reaches out for him.

He touches her hand, gently holding it in both of his own. She calms, and he puts her hand under his jacket, still on her chest. He strokes her hair from time to time, feels the wind and the water against his body, waiting expectantly, watching the skyline as single star appears and the surface of the water changes from dark to white to gold.

Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.

The Rock of Horeb

I thought that there was time to do the things I needed to do. I thought I needed time to do the things I needed to do. I thought I needed to do time. I thought I needed to do the things time needed to do. I thought there was needed to do. I thought I was I. While you wait, may I suggest the pomegranate?

CANTO III

Maybe he will come out of this feeling something. Maybe. He will come. This feeling. Maybe he will come out. Of this feeling. Maybe he. Will. Come of this. Maybe something will come. Of this.
Maybe.
This.
Feeling.
Will.
Something.

Something red and cold and spreading. Doubtful. There could be a similarity between this and that. Something could come of it. He said. To someone.
Something.
Said something. To someone. Feeling someone. Doubtful. Feeling doubtful. Feelings of something. He felt something. Felt this. He felt this.
And that.
Felt this and that.
Maybe.
Maybe he felt this.
Something red.
Feelings spreading red.

THE REALISATION

I think there’s something on my arm.
Yes there is.
No there’s not.
Yes there is.
No there’s not.
They said there was.
I disagree.
They agree you disagree.
You say no.
No there is.
Yes there is not.
It’s in my arm.
It’s on my arm.
Your arm or my arm.
There isn’t time for this.

If you like what I have to say, why do you run away? The parlour room is just as cold. The innermost outermost stripped of garlands and blue bonnets. Nothing shocks me anymore. First and yesterday. The kilo is heavier. Yesterday than it was. Something feeling heavier. The arm feels heavier. And cold. Just as cold and heavier. He is feeling cold. The outermost is stripped and cold. The innermost is blue bonnets.

Touch the softnesses.
An illusion.
An allusion of softnesses.
You grabbed me there.
Pretty boy.
I found you.
You eat filet mignon and grape leaves every day.
There isn’t time.
I thought there was.
You thought there was.
Have a try.
Try. Cry. Cry on my tie. The dishes are clean and not likely to cry. Sigh. Lick the dishes clean.
Prelude to conclusion.
No or whenever.
Birth by conclusion.
Everything goes away.
Ground dirt and glass.
Spreading into the saliva.
Saliva on the bathtub floor.
Down the drain.
Feelings down. The drain. Something down the drain.
Birth time down the drain.
I can birth an illusion in the intermission.

                       A SCENE FROM MY MEMORY.

This is what happened. I saw you. And I lost you. There was a goat. A goat and rain. Many people went to see the goat. I did not. You did not. You did nt. You did but then you did not. There was rain. The goat was raining and wet. Windy and raining and wet. You were the goat. Feeling something. You came out. To see the goat. But it was wet and windy. Consequently, it was a lonely goat. A dark night. With stars. Even though many people saw the goat. We were dissatisfied with the decision. The goat had spots. Ground dirt and grass. If you meant to share what you saw, you were feeling something.

Somehow I meant to say something.
Maybe he will come.
We and I meant to make the decision. The plate is still full.
You look good in a dark shirt.
You look good in a dark pants.
You look good in a dark mood.
You look good in less than a dark shirt.
You look good in less than a dark pants.
You look good in less than not a dark mood.
If you look good in the black pants you’ll like the black shirt.
You should just come out and say it.
I saw them last night.
It was storming.
You see the need for me to share what I saw.

I can attest to the attestation. I can. I can. Attest. To the devastation. You intended to attest to the devastation, but it was storming. The devastation looks good on you. I attest. You protest. I am not who you think I am.

Saint Anthony has something to say about that, all dressed in the dark shirt and the red shirt and the attestation. I can carry all that. Nothing unordinary about that. A star and a moon but not less than a way of life.

         FROSTBITE

.. . . . . …AĄBCĆDEĘFGHIJKLŁMNŃOÓPQRSŚTUVWXYZŻ

Can’t you see the difference? They’re not really the same at all. I smell the attestation. Not to be displeased.

Devastation is feeling something. You will feel something different. Maybe.

As wind rustles in long ríver grass

[2 July 2019]

As wind rustles in long ríver grass,
And settles ín dens and lilies and breast;
As róots spríng, dig deep down and hóld tíght, always guest
When sun mingles with water in glass
And pools in quiet places, in the deep, in the crevásse,
In pass through in journey to sun’s nest,
Blessed ánd dressed as a flutter of sparrows in vest
Of violets and coal and ember and spróut gréen at Sunday mass:

So, too, is your name to me. Your name is the cloud that breaks,
The cool of your hand on my face, your name:
The touch of moonlight against the hill, the kiss préssed on lakes
And breezes and aches to draw nearer. Your name rises in the sáme
Sóng of child’s wonder as bird takes flight and wakes
In last lights of night and búrsts forth ín flame.

The Givenness of Longing

[1 July 2019]

Midsummer midnight air is a sacredness all its own –
The last relics of era when bygones were still being forged,
Cradled in the halls of the forebears of the now,
Suspended in the intransitory,
Illuminating the hale tongue and the meek spirit: not fire,
Not frost, but a light unique to itself and to you.
It moves, and you move: a living being, a bloom
Without awareness of its own self; free. The unimpeachable
Longing borne of love and liberty and ordinary time.

If I saw you again, would I recognise you?
Knowing what you know and seeing what you’ve seen
And knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen,
Can we ever say that we are the same people we were?
Moments are built, one on top of the other, like sandstone
Or cake or brick. The roots search for water but come up dry.
The end of the journey is the same as the start: not knowing
What you have or what you came for, but knowing that you must,
Inevitably, start – moved past all semblance of mortality and temporality
(Each of its own will being stripped of transcendence, turning to moth and moss and must –
A crown, battered and worn and drowned but still retaining its jewels: sight and desire –
The dual orbs, the satellites, that lie just outside the realm of comprehension
And serve no purpose other than pushing into something beyond themselves),
In the claws of the tundra or the jaws of democracy.

Even so, there are places that remain unchanged,
Untouched by the passage of time and chance
(Even when the hallowed halls of memory warp with wear
And develop unsightly treads we can’t seem to avoid).
There is their purpose – an ikigai demarcated out since before time
Made a name for itself: something more than vapid
Curiosity or a mishmash of verbiage designed to delude. Selfhood is
Something to be attained, never grasped, nor altered with the alterer.
I find you still in the dusking shallows, the holy mnemonics of the lake at night,
The valse to things that can never be undone, (nor would we ever choose to).
We lay down our swords and our palm branches and our trench coats
And take up the inevitable pastime of being circuitous,
Harvesting the crop we planted long before we knew how to remember,
While the river flows wide under the shadow of the steeple,
Running grain and melting wine and smelting stars of bloody flesh.

The Last Rite of Irenaeus

[28 June 2019]

Let us go back to the time of porcelain bowls and clay pots –
The evening sky stretched above us like Indra’s net
(A time not yet known, but sounded down through a known,
Winding and wounding and weaving together
Somethings that meant nothing less than everything on their own)
The night stretched out before us like Hippolyta’s belt:
Streets with roads and ways that fork and branch red
And blue and green and you.

Dew lingers on the doorknob
Gathering greatnesses
Condensing longings
Distilling desire down to its finest point.
You reach out to turn the key;
Your hand is not wet.

Somewhere between tea time and two,
Your face will appear in the mirror, shocked;
Juxtaposed between an already and a not yet,
Strung out and stratified along the contours of the window frame,
Calling to mind a certain figure, awaiting her fate
(Loom in hand, though half as worthy) for the final note to play.

The image splits, doubles,
Doubles down, doubles in on itself.
The head splits from the neck,
The seed from the vine.

It is in that moment, when the history of our deeds
Is re-opened and rolled out before us (like a forgotten scarf
Embroidered with a name so old you can scarce recall that
Your name is the one written there)
You’ll turn to me in that moment and say
Is it really true that all our journeyings and our wanderings
Have amounted to no more than this?
I’ll smile. A wan smile. Worn and wanting, but warm.
No more than this, I’ll say;
No more, but certainly no less.

This post was reblogged at
Truth Troubles

Mnemosyne

[27 June 2019]

and so you live
here in the waiting and the wanting
the quiet murmur
the sigh
the hush that falls over the house at 2 am after sunday nights
doing
over and over and over again
on the silver screen
seeing
the ritual
crushed in silence between two colliding bodies
drawing
deep from the well never know
replaying
binary
time and time again and time when
magic made meaning
the thread worn bare
and the shush shush still lingers on the edge of your lips long after the sound has died out –
the things we carry with us
carry us instead

June [a character sketch]

[22 May 2019]

June.

The warm air floats by gently carried by a cool undercurrent and the scent of water.

She sits there, eyes closed, shoulders dropped, face glowing and shaded by her wide-brimmed straw hat she bought years ago from the shop down the street. She breathes in. The air fills her lungs with the smell of moss and dampness and sunlight.

She breathes out and props her arms behind her, fingernails digging into the earth and the earth creeping under her fingertips. Her hair loose and tangled and catching sticky on the back of her neck; her legs stretched out like a canvas for the sun to paint darker shades.

A sudden gust of wind appears and snatches her hat whoosh off her head. She looks behind her and stretches her arm backward to catch it and leans and leans and leans and brushes it with the tip of her fingers but it is snatched out of her reach and she falls backward, held in a bower of cool earth and grass.

She lies there for a while. Eyes closed. Watching the shape of the clouds passing over her eyelids.

She breathes in. And laughs.

The sun hangs low in the sky. Blues turning to reds and golds and purples.

She smiles and gathers up her things:
A blanket, red and white checks
A bottle of green tea, now warm
A set of china and plastic forks and knives, cleaned off in the water.

She throws the crust of the sandwich to the ducks nearby and packs up the rest in her wicker picnic basket, grabs her cane, straightens up, and walks towards her car, stopping by the plum tree where the last of the incense has burned down. She stands there for a long time. She smiles. Happy birthday, she says softly. Then she bends down, picks up the portrait, blows the dust and dirt off, and sticks it in her picnic basket on top of the china and the plastic forks and knives before making her way into the car and driving off into the deepening night.