Dug these up while looking through some old files… ahh I still like ‘em.
the space between
Christopher Olberding is a nation.
Christopher Olberding was Charles de Gaulle’s sails
on his way to Algeria,
And on the return to Paris, his cap.
Most will never see him,
Inferring his existence through his acts,
The martyrdom of Paul,
Europe giving way to the States.
I met him once,
shortly after Arend Lijphart and George Tsebelis
Got through with him.
They left him infinitely small
and composed only of theory and numbers,
a subset of everything and painfully boring.
Next year he’s thinking of taking up chess
Or music. He told me he’s giving up the business.
He’s tired of the dictatorship of the mind or the act.
He left me his card, printed on top was his name,
Below, his new address: the space between.
Camus’ Cigarettte
Accoutrement to your frown or smile,
Limply dangles in dejection, firmly hailing in assertion,
A Freudian fate for the early weaned,
doubles as baton if either creativity or crisis demand it
and aids in the prevention of undue post-coitus dally,
essential to both Mersault and Meursault,
convenient currency in certain circles or as a five-minute hourglass
stylishly accessorizing your meal, coffee and conversation,
the shaft allows proxy kisses with men, women, strangers and relatives,
the tip customizes furniture and upholstery;
this densely packed contrary whistle, flicked carelessly with thumb
or precisely with forefinger
is best in morning, worst when sick.
Microtheater
A brown man is the subject or speaker in
a dream I am not in.
Fog crowds in towards the shore
where the sand is graying with the tide.
Remember: this is not navigation but
dreaming; nothing changes.
The man approaches,
I ready the designers,
wet paint on fingernails,
the stagehands.
They watch as he steps
off the ship and I give the word.
The ropes are pulled, the brushes dance.
Colors supersaturate and illuminate
so that every shade and person are given new names:
stiline, deserant, bliss, Exene;
we take our bow against
the growing sea as he wakes.
Unfinished Shakespearean Sonnet
Be still, my love, let thee not fear consume,
Though ill wind’s rank hangs heavily stale.
The shadows and corners of these fouled rooms
Do best their nature, in failing excel.
In fairer fields, thy fairness bright would stay
And conquer Nature’s beauty as thy own.
Yet death and drought, still finds, holding no sway,
Speech in sweet words, born in love, said alone.