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WILLIAM DORESKI On DebtSo I bought you a town house, a wide-screen TV, a chrome and brass samovar. When my credit stretched to embrace the world we eloped to Iran, Tibet, and Uzbekistan, you dragging me around the curve of the planet where no one could recognize my slack and doggy expression. The debts followed, though. Envelopes rumpled hand to hand across the continents and nailed themselves to me like Luther's theses to the Wittenberg church door. Now rumpled with wear we return from our Asian honeymoon. Creased and dog-eared, the night rustles at the window as I sort the bills by due date and count my pay stubs to convince myself we've money enough to survive another week. But as I sigh and flop at the desk you brew tea so powerful my debts almost forgive me, and the starlight peeping through windows strikes sparks to dispel the gloom of your gaze. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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WILLIAM DORESKI Photographing a Junk Auto in the WoodsBurned and rusted to a turn, the Studebaker has relaxed into the forest. Birch saplings thread through the punched-out windows. Wasps have woven a nest in the springs of the roasted upholstery. The bakelite steering wheel has cracked in an attractive snakeskin pattern The hood yawns with boredom. Beneath, only the engine block remains, an iron tombstone. Every part, every wire, tube, or device, carburetor, generator, vacuum, fuel, and water pumps long gone. Posing you draped on this wreck I revel in the contrast and hope my photographs expose the essence of both your wintry post-Slavic grin and the grimace of this fifty-year-old sedan. You're enjoying this notion of art as devolution— this vehicle having exhausted its utility now embracing the role of public sculpture. But you too could achieve the stasis of art, your dental work perfected, your scruff of hair tinted a lovely Halloween orange. The light whispering through leaf-fall and sudsing of the river flatter your sleek, uncompromised figure; and as you lean into the photo you eclipse the morbid old car and warp the space-time continuum, rendering the past moot and the point of light puckered in the camera inexorable as a kiss. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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