He had one green glass eye. A jaunty green. If color can be jaunty. It could be that this particular shade of milkglass-and-green can produce jauntiness. The eye, then, had a green jauntiness. But the eye itself wouldn't have been jaunty—can a piece of glass be jaunty? Can a marble, for instance, be jaunty? Subsequently, maybe it's the glass eye looked at us jauntily. Give us a jaunty look. But can a glass eye look? Maybe it was a glisten that was jaunty, then. A jaunty glass glisten, then. He had a green glass eye with a jaunty glisten. But a glisten doesn't render attitude. Perhaps there is a jaunty eyebrow driving it all? That is, an eyebrow of a particular slant driving the jaunty appearance. An eyebrow that presents (the owner of said glass eye) with a jauntiness. A jaunty eyebrow, then. One green glass eye, jaunty with its particular eyebrow. One face, one green glass eye, one particularly jaunty eyebrow. In other words, jauntiness is contextual. Give us jaunty. Now give us saucy. Use your particular eyebrow—that's it! There! This poem, for instance, is contextual. It has a jauntiness about it.
Viaje de Viraje
Bones smoldering. Another beginning, or worse, a continuation. Try a variation. Street lamps shine glaring white, reflect opal on dry asphalt and wet. My spine a bruise, sore even when I turn slippery in my chair, purple and silvery like gray matter. It is cracked in many places. A matter of moving the right way at the right stiffness—the moment between raw and dull click. Like five toes click. Toward moving, I have five more. Yet we pick the bones out of our food, eat around every thing with fingers.
She holds tides in her tight hands. Twice daily, like the moon as it continues. And what a joy to be two bodies. The human body has shape and form as the moon was once smooth, unchanging and impermanent as it continues. Rolled in cruel cerulean blue. Here, the water pulls white into frothy swirls, whirlpools in old toe-holds and dog-treads. Sarah answered yes, she thinks everyone has five toes, but I assured her gypsies do not. At least, I do not. I cannot imagine what five toes would look like. More splayed, probably, fanned maybe, and rounded yellow ochre, bulbous at the tips.
But has there ever been too much on a face? I slowed myself to speak, to force a name. You could not. Would siphon my face: telling me you understand crying vacation when you do not. I don't. (Foot on wood makes thud. The pattern of movement from heel to ball and toe makes creak. Feet on planks.) But I know what four toes look like. They look just like four toes, the four toes I have, anyway. That was the night I was wrecked. My voice had flown, I was running, cracked in many places.
writes: I am the author of two chapbooks: Little Red Riding Hood Missed the Bus
, 2008), and Orange Reminds You of Listening
, 2006); my full-length manuscript, The Disappearing Cowboy Trick
, will be published by Horse Less Press
in June. I currently teach English at Laramie County Community College in Cheyenne, WY, and am editor-in-chief and poetry editor of the literary journal Spittoon