Michelle Maria Boleyn
Manuscript Contents
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ZINC ROUGE
..........Yesterday's messages faces
metaphors edges spirals streets
screams distance smoke curtains
night lips eyes stars memory BRAZIL
fans clicking birds dust wind.
.........Arijana, emotional distance
locked doors rental cars financial
telecommunications bistro,
ZINC ROUGE.
..........TREES IN FLIGHT audible granite
liquid sky street eyes lost passions
BOSNIA bricks stones speed blood open road,
ZINC ROUGE.
.........Wine spiral rock and roll CAMUS
motorcycle magnum assistance
bells morning river separation leaves
fences hospital underground, what?
ZINC ROUGE.
..........It will fall
and in its spiral Sarajevo and
New York City will rush screaming
bells in church towers, clanging
each tree raising a prayer
will come in from the morning
asking, why?
..........BOSNIA will entrench its
blood and limbs into the Mexican
coffee, why? And whisper
seductively – come with me to our
little war, we are flying!
..........Enter the antagonist on long, strong legs,
hair climbing from ankle to groin,
while fragrant apples drip their sweetness
into the Washington earth, all the carnage
washed by distance, disembodied, flowing into
school yards, enticing the children to take up arms,
blazing!
.........Legs, furtive and aggressive
march in tin soldier lines across her child's face
smiling - welcome to tomorrow.
.....Arijana struggles to make bread in the
coals of her neighbor's house – rubble coals,
glowing in the reflection of the Sava River, where
once musicians serenaded among the lights that
shone clear into CROATIA. Doors slam,
her husband's hand, sexual and demanding
lies buried somewhere under bricks stones
a thousand years, Sarajevo.
..........Fly to the coast through Italy
and liquid granite, AMERICA, why?
the children, they will be Americans.
trees in flight, lost passions screams distance
wine smoke autumn night,
perhaps Brazil.
fans clicking over the heads of
heated souls, lost in the birds, dust
wind.
..........Enter the antagonist on a motorcycle
smuggled in from Trieste,
red paint flaked dull silver,
blood spattered, carrying
the 450 Magnum brought from AMERICA last
year. Enter the wine,
the plague, arias, hospitals
dragonflies and landmines.
..........“Putain du merde!”
French photographer shouts
while holding his leg in his hand
running on nothing more than the image.
ZINC ROUGE.
..........The antagonist's handsome face,
locked
in the arms of the assaulted. Later in Paris he
will
dream erotic thoughts.
Europe's wired renegades
..........Behind a red light curtain
in a red zinc bar, his cock in his hands
underground in Arijana's eyes, he'll drive a JAG,
do jazz,
make it to AMERICA, hang out in Hollywood,
San Francisco, New York,
return to Paris, and nothing will ever be as
exciting again as those minutes in Arijana, a gun
to her head, white legs trembling, blood.
Can't get high, Arijana's eyes,
no Paris, no Bosnia, no Brazil, no
AMERICA.
..........A small room on the rue whatever,
waiting above a midnight street for someone
to remember
..........the autumn night, fear, the river,
every line of the walls that no
longer exist, the smell of winter
coming in, counting leaves and hours on
the timeless clock that ticks among the midnight
fires of Arijana's baking bread.
..........He can smell the odor in the
Paris streets, it mingles with his fear that
streaks
into the cheap wine
sitting on a bar of zinc, floating on
a river that never stops flowing.
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