Andrew Spiess

Ivy climbs up
the resilient trunk
of an oak tree,
choking, but
there is no struggle.
Light barely touches
the cracked bark
as the ivy wraps
around gnarled arms.
There will be no blossoming
of leaves in the spring
for the staggering branches,
but the leaves of the vines
will always glint
and cover and thrive.

Fog hides a tree –
Is it there?
Gasping tip of a branch

Mat of overcast
solid and heavy -
I am trapped and waiting.

Winter wind –
A sharp gust
taps dead maple branches together

Winter sun
pulls ice
to a point.

Glaring up,
bright yellow breaks through,
leaks from a shell of clouds.

Breathing again –
the fresh air stings
the wet grass

Sunshine envelops with warmth
illuminated trees
darker underneath

Sharpening shadows
heavy upon the pavement
a solid patch over the road.

If a girl was not
crossing the street,
there would be nothing.

Old windows
old eyes –
the sky is marked

On dark flooded roads
there are no cars
only rushing waves full of light.

Still alive, smoke
draws arcs that rise
grows out of an ashtray

pills
there are so many
liars

Man walks out of
A public restroom
biting his lip

The swallowing night
burns away
by the streetlamps.

A trucker’s goatee dances
as he chews,
peering into our windows.

1
On an off-white bathroom wall, a clock ticks. Analog face. A clock that attracts eyes. Begs for a short moment of attention, delivers guilt when guilt is deserved. A ticking that hammers nails into studs of concentration. A ticking that plucks nerves. There is a snap of a whip that can be felt on the backs of those who sleep at the wrong hours. Disobedience. Lashing in equal intervals. Straight hands are never wrong.

The hand strikes
Every notch fixed
With a balance of space

2
Riding my bike down streets and sidewalks, I saw a young boy walking along the narrow top of a short stonewall holding his father’s hand. And while holding his father’s hand, he fell down and hit his head on the sidewalk. Further along the path a little old man with a long white beard jumped to one side, shrieking, as I passed by, but I would have avoided him. I wonder who should feel secure.

father and son
smiling, hands tightly locked
behind a demolished wall.

3
Waiting through hours. In New Orleans by 2:11pm on the Wednesday before the New Year. We’re all tired after crawling through long hours on the road. We’re all excited to be here. I’ve already seen skeletons of abandoned houses in the wrecked neighborhoods left after the hurricane. Our room is high up in a skyscraper and looking out of the window down at the city is like looking into a video screen or watching a simulation of reality. I’m tired but I won’t be able to sleep until I witness this solid, city, its hard concrete walls, streets and sidewalks, and its fragility.

Crude messages
scrawled on walls and sidewalks
in reckless spray paint.

4
I crashed my bike into a bush by a sidewalk. Cars drove on at the intersection where I paused on my knees. The concrete scraped some of the skin on my left palm off and the wound stung. There was blood. I stood up, fixed the chain on my bike, and rode off as the adrenaline ran through my veins in torrents.

A hot trail,
The sun leaks from a wound
At the eastern horizon.

5
At the restaurant, I reach into my pocket and drop a handful of dusted rolled-up dollar bills on the counter. The cashier and I stare at each other for a stretched moment and much like a wide-eyed dull gorilla, much like nothing, he clears his throat and hands me my receipt.

Listen buddy,
Just give me
My tacos.

6
The wind was rushing with the force of an endless train. I climbed up a loose ladder to reach the Pagliai’s Pizza sign: “PANCAKE BREAKFAST AT THE VFW 10-2”. I removed most of the letters, while holding on to the sign to resist the hazard, and set them on the narrow platform where I stood. The same way that kids run off laughing, the letters blew away, scattering and cracking in the parking lot, and there was nothing I could do. I only needed to spell out “VEGETABLE SOUP”.

Running pests –
I chase the letters
Of the alphabet