Three Poems

In Which We Are All a Very Troubled Actor

[unreleased music from an orphanage reality show]

the sun went down about a half mile from here.[1]
we watched it settle over the houses and fall away,

finally, into the shoulders of every living thing around.
the rain sings insistence, sings like a tinfoil package 

of wasps sings.[2] the engine
              noise over the dim light of blind.[3]

                            you were a child actor—
                            once, you woke to the faces
                            of very old men

                            once, you were unable
                            to recall ever
                            having fallen asleep.[4]

a house-covering of dark-feathered bodies circle,

taking shifts on the rails of another family’s porch.
              an old man breathes and coincidentally catches fire.[5]

                            he says that a snow
                            will fall to reveal the taste
                            of a plan of wolves—

                            says, morning is the proof
                            that nothing
                            will always rise again.[6]

Footnotes to Selected Cinematic Compositions

[from the songs of R.]

—————

1. maps drawn from satellite imagery
          a) imagine, upside down
          b) , a gang of dotted stars
2. there is rhythm even in the hands of a busted clock
3. [incessant]
          a) as in american vernacular—
          b) playground theory
4. resume broadcast feed
          a) skeleton hands emerging from a kite’s cocoon
5. sequence remains unexplained
6. a kind of featureless mask,
          a) traditionally sewn into the rafters of an estate

Execution Song

[weapons to water]

dimmed in the drizzle of dusk, I raise
a hand to calm the old teething waves. 

I set my thoughts to the sway, my heart
sloshing red in time
to the lapping
of the blue foam & green. 

nothing is forever,
is a weapon
I pull from my waistband, 

                   guiding it across

         my horizon
& then down like a dead,
sinking mast.

I hold the old horse fixed
in my gaze, punch three slugs
into the starboard
side of my conscience—

I release the dogs of harrow,
fire eagles into an antediluvian sea.

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David Tomaloff is a very important something. His work has appeared in several chapbooks, anthologies, and in fine publications such as Connotation Press, Sundog Lit, Lost in Thought, and A-Minor. He is co-author of the collaborative poetry collection YOU ARE JAGUAR (Artistically Declined Press). His latest chapbook, SLEEP, is forthcoming from Plain Wrap Press. Send him threats: davidtomaloff.com.