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SEANCE ON A HOUSEBOAT
Bitch of a ladder.
Tiny and impractical.
Mother, sister voiced the pointlessness
resting on uncushioned seats
complaining of apocalyptic joint pain.
The captain commiserated impatiently
his wife the Medium was waiting.
The stairs down, narrow almost nonnegotiable.
We bumped our heads & wailed.
Mother fell into the Medium's larger chair,
wouldn't move. "I am sitting here!"
The small boat rocked in somnolent mood.
A fog or misery mist hung down too low.
The Medium groaned, dealt a few tarot cards.
Pausing, she couldn't sense any spirits close.
There would be no refunds.
She eventually acknowledged our sincere threats
with reference to The Coast Guard Of The Eternal.
A substantially larger boat took us to shore.
Endeavoring to neutralize the Medium's hand curses,
we held up three of our own as the fog dispersed.
THE FIRST WANKER TO PAY HOMAGE TO THE DARTMOUTH CURE
In the winter I rise at dawn
around nine, clean the vats
of their potato pancake residue,
try to dissuade old Lefty Donovan
from shooting the feral cats
with his air gun that hide
nobly under the potting shed.
Breakfast is a beginning that starts
with bad coffee and progresses.
A routine any concessionest
would find sedative.
The first thing you notice is
the hillsides are littered with us.
We're like grass gods.
The quantitative never fails to come up.
Then there's a flash of light
which consummates the sale,
and a clean break-up
that can last days.
VISITS FROM AN OLD FLAME
She showed up in a large, white van.
Her cauterizing tools were kept
within Velcro flaps that enthralled
the vehicle's essential task.
No discernible hats.
Her talent is concealed,
wrapped astutely out of sight,
in a long coat of lipid gabardine.
She sniffs, my blood is here
love's wound spilling still.
She searches for a source of power,
plugs into a polarizing orifice.
My anemic blood stalls.
She gathers up her things
and has departed
before I even swell.
CONCERNING MY LATEST ADVENTURE
Looking out of the window
I was just sort of daydreaming
thinking of a burning candle
in a plastic egg cup and the fine
layer of soot everywhere it touches.
I couldn't find the little stereo
I bought in Boston,
then I did so I played some music.
My neighbor paused in the hallway.
Sometimes she sings.
She was carrying a tall plant
almost bigger than her.
She left it on the landing
now I have to walk around it.
Downstairs there is a marble top table
with numerous samples of junk mail,
and some assorted key rings.
Colin James has a book of poems Resisting Probability available from
Sagging Meniscus Press and a new book of poems forthcoming
from Wondor Editions. He lives in Massachusetts.
You can check out James' book here and titles from Sagging Meniscus Press here.