from Eternal Counsel

By | 1 December 2013

I tuck and put your hands into my clean fresh cut
a short bob falling just above the bottom of my ears
roughly pushed back at the sides with two
parallel cropped braids emerging from
just below the slightly diagonal edge of the bob
in the back—
there are two bulbous globs of dyed-
auburn hair rolling into a bouncy nest on each
of my shoulders lying over loose wide rolls
and some
salt and pepper curls cresting to my front and
catching in each armpit, sussing out a simple
lay within the wavy layers of blonde hair piled up
on the tops of my arms and hanging
onto my elbows—
on the right side of my face a slick finely combed-
through fan is tightly pulled back from just beneath
my temple to a point above and behind my ear
next to a puff of tight silver and brown curls
sticking out from the side of my head, long
straight dirty blonde strands float out
over and from within the bob undulating
in a constant draft above my shoulder, a large
softly swept back hump of downy frizz sits
on the left top of my head next to scruffy bleached
tufts of hair standing up off-center, snaking
and curving by their own weight
back onto themselves—
jagged bangs parted in the middle sit below my
eyebrows between a curved polygon ending in a
gently upturned wisp laying over my right eye
and cheek and a face length ribbon
high above my left cheekbone angled against
and through the hair on the left side of my head—
on the right side my face
over a large bunch of fine black hair brushing
my cheek and burying my ear a soft sheet
of brunette hair falls from my temple to the side
of my mouth bending out towards
the space to my side in a parabola and flaring
under my chin and a few strands entangle
on my wet lip—
a gentle part in the left side of the back of my head
splits into a series of elongating s-shapes
autonomously braiding at the tail ends as they
bounce and sashay and a single shining wave
curling into itself as it meets the outer back ridge
of my left ear—
a loose braid curves horizontally
around the top of my head
its end disappearing
into piled ringlets on the sides of a vertical bundle
of hair at my crown next to an elegant pyramid
of four rough knots
drooping onto each other—
three leopard spots are dyed into an irregularly
shaped and closely shaven patch around a frail
white cowlick at the edge of my hair whorl
a wet dark chocolate hill with red highlighting
begins from the edge of my forehead and rolls
sleekly to the center of my right eyebrow blending
at one edge into a springy short blonde coil
on the left side of a natural part
split by a gently fixed turtleshell barrette
and two bobby pins—

[ . . . ] holding hands.
[ . . . ].

I put on a soft cotton blouse.

I put on a soft cotton blouse, light blue

and lift the collar gently

and touch the round plastic buttons. Perhaps

no issue is more vexed

than the small linen jacket

that slides over my arms—yesterday
I cut my hair

into a bob—
the ends fall to the bottom

of my ears. I tuck my hair
behind my ears, one at a time, and smile.

Working the depthless predicate unringed, the sun
and the earthen mirror—in a fit of coldness
I clutch my left hip—and pelvis
ridge with a thumb
around front, lying a made loose fist, in-
turned on my sternum: then twist
left eyeing the parallel ribbon above my shoulder—
a night cold apple is resting against my
white and blue—
I collapse
my left hand over the side of my chin, take onto
the knuckles of my right hand my left elbow
and gently support my bemused head—I have
a beading wet orange jammed firmly
between my forearm and bicep—
iridescent oils, moving pink
dirt, orange pores, all blue—
after I splay down and backwards the entire body
of my left arm, and cup
the side of my neck
with my right hand I lean my chest forward
against my pelvis thrust back, I keep my head
straight—and I am wearing
thick speckled dove lensless glasses—and I possess
a warming royal gala
upright on my elbow, my right
visually impassable—
I punch without force each section alone
of my right arm down and my right hand deep
into the pocket of my straight pant
and turn, slightly,
leaning into it and put my spreading left hand
flat along the left of my face, over my ear—I am
happily surprised—a clean
but steadily blackening banana
is hooked around my right wrist—
against my thigh—
like a purple crystal under foam—
I turn both my hands inward and let them
onto my stomach, with my wrists pushed out
and my elbows angled forward and I have
an s-shape—I am looking
with warmth and a faint gleefulness
of love—and with my head at a tilt
a bartlett pear is reclining
into the nook of my right collar bone—
so richly indistinguishable
from the surroundings it is
a hole—nothing
forever—I relax
my hand onto my side and look up and over
and am curling way back, impossibly throughout
but pushing my head and neck forward such that
a mauve plum
on a spilling bundle of white grapes
is just not rolling off of the center of my stomach—
though I cannot
see this, full dull and arcing
invisible, netted
one of the axes:
what consists of the cold gel
fixed on many surfaces?—the action of the watery
mechanism aerosolizes
with all of that clothing and spews it
six hands from the center of a shallow curve,
relaying, for instance,
tumbling sentient cardigans whose fasteners
are gold buttons
and into whose surfaces are etched anchors
wound by rope aerosolizing with weak dye
released into the air—

This entry was posted in 59: GONDWANALAND and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work: