Nicholas Bon

At a Cinematic Distance, the Machine is Just a Machine

...until a clumsy ballet / then a memory
a rewinding / light resting
in the corners / of a new geometry
a path cut through / static and excuse
no bridge to erect / over inevitable routine
only as electric / as biology dictates
rising storms / hands as now pale tools
once cast in gold / and thrown like well
wishes to the sea / building pyramids
while clothed / in flowers
sweet songs sutured / to delicate lips
each disappointing / star reassembled
no shangri-la, no mess / of stars about our faces
no boom, no grip / on the steeple
this rusted amphitheater / this song for the angels
an armada / under wilted tongue
finally lilacs stitched / to faded lining
the constant hum / this tired smile
everything pulsing / in stereo energy
hair grown long / over mysterious fields
a glowing mess of ice / formed into sheets
the storm drains / & sunburned faces
everything blue / & humming
angelic birdcall / voices speak in code
like the night / & buzzing static
telephone outlining / the barriers of our house
crown of thorns / & water
window / & its curtain
we’re behind it now / dressed in awful machinery
laughing laughing / laughing laughing
these static spirits / encoded in night
a warning upon the water / a delicate incantation


clutching root to broken bone

ghost to soil; we're under it all,

throwing electric wing to the wind.

kiss me, kiss me you yellow parakeet

at the bottom of this terrible ocean

I am only as pale as you are

Brakhage in Autumn

           all electric in
           our palms                                 darling


darling           the water
darling the
                                              under terrible tree
                                              light epiphany

                          hands subtly over                water

                                              sequence now forgotten

       sounds every
                                     body stealing everybody

jackie says it's just a minute
      says it's just                that

                                         june my hair           is long
                                        june           my tired smile

                  elvis the air elvis         the stars
            a maze of burnt      windows

                                                           a car

on fire                    but not a promise
                               i map the air

currents                     with precision

                picking hand
                                    -fuls of flowers
                or a mount

                     me always a bride
-smaid never a wildflower

           me with this out         -ward face

Nicholas Bon lives in an inconsequential town in the American Southeast. He edits Epigraph Magazine. You can find two of his poems in West Wind Review, and you can visit him online at www.nicholasbon.com.
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