lunes, marzo 19, 2007

Three Poems From Tommy FitzGibbon

it's good to be going

he came behind a sun of gold, propelled by his broad shoulders,
and opening his weathered hands a beam of light emits, for a moment,
into the eyes of animals. and he walks through a sea of humanity.

and from where he stands he can look out over a horizon that is
one hundred percent flat, when he strikes the ground it is a fire work
or a flower blooming. spirits shoot from his nostrils and whither as leaves.

when passers by are caught in the rain they melt in their dark suits,
fall through grates into networks of drains. this man has been down the
liquid steps, waves of glass break over us.

he folds his fingers around a warm cup, his cup overflows. this disused
radio tower came to life when it received him, the sky was cut open by
sharp airplanes. he lies there listening to the hammers of development.

did you become sick? did you, with your voice, try to signal, or with some
mechanism, a bright light? crawl through the darkness? and did you pound
on the ceiling of your shallow bunk in pain (as if the bones were breaking)?
in its fever was the body overtaken by violent rigor?

so then what mechanisms put you into this clean bed under a warm
blanket, curled? and did the room emit, from the corners, murmurs?

i drink a sticky liquid sweet tasting and soporific. recline in tall grass,
observe clouds of butterflies. i come to a river as wide as it is slow. filtering
loud and soft through the air the sun comes out, catches currents of insects
above its sluggish waters. gaze into flickered foliage and past into bare

i came out of ten big animals their eyes were each different shapes and
colors. i eat flesh, i become one another. the skin is covered in a layer of salt.

their long black legs without joints stretched upwards. through city streets
reflections caught across mirrored monoliths of commerce, billowing.
engulf us in their shadows as they pass us by.

his smile cuts his blank face in two, opening his large mouth an odor
of lilac escapes as if from a prison - i was dozing beneath industry tree,
i heard whispers of an oasis, a winged insect, keys.

which float in and out amidst the generative din of another spilt market

at dusk we sit watching dust roll off mountains, for the day we have
removed our protective eye wear.

he wakes in a patch of light, before him an opening that
frames a stark blue. beyond the threshold sweeps a flock
of small birds. for a moment their twittering has replaced everything.
the sun flows in moats,
falls like wings through the air.

for posy

when i start i often release
a cloud of dense black smoke
disappear into my very distress
and fatten a thinness

find myself in dead hotels
that circulate conditioned air
as sleeping i spill over
my artificial boundaries

say no to death, return
holding the future as a shield
against the gnashing teeth
of the present

but now, on the brink
the teeth have become quiet
and our little house rotates
on the wind

emits warmth, brilliant
clouds etched, swept across
and hung before our window
the connection of two stray wires

and any minute now i fear
they´re going to turn me on
and i´ll smell power
become blind

i just want you to know
that if i go
i wont really be going

we never will be forgiven
for the dogs we leave behind
who as empty vessels
hover in the periphery

but now i cant keep from drifting
towards the complex organs

one day maybe we´ll graze
upon these pastures of plastic
dreamily beneath
the impossible airplanes


sometimes restrained in this room i
go on long walks through my own cities
buildings stand
wheels roll
we buy things
we sell things
we touch each other

once i found myself at night
on an empty street
sheltering myself from a persistent drizzle
by means of some chance overhang

or perhaps it was the middle of the afternoon
and a great rain came that was completely
unexpected so that
everyone forgetting their umbrellas
was squeezed in together
under the same overhang

there was a slightly wild smell in the air
and it was dropping so fast
that it made one long sound
and the street became a river
for a little while

sometimes i sit on the curb of my mind
and watch the cars drive by
of my imagination
they move in both directions and stick to
certain sides of the road
their various shapes reflect their uses
and the forward looking eyes
of their designers

in my grocery stores i shop among ghosts
the food lacks nutrition
and we fill our carts with empty boxes
amidst a profound silence
we stand in long lines
that dont seem to move at all

and i am so happy the places i return to
are always exactly how i left them
and visiting i become the person i was
all the people from my past
are just as they used to be
the dead exist in beautiful precision
my lovers wait behind their doors

now where i am in the dark
solutions are as simple
as reaching for the switch
there will be no more fumbling
a circuit waits to be completed
and bring our small rooms to life
a door knob waits to be turned
so that the outside might spill in
feet wait to walk
eyes wait to see

the body reclined
head resting against a wall
this power manifests itself
through the surfaces we touch
the room is continuously expanding
in my world divisions of prosperity
create zones of intangibility
beggars stand on medians
while vehicles burn past

the machine is diverse to a point
that is unfathomable except that
it always needs fuel

from my pockets a flock of bills
takes flight
sustains me

an environment surrounds me
that will eventually be acquired
while i sleep

Tommy FitzGibbon is a young American living in the Dominican Republic.

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