Fox Travels Light

There could have been a new swan-necked Juno
beneath the thinning veneer of that pale blue pool
a popping lung, a lazy eyed surprise,
the spastic gasp of a sudden entry, re-entry
before it all ices over again, catches the sun all wrong
revealing sheets of Braille,
hardly as bright as Rouault’s ancient oils
or the slow motion crumble
of frigid star constellations
construed as carbuncles, treated with mercury,
freeze and watch this atrophy
graceless figure 8’s and the sharp flinch
of an ill-knit scar
as it remembers itself, us too, too soon –
measures us in discounted rain
never straight or true
still we drink it down and continue to feel empty
the void never glistens.

Were you ripened on dog-strangling vine?
did you wipe out every last wildflower?
poison the soil,
all of those stories stymied by your hideous strength,
they once steeped and rose up like dreams there
until you pricked that thin skinned balloon
wire-hangered that infant-eyed dream/womb
now it’s all just the bright garland of dead honeybees
stinging nothing in the muck and mud
a souvenir, a savage thread of your easy nihilism
dark as your eyes –
the Mesa Verde on a three coyote night
surely whore’s dream cold.

Howl. Howl. Howl.

Over stolen boxed burgundy wine
under a plugged-in sun, skin turning orange,
we sang our ballads
both relevant and irrelevant
equal part sybarite and philistine
and after the seventh sign
in memory of black and white
you passed for pretty
full and pale –
Gwathmey’s autumn bouquet
a slightly bruised arrangement.

All that heat mirage motion
and swirls of spilled tiger’s milk
a debutante’s awkward first facial
the Comanche laughter of the camera –
a loud, stupid war whoop,
rather than the quiet harsh truth –
a frangible halo in her eye
soon to shatter
in blocks of vague space
in dense tangle of tongue;

she almost passed for poetry.

I see full on night here
parallels of the fox
a noble, clever beast
with a racing heart
she always travels light
dips her swift paws
into the gore
of the animal she wounds
runs red circles around trees,
throws the hounds off her trail;

cunning, beautiful creature
the hunters sleep tonight
your freedom, a stranger,
known only to them in dreams.




TAUROMACHY IN A CHINA SHOP



when her brain feels bullet seared – wall splattered –
like Hemingway’s final take on Pollock
and her thoughts ricochet through this rubber room
she leans with the shadows
as if to mourn
her pupils pinned

and the spotlight may as well be
a selective searchlight
it misses her every time

and the sand dips
i.v. drips
down that breath blown glass
soft as she pretends to be

the level of surrender
could almost be
a new, purer kind of pornography

then the sand catches her in the eye, in the act
it stings, it sparks, it makes her feel alive

it’s a slow burning charge
it’s tauromachy in a china shop
it’s too tough for tears

she thinks:
must I keep skinning myself alive for this?

walks over to the three-way mirror
hoping that some part of her still sparkles
she’d like to see a blazing fire exit sign
she’d like to meet her own eye
but she won’t, she can’t,
no surprises tonight

she puts her face on there
another mask
another mirror
inside a dirt cheap motel room
dim Japanese neon
stiletto silhouettes
a beauty that presses too hard
blows a fuse

now she’s out on the avenue
in the sewer steam slipstream
moving like an endangered feline
through gilded traps
and Darwinian rings of fire

blue smoke and gargoyles
spires that puncture the night sky
its filament thin skin
not unlike hers

she’s a graceful geisha,
an untouchable bird,
a hangman’s daughter,
she could give a flying fuck

she sees their famished alien eyes
all electric fire lust
inside the cars that cruise by
slowly, languidly, in soft focus

it all seems like a dream sequence
until one stops –

dig the driver’s aviator shades
who the fuck does he think he is, Corey Hart?
buzz cut and a Village People wet leather cop moustache
marinated smile and execrable jazz leaking out of the speakers
real bad juju

she feels the heat
as his left hand motions
strangler’s hand
ring finger tan line
he speaks perfectly clipped English
it sounds stupid – forced
community college crap
no place for it here

she pirouettes clumsily – a ballerina on valium –
and walks over to the pay phone
remnants of a happy meal smeared all over it
it stinks like crack baby shit
she nearly vomits as she pretends to make a call
imagining a pimp that looks like Venus Flytrap

Corey Hart rolls up his window
turns up the ac, the smooth jazz,
and merges with traffic,
with the night

she breathes a deep sigh of relief
catches her reflection in the chrome face plate
wonders what they see
knows what they don’t

she places the greasy phone
back down into its cradle
lights a cigarette
just to watch it burn
all bright, beautiful and stupid
all the way down until it’s gone.




Tempo Rubato



I. Falconer’s Arm

an arm of black falcons
reaches down from the pale pit of sky
each one ringing its talons
and you can smell harbingers of hard rain
heavy in this hostile summer air
near impossible to breathe, it’s almost a solid,
yearns to be burned for fuel
as our lungs collapse
like spoiled tabbies into affable laps
still dignified, despite this.

the shadow has been weaved
it covers the impersonal interstate
and darks out the sun
leans toward the jagged point
well past the falling rock warning and deer crossing signs
the guardrails and mile markers
it provides a somber moment of privacy
to the sad shells of animals drawn here by headlights
only to be eviscerated by another one of man’s traps
the strong odor of their spilled guts
reminding us just how weak our own are.

the shadow considers all things past the precipice
it knows no scorn for these depths,
so it takes the time to plumb the abyss,
the falcons send their pensive eyes into it, luminous obsidian,
report back that the darkness can be the brightest light
when its hideous strength is harnessed
the way a quixotic optimist’s hopes often are
even while tilting at windmills.

somewhere the music finally suits the mood.

II. the Moth and the Flame

this shadow, its purpose and movement
it’s a story that could be a song
where a man on his death bed
is visited in his final hour by a moth
drawn to the anxious flame of a candle
beside him on the nightstand
its weak flicker compliments this sickness
the moribund man sees the enlarged shadow of the moth
assisted by the candle’s empathetic light
as the advent of his guardian angel
his heart drums with joy
as death claims his eyes.

the shadow seems nervous, shakes into two,
then merges back into one, fearing division
a line of falcons bobbing on the precipice
from a distance known only in dreams
it shivers like an eager swarm of flies
covering a fresh carcass as it ripens
in the chokehold of the sun
then shadow cancels sun via submission
and now even this becomes cloud
dark and low flying, conveniently vague,
promising notorious lightning, restless native thunder.

III. Famous when Dead

You know the finest trumpeter that ever lived
died just over there, on this desolate stretch of interstate,
inside of a black cab, driven by a widow
his attack was as bright as the fire in his marrow
his notes, an articulate cluster of bluebirds lodged in a bell tower,
a sum of all cut glass cathedral choirs vibrating
his lines lyrically epic, luculent, and linear
his eyes kind even when bloodshot,
the women by the bandstand said, “cat-like; pretty,”
all poppy faced with charged blood,
waiting to be beguiled by another ballad.

you can listen to a recording of his last set
listen to the way he played his heart out on Donna Lee
you can hear him gently place down his trumpet
and humbly say his thank yous and goodbyes to the audience
as they applaud in fierce sheets of rain, lycanthropic whistles,
which drown out his giant footsteps
covering all traces as he leaves the stage
unaware of his genius, as all the great ones are,
blissfully ignorant of the irony
when Richie opens the car door for him
and says, “Clifford, they’re going to remember this night
long after we’re dead.”

Clifford just smiles and gets in the car
ears still ringing with graceful ghost notes,
impacted echoes of applause,
unable to hear the armful of falcons
sharpening their talons while descending,
faithful to fate, in soundless fury,
with the alacrity of dance summoned rain,
from the gluttonous gut of sky;
insatiable and discernibly distended;
fit for a proper disemboweling.




William Crawford has been writing creatively for over twenty years; he has been published on odd occasion, most recently in Leaf Garden, Calliope Nerve, and Troubadour 21. He’s been known to read his work live on his more salient nights. He lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and works in the music industry; he is also involved in animal rights. His first full length collection of poetry, Fire in the Marrow, will be published by NeoPoiesis Press in 2010. He is not the type of person who will only make a brief appearance in his own life story.