Billy Green


hannah_davis_01

Photography by Hannah Davis (via BOOOOOOM!)

Al

i entered
the sanctuary of
your still life,
driven by the mind
i left twitching
in the gutter.

my footprints
must have soiled
your temple
as i walked
towards the edge
of blue dawn
into the embrace
of Owen, your child,
of your father’s impeccability,
of the Acropolis.

was i worthy
to blanket you in sleep
while coveting
the power of angels,
to kneel by a sacred confessional
penniless and unprepared
for a voice that murmured
a strand of silk
from heaven.

yet we continued
a procession of hours
till i finally woke
to the swimming pool
brilliance of your eyes,
and as you laughed
over French toast,
i was seized
by the beauty
of pumpkins,
of a wreath of marigolds
that once blessed
the earth that
kissed your hands.

Mr. Standby

it was evening when
you smiled and took a
shower in my bathroom,
when I gagged inside my head
at the sight of a joint
among your three cigarettes.

it is now dusk,
after three weeks of my
standing on this pedestal,
and your silence
is blocking my
view of the
northern sky.

Day of the Man with a Big Bag and Stuff

socks
and
coloured
combs
and frying
ware
flying
where
ever
singing
key chains
bound
and
beautiful
booklets
opening
automatic
rhythmic
merchant
of the less than half
price

for his daily bread.

Déménagement

my arms
are synchronized
to humidity,
swatting
the daily gripe,
slicing
aniticipation
to bite-size.

i may not be
an elephant,
but climates
are my memory,
business, my amnesia.

my ankles
sprouted
tiny wings,
pestering the
law of gravity;

and Montreal
is somewhere
east of here.

Rabbit

rain swept
the cards
fell in
rabbit steps
with grace
gasping for
lines of energy
tumbling softly
in rhythmic
euphoria,
hopping
between cups
and water,
solitude
and soul mate,
friend and foe,
wanderer
spellbound
by need
to embrace
shields of power
of synchrornicity
always lunging
always connecting
always projecting
yet not accepting
the somersault
of thought
to cups and water
fool and fire
cleansing tears,
merry rabbit
skipping
on rain swept
feet.

Good Night

when the day
has drawn
its final breath
and age
humors your body
with an ache
here or there
are you comforted,
my friend,
or annoyed like hell?

when you bid
good night
to the mirror,
you,
your own master
under your own skin,
do you ever
hesitate,
if for a fraction
of a second
a haunting face
struggling behind
the pupils of your eyes
offers
not recognition,
but a question:

who have you been,
who are you now,
who are you taking
to your sleep?

More of Billy Green’s poems can be found at this website