Zachary Scott Hamilton
Row Boat Wingspan
(i.) ENTER IN WARM GREY
Passion flower is always
               an old photograph rambler
               when on a ship, where spacemen dance
               in tutus,
               blending up their pink frosting
               so we can work on their image in a darkroom-
Piecing umbrellas together
               out of circuitry, and gear motors
               the Ottawa ships drift south,
               on their waxed sails, a black bird,
               sinking through the clouds for a nice atrium,
               or the clock towers, or a barn to scoot up against -
A pearl necklace of nights these ships swarm through,
               lichen creatures,
               to spread the days into a captains half calculated equations -
now songs our team wrote,
               using maps for the details -
(ii.) BUS RIDE
Curved enthusiasm, wrapped along the heart,
               as a coral snake - poised gently beneath shell fish sleep -
A triangular shadow converges into a rug of light
               reflecting laughter in the concrete,
               and a diagonal sunlight erodes away
               at the toilet paper holder,
               back and forth with the pencil markings,
               a paper bird with nails.
Rolling dots, square of earth,
               the neon line
               sprayed in the cobblestone,
               most of them made of black moss,
               climbing to the towers -
hummingbird machine
               berries from a newspaper the man reads,
               slightly green to yellow
               falling off, into their cash machines:
               trucks, throats, Stieglitz in their construction -
parked in a pink Cadillac
               behind Portlandia water fountains,
               shirtless, squeezing their fists -
               Filming their stage -
A cup of coffee and a hidden cloud,
               and a bridge of wires
               behind a hand and a football
               ring - green hat, a small tree,
rolling shadows
               meshed through the street -
               sail boats emerge from within the iron - lurking freight - graffiti letters to the sea.
Giant pillars and silhouettes,
               a design erodes to another -
               Paved, then sunlight curved gently -
               perched in a holiday confusion
of skeletons we were to use as sky,
               but changed tempo- breathed new colors -
new granite sculptures of family-
in line with a reason to soar
               with maple leaves as brushes -
and press the water toward a center,
               and let the sun sculpt her hair into a room of bubble tea -
               You look like your names, maple leaves,
               relaxed to the music, speaking stories into the roots for a brief memory, selected as static.
A wine cellar,
unearthed as Yokohama digs for painted islands,
               and       circuiting for prayer - the final tree into the havens -
               THIS IS THE STORM OF IDEAS
Most overlaid, stacked in rhythm
               To the steps and progression
               Of her hands – the same
               Lined in corn. A gray dove
flies low to inspect in
It’s most delighted and
Tricky camouflage, the bird
               Calls going off above.
               Circles of bass layers,
Eyes folded and looking
               Deeply into the creation
               Of its uncurled hands,
               The same hands, pointing
Towards a self, tucked
               Deeply and smoking a
               Little bit of its voice
Snuck up and exposed.
Pressing in and handing
               Out, folded and talking
               Back all the hairs,
Drawing               attention to a
Camera swinging –
               Clutching and resting
               Ringed and controlling –
Forming around books,
               Plants they are, dancing –
               Operated, and operating –
Hands held high and
               Delivering
_
And through     a window
               Fingers woven in double,
               Their flooded                brains –
Glass towers, where
The socket wrench
               Is               god        and        light
               Hangs in a canopy
And children dance
Very well, shimmies,
               Stomps, hair that is
               A flame without meaning,
arms dusting at the
               air, throwing the
               air a      football and
tugging down the
               oars –
               a socket wrench
is               king     here in
the skylight               motel,
               all circuits will
               whisper the planet has
woven together and
               now we must dance
like glory hasn’t
               met       us       yet
               in        a       dream –
(iii.) ROW BOAT WINGSPAN
The machine tubes bundled into a context that could be explained as figure eight and venom, a collected serpent running into tracks.
Since running of its tracks in South Dakota, the rainbow apparatus, rented to me from the community college has been caught in the crossfire of winds coming off of the pacific ocean. I drink a concoction of the Russian alphabet, and Swahili – a mix of Tennessee and splitting hairs –
Inside the robe as setting, my piece of work appears before me, in my velvet dressing room –
The train, sixty cars from south Havre, to North Dakota (something like that,) stretched like a shiver in a photocopy goes by – A witch, hungover, sleeps on her old broom, and flies through the windows, laughing light speed, even in her haggard sleep –
A team of analysts try conceiving of hair, tearing back the instincts they all tend to have about hair, and instead conceiving of “it” as a notion –
Overgrown brush by the railway, as I am stood near the tracks, are pulled up by hand. I begin to swallow them with lunch – I roll the diamonds around inside my velvet robe – gum in hand, mustache me –
Shrugging off the dream in front, I am now lurching forward, toward you.
You are the environments “escalator of my nausea” as it were – you are my nostalgia, and my nightingale, with a row boat wingspan –
The only phrase you seem to understand is the one written over the walls of this city, and reads as follows
“Grow food, stickers!”
Now glazed in the suns reflection, the kind that warps windows into eatable language, i.e. the four way window pane of the sixties –
I get a head full off these buildings, my face for walls – my sash for streets that I can fling aside vehicles with, the ants and spiders –
But, I think as I walk away, do not give up –
(iv.) POSTURE
Her gold fish silhouette of hair
               curls
               fallen leaves to the sidewalk,
               in the edges there
a sunlight sinking into the veins of the cities, like leaves, they climb into the root, like
               skeleton branches turning a century by the mouths, full of cellphone wires, dark cable
               communicating to spit away texture. Pathways of our collecting machines, pull in stems,
               and seeds, through a Hi cube, run down along its chassis –
A fifteen minute long exposure,
               a lifetime searching through mazes of guitar strings
               and keys on the piano, to select our ceiling – a floor and entry way into her body
Zachary Scott Hamilton articles appear in: The Portland Review, HOUSEFIRE, and Trigger Fish. You can follow him in these places, darlings:
previous page     contents     next page
Row Boat Wingspan
(i.) ENTER IN WARM GREY
Passion flower is always
               an old photograph rambler
               when on a ship, where spacemen dance
               in tutus,
               blending up their pink frosting
               so we can work on their image in a darkroom-
Piecing umbrellas together
               out of circuitry, and gear motors
               the Ottawa ships drift south,
               on their waxed sails, a black bird,
               sinking through the clouds for a nice atrium,
               or the clock towers, or a barn to scoot up against -
A pearl necklace of nights these ships swarm through,
               lichen creatures,
               to spread the days into a captains half calculated equations -
now songs our team wrote,
               using maps for the details -
(ii.) BUS RIDE
Curved enthusiasm, wrapped along the heart,
               as a coral snake - poised gently beneath shell fish sleep -
A triangular shadow converges into a rug of light
               reflecting laughter in the concrete,
               and a diagonal sunlight erodes away
               at the toilet paper holder,
               back and forth with the pencil markings,
               a paper bird with nails.
Rolling dots, square of earth,
               the neon line
               sprayed in the cobblestone,
               most of them made of black moss,
               climbing to the towers -
hummingbird machine
               berries from a newspaper the man reads,
               slightly green to yellow
               falling off, into their cash machines:
               trucks, throats, Stieglitz in their construction -
parked in a pink Cadillac
               behind Portlandia water fountains,
               shirtless, squeezing their fists -
               Filming their stage -
A cup of coffee and a hidden cloud,
               and a bridge of wires
               behind a hand and a football
               ring - green hat, a small tree,
rolling shadows
               meshed through the street -
               sail boats emerge from within the iron - lurking freight - graffiti letters to the sea.
Giant pillars and silhouettes,
               a design erodes to another -
               Paved, then sunlight curved gently -
               perched in a holiday confusion
of skeletons we were to use as sky,
               but changed tempo- breathed new colors -
new granite sculptures of family-
in line with a reason to soar
               with maple leaves as brushes -
and press the water toward a center,
               and let the sun sculpt her hair into a room of bubble tea -
               You look like your names, maple leaves,
               relaxed to the music, speaking stories into the roots for a brief memory, selected as static.
A wine cellar,
unearthed as Yokohama digs for painted islands,
               and       circuiting for prayer - the final tree into the havens -
               THIS IS THE STORM OF IDEAS
Most overlaid, stacked in rhythm
               To the steps and progression
               Of her hands – the same
               Lined in corn. A gray dove
flies low to inspect in
It’s most delighted and
Tricky camouflage, the bird
               Calls going off above.
               Circles of bass layers,
Eyes folded and looking
               Deeply into the creation
               Of its uncurled hands,
               The same hands, pointing
Towards a self, tucked
               Deeply and smoking a
               Little bit of its voice
Snuck up and exposed.
Pressing in and handing
               Out, folded and talking
               Back all the hairs,
Drawing               attention to a
Camera swinging –
               Clutching and resting
               Ringed and controlling –
Forming around books,
               Plants they are, dancing –
               Operated, and operating –
Hands held high and
               Delivering
_
And through     a window
               Fingers woven in double,
               Their flooded                brains –
Glass towers, where
The socket wrench
               Is               god        and        light
               Hangs in a canopy
And children dance
Very well, shimmies,
               Stomps, hair that is
               A flame without meaning,
arms dusting at the
               air, throwing the
               air a      football and
tugging down the
               oars –
               a socket wrench
is               king     here in
the skylight               motel,
               all circuits will
               whisper the planet has
woven together and
               now we must dance
like glory hasn’t
               met       us       yet
               in        a       dream –
(iii.) ROW BOAT WINGSPAN
The machine tubes bundled into a context that could be explained as figure eight and venom, a collected serpent running into tracks.
Since running of its tracks in South Dakota, the rainbow apparatus, rented to me from the community college has been caught in the crossfire of winds coming off of the pacific ocean. I drink a concoction of the Russian alphabet, and Swahili – a mix of Tennessee and splitting hairs –
Inside the robe as setting, my piece of work appears before me, in my velvet dressing room –
The train, sixty cars from south Havre, to North Dakota (something like that,) stretched like a shiver in a photocopy goes by – A witch, hungover, sleeps on her old broom, and flies through the windows, laughing light speed, even in her haggard sleep –
A team of analysts try conceiving of hair, tearing back the instincts they all tend to have about hair, and instead conceiving of “it” as a notion –
Overgrown brush by the railway, as I am stood near the tracks, are pulled up by hand. I begin to swallow them with lunch – I roll the diamonds around inside my velvet robe – gum in hand, mustache me –
Shrugging off the dream in front, I am now lurching forward, toward you.
You are the environments “escalator of my nausea” as it were – you are my nostalgia, and my nightingale, with a row boat wingspan –
The only phrase you seem to understand is the one written over the walls of this city, and reads as follows
“Grow food, stickers!”
Now glazed in the suns reflection, the kind that warps windows into eatable language, i.e. the four way window pane of the sixties –
I get a head full off these buildings, my face for walls – my sash for streets that I can fling aside vehicles with, the ants and spiders –
But, I think as I walk away, do not give up –
(iv.) POSTURE
Her gold fish silhouette of hair
               curls
               fallen leaves to the sidewalk,
               in the edges there
a sunlight sinking into the veins of the cities, like leaves, they climb into the root, like
               skeleton branches turning a century by the mouths, full of cellphone wires, dark cable
               communicating to spit away texture. Pathways of our collecting machines, pull in stems,
               and seeds, through a Hi cube, run down along its chassis –
A fifteen minute long exposure,
               a lifetime searching through mazes of guitar strings
               and keys on the piano, to select our ceiling – a floor and entry way into her body
Zachary Scott Hamilton articles appear in: The Portland Review, HOUSEFIRE, and Trigger Fish. You can follow him in these places, darlings:
infii.weebly.com
www.zachabstract.blogspot.com
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home