|July 2006/Volume Seven/Issue Two|
|Jason Floyd Williams|
|keep that diaphragm in, or the early days.
“She had a white blouse, a blue skirt and legs.
Wow! And legs. So I says to myself,
‘I need to meet that broad.’”
one half of the world’s oldest married couple.
For my wife, Trinity.
Sometimes you might pray for someone
to come along & help you, to fill that
large hole in yourself, & maybe
this is a prayer said in
almost without hope of fulfillment.
Maybe those prayers are the most honest,
cause they are desperate, &
cause you came along:
A little tulip that escaped from
the floral-shop, & now is chicken-dancing,
nearly being pin-balled by
the various storefront windows-
the new album ads, the sandwhich deals,
the basement book sale-
a Kewpie doll on the lamb in a
pink-jacketed, fast-forwarded blur
past me, while I arrange
the final cigarettes in a couple
ventriloquist dolls mouths.
I saw a 9-11 documentary the other night,
& something that stuck in me, like
extra-large pins in a voodoo doll, or
a myopic acupuncturist, were the
last conversations loved ones had.
For example, the male passengers on
That poor plane headin’ towards the
They knew what had to be done,
& they called their wives, &
said their good-byes.
Imagine those final words.
You’ve got two minutes to say everything,
& what’ll you say? I love you.
I love you, & I’m glad we found
You’ve made me very happy.
I want to treat every day I’m with you
like that last conversation.
I was, before you came along, a
zombie tele-marketer sellin’ valentine cards
to anyone who’d take ‘em.
I don’t regret meeting & mingling,
like shell-less hermit-crabs on the
edge of an ocean, with all the
women I knew before you.
I wasn’t ready for you, & you weren’t
prepared for me.
Our hearts needed tune-ups.
The lassoing attempts by rough-draft,
amateur mormon-wannabes to win us
over, & convince us to accept
ideas against our hearts-
Well, that junkyard behavior wears on
your soul like refrigerator mold.
But we did find each other,
& then we started to walk.
The walks were somethin’.
The walks are what bear-trapped
my heart- if I were a bower-bird,
I would’ve just started to take
Rumba lessons, & just begun
to litter my place with all the
The early courtship.
We never paid much attention to
the Fisher-Price houses along those
I remember focusin’ on the
different shrubs & bushes that stretched beyond
the fences & gates- like prisoners
with their arms between bars-,
& the puddles on the sidewalk
with dead earthworms, the victims
of a disastrous family vacation, &
the words we paddle-balled
back & forth.
Thoreau mentioned the magnified importance
of words when chattin’ with his pal
across Walden pond.
I say there is a tighter intimacy, like
the blood vessels shared by
Siamese twins, when two people are
walking, & just allowin’ thoughts
to come & go,
no encoding & decoding,
no complications or translations,
just honest talk of two people
getting’ to know each other.
And the smells, I also remember the smells.
Wet smells of Spring being squeezed through
a strainer, & you get all the flowers, soil, birds,
grass, alive-ness of everything.
like a garden, my grandfather’s garden
the morning after a rain-fall.
The bean-sprouts of love.
|RETURN TO JULY 2006|