“But Why Yesterday” by James Van Arsdale
starfish shooting balloons
taking off
like a match
you are my ghost friend.
Walking past
“Bust of a Poet or Philosopher”
careful
not to disturb
the “Sleeping Satyr”
alone on an island
with his grenade
draped arm
and cocked leg.
Guided by the star
down long straight
colonnades
where heads hang
and garlands
of fruit and flowers
attract
white-banded Swallows
and crickets.
I’ll let you sit alone
and read
not be bothered by
the history.
An herb garden
through scalloped
and arched windows
where scents drift
each one caught
and then lost.
black elder (Sambucus nigra)
bishop weed (Aegopodium podogravia)
a twisting plum,
the garden thyme
is vulgar.
The winter savory (Satuereja montana)
smells earthy and sweet
and hyssop (Hyssopus officialis)
has muscle,
Fern-leafed yarrow (Achillen filipendulina)
feels like Frankenstein.
the rue
the fennel
the chive
the germander
are the chorus
and brush your bare legs
amongst the ghosts
of 79 C.E.
who saw it coming.
Full-scale
luxury
buried
digging of underground
tunnels, shored up with
18th-century lumber.
Remnants of
burned eucalyptus,
olive skin
eruption
perseveres
more comfortable than actual history, a movie set with
the starlet in peach and pink—an offering to nature,
the perfect form a function of heart, dance and parry.
This place attracts new love, and strokes its hair.
“Nothing to Say” by James Van Arsdale
Everything you hear is true
but “unlimited time”
does not mean forever.
You are in the mood to talk
with decorated letters
antiquated patterns
ratchet attachments
and thrift store vibes,
but we live in the sweet heat of silence
that grows beneath
a moon meant for invasion.
Clock chimes can be heard on the
other side of the duplex, and someone
is watching Star Trek.
When your Prozac sings
I tend to get things
thrown at me,
or maybe
when it has not been taken.
Shut me in the bedroom
I’ve got nothing,
tell me what you want to hear.
You take
my hand
and cover
my mouth
with it
then we do our thing.
You
drive
I crum
ble.