Zachary Scott Hamilton

Row Boat Wingspan


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
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 –


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 –


Her gold fish silhouette of hair
                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:
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