Menu.gif (11003 bytes)

Pomme Ratanakanaka / Poems

She writes in white ink

the reverse side of a sheet of daisy petalled paper
the opposing stripe of a candy cane
the dots on the dominoes
that come crashing to the ground inside a cut up throat of silence
a big red dot blocking a burning diaphragm
quiet steps pitter pitter across a cold wood floor no creaks no cracks
like the sun color of butter shining on a melting universe lighting up a

dripping sun-castle star
oozing through like green slime oceans of melted wax making darkness
frozen in two
pen on paper torn by a xerox brand shredder oh modernity and the broken
fountain pen only runs out of sterile ball point color makes little
difference to a point
in between throbbing legs
stuck like a stick of wooden clay game pieces piling up into plastic
turning like clock handles
how provocative if she could only...
fit in between the perforated edges of a piece of computer typing paper
click click buzz buzz zzzzz zzzzz
the new sounds repeat the old the bows of the lonely bass flow like a
tear in a waterfall
drowning in a hollow well sixty feet deeper than her voice
alone and cold and circular without corners or breaks only points
pointing to the perimeter of the circle claiming different angles
different starts only end on the same star
dark burned out star her life is a period of dots at the end of an
incomplete sentence
the pen wont let her erase the pencil marks
so she licks her words onto the page
she licks them onto her own soft skin
she licks them over his coarse tongue
she longs to lick his insides and fill them with words of free bird
broken away with a crowbar
flesh dripping like water
flowing like dry ink on a wet page
she licks the back of a stamp and slaps it onto the delivery man her
mark concealed by the beautiful artistic flavorful original elvis like
tribute drawing on the front
tribute to the latest madonna or cyndi lauper
tribute to her silent body
sharpening images inside her head clang like big ben the golden rule of
only the clock can replace the cock not the flesh of a woman
changing shape grooves and holes inside inside a long race car sleek and

to the point she turns her latest and greatest
her plea to a suspended earring dangling from hot electric wires like a
bird with one wing on the ground
feathers like a quill pen turn back to invisible ink and detectives
tracing over people lying in the clouds with a piece of moon chalk
moon beams and rays of light turning to dust powder crumbling blackboard

eraser school house stones of a cold shower sigh the breath of a dragon
words written on air spoken in paintings of smoke breath on a cold day
winter comes walks away and it isnt any warmer than the back of a knife
a mirror of kicks and wheaties and girl cereals tough like your cold
body when you see it on the front of a spoon fat like soup
milk in a bowl for a cat or a branflake
or a roll rolling along a road of squares
hauling books on a string like the old days and bricks on a rope like
the men in railroad movies
hanging up on a telephone booth a pole holding onto a wire a wire
holding onto a neck a neck holding onto a head a head holding onto some
unspoken mysteries
rope on the lamp at the ceiling tile bridge over old green water
(how can something be old and green?)
chair wooden beneath the little red feet kicked off by years of golden
hair thinning and falling to the floor stuck in between the edges of a
razor and the touching lips of a woman
black ink flowing from her lips.



sweet smelling alamo salmon
an old cup of indigo yogurt
turned green
and blue swirls at midnight
growling at the common moon in a mood of thyme
laced with time in a pipe of leaves

a new leftover
a repainted fridge
a swell doilie
spelling love
smelling deceit
eating from a rusty plate
at six fifty am
clock handles handling pans and old deliveries
forgotten from a prior ri
assuming you
were made at nighttime
or just for nighttime
being wrong

or wronged

a pack of dynamite
wrapped up in silver celophane
and cold foil
foiling a new equation
into a foible
qui manque
my name
did you forget that lost red wrapped up stick of tin candy shocked with
a thin twist of rock collectors

thrown from up high on the side of the beach
beneath a new pebble
skittling across a candy coated waterfront
alone on a shabby beach underneath a deck
made cold and polite by melting footsteps breached into the sand like

squares stuck inside of circles
words stuck inside of carefully sealed mouths
in foil clear and celophane lie awake at night thinking of broken
envelope tape
and broken promises
like a note left at midnight
dated six sixteen ninety eight
later on in life
s clock of walled clocks
a cool cock cocking his head in an extravagant
cool like spiral
"i love your secret places"
that i cant get into
with my falseified firefly id card
that says im thirty five

exit thirty four
alone on the edge of a highway side
with a man whos got his own

you called on a tuesday when the money was short
and the legs were long
in a new bar
of sand fluttering into the dark
and the time was fast
like all the others
how does it always
get to be about you
and your frigid firefighter pandying forward into a speedy futuristic
pole of time
spinning up to the north
like in another movie

quelle song
was it a chanson of tomorrowland and a small world small wonder
that made me remember
your lonely voice
only pretending
to be lonely
like me

a cold pocket pickle
picked from a ghost green garden
patching together old pieces of
from bankrupt
dinner thieves
stealing back their pathologies
their lives
all wrapped up in a glowing image of a dank dollar bill
torn to shallow pieces
ripped in a sandy night
you say
dont have to remember
the cold yogurt turned glittering green
its only fish
fresh from a two year sea
seasawing along a boat battered coast
rollering along on cloth covered
its only leftovers.