Fleeting Girl At The Garage
A girl with big lips and wide eyes
pads the ground,
puffing, whinnying into a mobile.
She bounces. Her gloves are red,
her mouth big as she looks at a poster of a 65 mustang.
She wears a flower-power bag, brown scarf, black-rimmed
glasses and patchwork coat.
Against her the garage gleams like an oil rig -
triggers, bright paint, pumps, coffee.
A Saab drives up for her,
blue cheese and black trim
but then I drive up in my 65 mustang,
she hops in, we squeal off
to hotel, children, lodge on the beach,
I astrologer, she discoverer of moon soup,
our boy Sputnik curing Queen Elizabeth
of venereal disease and all vacationing early
in a villa in Tuscany.
Her flailing arms occupy my silence.
We drive on grey roads,
smoke rises from the exhaust,
cars pass like pearls.
Moon God Discusses Art
“Art is amoral,” says Moon God
but streams bright light,
his pulp clanger fuse chug milk
falling on red canyon jag granite
limpit forehead of his aging wife.
“Just paint me marble white,” she bubbles,
“sculpt me humping an angel,
freckled, nails clicking on wingbone.
I want salt, ether, musk, sugar, toppling.
Strike churches. Bowl buckets.”
Matti McCambridge lives and works in Finland.
