secret ops

we were standing in a hangar, where a helicopter was about to launch indoors. you had been chosen to lead a mission, secret ops, with one other man. i had also been selected to go along as a spy, someone to extrapolate information, find weaknesses, snuff out the enemy. you didn't know i was there until the prop started to turn. when you saw me, i had just looked down and noticed that on the day of the mission launch, i had forgotten to wear shoes. but somehow i had remembered to pack a pair of yours -- old hiking shoes you had retired and then lent to me once, socks too. too big, dusty, burrs in the laces, they would have to do. hopefully this wouldn't involve a lot of running away from the enemy, i thought. you saw me tying the shoes, and i couldn't tell what upset you more -- that i was wearing your shoes or that i had been chosen to go on the same mission.

once we arrived, we were on a deserted college campus. somewhere, someone was hiding, lying in wait. my job was unclear, and i could hardly walk. you seemed to know what you were doing, you had a gun and the other guy listened to you. i wanted to talk to you, ask you what exactly i was supposed to be doing, make sure it was alright if i borrowed your shoes, tell you i was scared.  but i couldn't.

we found ourselves inside a church. gunfire outside. i realized that it was my job to go out and discover the identity of the enemy, but you grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye: you can't go out there.

why not?

because they'll kill you.

and that would bother you?

stay here, i'll go instead. get up on the roof.

i watched you disappear into the hedge. i could only see leaves, the dark rubber green and lime yellow undersides of leaves.

majestic

when lights fail,

remain in place

until lights resume.

die

stairs

you were standing at the top of the stairs, the ceiling was low and geometric -- you had to turn your head to the side in order to fit in the door frame. a red light was shining on your face, you seemed to gaze at me. i couldn't see the source of the red light behind me, but when it hit your face it turned lemonade pink. you were young, as i remember you, plush and perspiring.

stay with me.

you know i can't.

i felt summoned -- a wistful invitation -- like biting into a hot peach, like melted butter surrendering on toast.

you look like the devil.

i smiled and turned my head to match yours.

you said something under your breath, people rushed up and down the stairs between us -- on their way to the stage -- makeup bright and feathers flying.

ride

br />

1982

https://www.dropbox.com/s/7om6nxgj40t1nht/AYouthNotWasted%20copy.pdf

follies

She loosened the tie that held her dress wrapped tightly around her rib cage. The laces seemed to cut her in half, like a stage prop, like a beaming female assistant: one hand on hip, the other presenting whatever fool act was taking place beside her. Hip to rib cage ratio – what was the golden number? With the dress tied as tightly as it would go, she looked like a 50's pin-up. Rib cage, she thought, sounded like the painting nailed to the wall above her bed. A canary – or was it a parrot – with bright yellow feathers smashed by the door of its own cage, exploding like a confetti bomb. No one knew if it had been caught trying to escape and the door slammed shut in punishment – crushed bones and feathers in return for sought freedom. Or, if it had been mangled by a housecat thanks to a door left ajar by a vengeful domestic contessa – prized possession lost in a moment to one so sly as an orange Tabby called Bates.

Rib cage, she thought, sounded like a printed pillow she once saw at a fair in Aberdeen. Satin pillows stuffed with lavender and tattooed with phrases like “spoiled rotten” “spiteful and delightful”. But there was one pillow, orange as fire, with the black silhouette of a domed birdcage and a bird caught in the sliding door. Stay in the cage, she thought, why risk losing the coveted gift of flight? Even a bird behind bars can hope for another chance to see the earth in ways a spotted deer or sleek cheetah cannot imagine. But a crushed bird--wings broken by desire for elevation and velocity—is reduced to ornament. Safely ensconced in routine and blessed with provincial seeds, her heart and lungs were content to retire all hope of escape.