Robert Balun: I Know a Witch
Fortunes
the world’s been heavy lately
so I keep out of the body
I know a witch
she is filled with neon
we meet in the buzz
she places a memory on the table
you climb inside and carry on with the past
***
I look for you in the universal field
where we are abstractions
of movement
an order or a place
I keep walking by
someone I
think I
know
are you the sea or the sun
or do you just like the color
***
always stranger
floating in self
I pass by
your hand
brushes mine
this melts
I puddle
down the stairs
into your pocket
you keep me like time
***
nights
we sip pixel
eyes as big as flowers
leave the light burning
color twists prismatic
smoke
did they leave you a name–if not
carry rocks like memories
tomorrow will bloom
and we’ll call it
perfect and perfume
I need you again and again
***
money is a secret
give me a little grace
the steady buzz of airplanes
sirens and wind
I look up from years
find only minutes
the same frightened
eyes and neglect
this is all we’ve got for sweet
the day spread over the table like proof
***
resolving host
timeline populates itself with outcome
sour moments not quite artifacts
just possibility we’ve settled on
I can’t
tell which
way the rushing
scenes spill
from my head
like a movie
or a dream I
surrender my secrets
to the prism of
mouth filled with neon
ritual to mitigate heat
a piece of light falls from your hand
scatter into particles
I stand in a stream of commerce to remember this
promise I don’t disappear
***
please tomorrow
I need to do nothing
too much body
too much time
on the table
another ragged
morning with heavy
that worn out look
to wear as days
melt by in the pulp of now
details collapse
like a dream you only
remember having
***
the city floats by in texture
flutter as light
comes apart
holding its promise
of possibility
I keep checking my pockets for time
no our lives are not simple anymore
but yelling just makes me tired
I open my eyes and no one wants to sit
a bit of grit in the teeth
see you in a cracked mirror
catch yourself like a reflection
find I’m made of mostly glass
***
I keep my hands full
(cups hats books)
a strategy to allay action
you keep a key
engraved on your wrist
(the illusion of access)
I find you walking through traffic
handing every passenger a piece of money
a memory I have for no reason
***
we pray for fresh rain
our cups a cistern
we’ll need a brass band
and a truck full of flowers
the radio playing crickets
Editor's Note: These poems originally appeared on our old site.
Robert Balun received his MFA from The City College of New York, where he was a recipient of the Jerome Lowell DeJur Prize for Poetry and the Teacher-Writer Award. His debut chapbook, Self (Ceremony), is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. His poems have appeared in Bodega, Similar Peaks, Smoking Glue Gun, Heavy Feather Review, Word Riot, and others. Robert is one of the founders of the Bushwick Sweethearts reading series. He teaches creative writing and composition at The City College of New York.
