Elisabeth Workman

City Plan F

ergo a brief encounter with geraniums in a courtyard, both public and difficult to find, offering its rumors selectively, where first thoughts flash collectively across static surfaces -- a crooked rearview mirror, a pond with fat fish, an orange smelling tabletop. Two kisses left before your time runs out, tiger face. Not for the faint-of-heart, flattery here is indentured to the wine that exudes a raunchy musk. Must we. Always. Boy flickers into man, makes fractions of fathoms, takes tulips from ottomans, puts everything fertile out front. Like it or the city. A conversation between light and fractures, till fresh taste be taken from that clearness. Here, both fantasy and forgetting are soluble in the book of the unsaid. My favorite monk with ruby lips said so. My dear, it's true -- let's frolic in the mulch, fuck in fuchsia, then sing finnish songs of blood in the cloud in the cake, those sad songs that so turn me on so that every word is somehow filial

City Plan G

fragmented in their transition from difficult positions to the crescendo. The hall was filled with photographs of empty, unmade beds. They couldn't distinguish between working life and broken life; a dreamy sign indicated the exit in garamond. A few steps further into the grotto both time and the clothesline of stars were subjective. Granted, they hurried because they decided they were late amongst lilacs -- their scent both memento and perverse verisimilitude. Whose plan is this, whose frame? They decided on gravity, on the group session of zesty chair exercises. Given their propensity to gather, they should say no to ever sleeping alone again. The stations -- plainly distributed about a bay; the gaze of the city, inward looking out across & in & upon itself from afar. is theirs. The form: a grotesque version of her body's imprint on the sheets. the arm of her lover thrown across that temporary fossil. With every departure a distance fixed, gifted

City Plan H

getting off accidentally; let's call it a chance get away. Hereafter I am headmaster, her majesty, and heavy metal interchangeably. There are conciliatory chocolates lavishly wrapped and telephones that can't call out. Greetings from the next room carry over though the tones are intentionally hushed, and no one is ever seen coming, just as outside the monotone tide promises perfect weather for the next century. The elevators play eleanor rigby, the tibetan flute rendition, perpetually. Oh, the consequential hunger roils hurly-burly, the coincidence of my royal head attached, a complete organism helter-skelter, seems haphazard, a freak incident at the confluence of leisure and exposed despair. There is history: petals placed one by one in a puddle to notice or the remarkable architecture of the everafter to tour but how and who with. Do I need photos to prove it? That any place eternal might be torture, the promise the product a hack

City Plan I

heaven is as hell is a hoax I decide so I make up multiple eras all at once and so overwhelming one wants to explode out of sheer inherited longing: Is I me or who is I? The desire to touch and taste eternally, it lurks even in the most staunch. Make a scene. The authorities intervene, the media take an interest. I wanted a room full of windows in a region of many windows and no curtains. A bare occupancy. A humble tableau jutting into the severity of night. Granddaughter, she said, go in that eye-catching interval and take your best ammunition: intelligent orchids. How I find myself depends upon what I'm looking for. Today I decided interloper. With skyscraper intuition. The vista is a roofline unfamiliar to its audience, but upstaged by a meeting table inclined at a 45-degree angle. The swivel chairs, high backed, have been abandoned, some still spinning, connoting irreparability, ill will : : the media take an interest the authorities intervene