h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s

 

 

...............
BRUCE SMITH


.............
SONG OF THE RANSOM OF THE DARK

A neural, feral fix on the beautiful movie face

I went to Vietnam to adopt a kid

like a baby bird imprinted to the worst affliction, havoc, holocaust

I wanted meaning in my life

from my seat in the dark while I sipped a Coke

Poetry had failed me

a movie set, a rear projection, junk

slowly poetry had failed me

it seems. It's where the conversation took place

first as grace, then as skin, then

a back and forth like flame. It is where love came from

as woman as terminal being

as fetish-a thigh, a foot in heels-all of what we wanted

plucked up again and woven

fatality and church and commodity-something about to burst

the way it's supposed to work, to purl and circle

into my lap from my purchase in

you like the mats and baskets of the country a plush paranoia of the glance

the squat huts and women's carrying in the rain

of horror or color in our Wizard of Oz

that's still the third world

or Apocalypse Now Redux; redux

and corrupt as if America wasn't

hard to horrify, hard to please

everyone who speaks my language has bad teeth and

I can't remember in the film why in the first place

a hand out that wants to be greased

the government hired Ingrid Bergman

In the first place what's the word for want

but I remember the head lights and the curve

or want to have where have = pay = name =

the fragment of music, the set of keys

crime = proof of my desperation

the set of keys like coins or slow rain

then I enter a dark room

and a moment when the black white

like a latecomer to a movie

faces are all there are

where there's a table with a can of Coke

an infinitely prolonged walk up the stairways

and a bare bulb that's from a torture scene

dizzying and it's not the horror

I imagine-they say your mother was an American

but the pleasure that can be found daily

and I am broken down in front of

the infinitely prolonged kiss

the small boned men and I must insist

encircling glances, tracking shots, arabesques

in spite of it all I am fit to mother

the one dialect of shadow and the war, the girl

all this because of the failure of

the eye dilated