Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
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Letting Go This autumn, leaves will fall like blades that cut my life in crosshatch. Fall brings leavings more of life than trees, and blood will be the color of the sky and every seasoning of autumn this year. Falling from me, eyes as well, not tears but rust regrets; not just my own, but filtered painfully son to mother. Liquid leavings that began so long ago have started up again- and no matter how many times we wave goodbye, there's always one time more. Despite Somewhere there's an ocean liner headed for the bottom, and a car filled with children will meet a truck head on, and a groom will kiss the bride he'll later hurl from a hotel balcony on their fifth year anniversary and I'm amazed we live with the germs of such disaster so obligingly, without flinching or giving up. Acting in our ignorance like the seed caught in the rotten bark of a tree marked by the forestry department to be cut down, will nevertheless take root. Uncurl on tenderest green shoot a bloom of such heart achingly exultant hue, it makes me want to weep at what open faced, hangers-on our hopes are. Tuner Music keeps the hemoglobin plumpin, knee and ankle joints a-jumpin, pounded out rhythm foggy bottom sound of Night Train. Hips just twitch in no-no-no, but yes-yes-yes down runways rolled behind the eyes and shined up nice and lit in back of a smile that spreads till Tuesday and the drum-to-beat-all solo of a Louie Prima Sing, Sing, Sing will chase me right up walls like a reved-up hep cat, bangin my heels on the auto carpet, twitchin my shoulders, lost in Big Band smoky night club cigarette girl, Give me a pack of Pall Mall Golds and a Pabst Blue Ribbon with a whiskey chaser, I was born a clumsy lead foot, but got heart to beat all bands. Main Page
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