Andrew Galan
S.T. Picard
She walks off Gamma Road
all the poise of one
who bends space-time
'fore and aft'
hot pipes hemmed
with a purr, me— ow and hiss
she paints the linen citrus
caffeine appears in her hand
on demand, three shots
she is S. T. Picard.
Two AM, a rust stop sign
beside a rough wheelbarrow
that has just one handle
the other wood is lost
on an island full of men missing
parts of limbs, parts of faces, parts of hearts
she ministers the wounds of these casualties
from eleven dimension midnight alley knifings.
She is S. T. Picard
she puts high-heel boot on
ahead of dark leather boot on
Gamma Road
at will caffeine appears in her hand
triple fire, she is leaving
lemon in the sheets
with a hiss and a purr
low-entropy pops
supersymmetric dissertation
over black starlight tracks
just where space and time wait
so she does not violate
relativity.
One handle is found on the floor
beneath the sticky sanding mattress
lying where the mice have wreaked
a second props
behind the middle brown seventies sofa cushion
fading where the springs have leaked
a third bobs
the tepid bubbleless dirty dishwater sink
moulding where the drain has peaked
— and a pack of rats live in the soap encrusted bathwater tap --
all where the four handle barrow works
'cause this is her
M-extended thesis
she would be
stolen stationary
'cept space and time move for her
and she is
busy loading
another caffeine shell troika
'cause this is her
magic, mystery and mother theory
with the fourth barrow handle
she has
lifted the last clutch of redhead scratch
and cut the orange quarters
and made the old paired pillowcases purr
'til with each precise stiletto
she has become
disappearing staccato
along Gamma Road
she has been
S. T. Picard.
The Greatest Grandson of Genghis Kahn comes to Australia
Red poppies bloom eyes and ears I hit this man 'til fingernails flood petals I hit
once · · for my brother
· · twice for epilepsy given
once · · for when they got him again
· · · · a repeat to finish with every dirt throne twist
· · twice for my dad's flight
once · · for his capture with courage redux
· · twice for our farm along the valley
· · · · south where my wife
· · · · was nine-months beautiful
· · · · so they gave her a cognate kicking in the guts
once · · for the village east
· · · · that filled the sky
· · · · when men said no
· · · · they filled it with charcoal
· · twice for the west where choral corpse sings
· · · · why bodies lie
· · · · for want of Kalashnikov,
· · · · they refrain, nomads should reside
once twice and once twice more
for each town, each block, each house, each room
for steep escarpment where I and my brother
above grass grazed I with my brother lay out the sun
fingertips drop the stick
palms twitch open
arms shake loose
eyes empty like those of my brother.
Now what are you going to do with me?
[ Interview commenced 12:35hours; break begun 13:20hours;
break ended 13:27hours; interview concluded 14:29hours ]
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Andrew Galan an upstairs food court writer in exile Andrew Galan lives in Canberra, Australia. His poetry has been published in print and digital anthologies, magazines, and phone applications in Chile, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, Ireland, the United States, and Australia—including in The Best Australian Poems 2011. He has featured at festivals and venues on Australia’s east coast, and with Hadley, Joel, and Amanda, he co-founded BAD!SLAM!NO!BISCUIT! at The Phoenix Pub. Andrew also writes and performs with The Tragic Troubadours. His website is Huitzilihuitl’s Reign of Death.