Stefanie Bennett

One blade of grass will weather
All seasons,
Trawl a spider’s thread
Through the chimera wound
As D-day approaches.

Listen. Do you hear the crib
Shrieking empty
In the holster
Of the wind?
That’s convergence…

One blade of grass; flexible
Covets the key
To antiquity
And stays
The discus thrower.

Not of this era,
Passers-by
Mistake
Transparency
For rubble.

… Like a Mapuche National
I dream of sunken ships,
Shadows that walk
The Milky Way,
And the empty nests
Of telegraph poles.

The grass grows
‘Second sight’
High
While
The date tree
Blends
Its form

Of exorcism.
Waiting …
Waiting on
The bright
Onyx and gold
UFO
To arrive.

Via the vending maelstrom
I get a blighted
Portfolio poultice,
An art deco
Electric toothbrush,
Three cut-out
Culinary
Square meals and
A jump-to-it
Confederacy
Of confidence
Madrigal

Where nothing is
As it seems – plus

The usual
Acidic glare
From
My bed-sit
Night nurse
Who has

Madame Blavatsky’s
Eyes…

Don Juan, in this quaternary age
Wears a tattered Akubra
And sings
The purple spoils of poetry.

Out there, where hawks cross-cut
Picture postcards
And the still chattering
Chimney stones are

Reminiscent of a penal code
Dead as death
To mindless bureaucracy,
Our Rake squats

In the quasi-fallout of things.
He has done time
In ‘Nam’; elsewhere; has
Swallows for eyes.

Contemplate. He’ll be President
Any day now.

… Leaving, she saw them eat
Her words and
The left-over gravy

In that comprised tumbled-
Down shack where
The hawk-weed grows

But doesn’t erase
The colour
Of absence – or

The stony telling
There by
A turnstile gate

As she, still with
Her smiling
Beauty on

Waved an even darker
Reverie
Aside.

… At times like these, I wish
The great slab
Of blue and
Horses’ manes
In the wind to
Descend
Their science
To landscape
And sculpture out
A space for living:

The pigeon cowers
By monuments
At times like these.

I pack my luggage
For something to do
At times like these.

Drink un-afforded white-horse spirits:
Imagining Mayans in all Levis
Swishing by…

At times
Like
These times.

In pursuit of the common touch
They wanted to know
If I’d stake
My life on it.

Vive la difference!

What I’m most curious of – is,
Would they then raise
Defiant fists
If I didn’t.

There are specks of blood
On the freeway.
A dog’s met death.
Met it head-on.
We allow some sort of pity.

There are specks of blood
Of a different kind,
A kind that can’t be seen – when
Someone’s ravaged a forest,
Or a Eucharist’s become a black hole.

There are specks of blood, historic
Specks, left to be gloried at.
Zelda. Lorca. The common lovers:
Anthony and Cleopatra
And all the King’s men.

There are specks of blood
About the satellite cities.
No longer do we believe in the stars.
The planets. Our Milky-way’s
Turned a blood red sea.

There are specks and more specks
Upon your motherly aprons
America! Russia! Your
Off-spring grow weak
With that manic menopause.

There are specks of blood
On the lips of the many ‘saviours’.
Hell is on holiday.
Lucifer’s taken his leave.
Gabriel… he’s armed and dangerous.

I take it, the crust
Of the moment,
One word
At a time…

Move it
Cross country
Past the livery
Stable, the train’s

Box-cars, all
‘A hoot’
On the half hour
Siding where

… Same as Great
Grandma,
I put it
In a pipe

And smoke it.

editors note: Yup! Ride them rails as far as they’ll take ya. Better to smoke than be smoked. – mh clay

When he whispers incantations
Across the ceremonial pit
In late winter
The last snow-drift orbits
The tree tops
Like smoke
On a morning stroll
Headed towards
Infinity’s skylight.

Praise abounds. The sun soars.
Raven gives
A jocular
Caw matched only
By the smiling Elder
Who has
My father’s eyes and more.

With hands wide open – we
Spread the wealth.