the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century




TWO WORKS
BY CHARLES D'ANASTASI

WORDS

and then there are those who keep on talking even during a total eclipse of the sun, those who keep on explaining as they go around the pieta in an obligatory way, those who keep on
holding forth because they've found god, those who keep on chattering ten minutes after the film has started, those who keep on hissing after the spell is broken by the first note of a music that's considered too linear for the ear, those who bring out the muttering while nico is wrenching something dark from my funny valentine, those who keep on reasoning that there are no angels in the balkans under a picture of guernica, in a restaurant of the same name, those who keep on equivocating as the screen shows pictures of the bombed out serbian television station and strands of audio tape entangled in the branches of a nearby tree fluttering in the bitter greyscape, those who keep on spitting words because that's what a politician's hue and cry is, those who keep on musing although some economists have come to the conclusion that too much reflection is dangerous for the nation and not the sort of thing that will generate sensible debate about the level of speculative playing fields in the market place, those who keep on discussing the merits of picasso's blue period in order to circumvent an absence of touch, those who keep on prattling during their own meditation class, those who keep on betraying because some stars are always out of reach, those who keep on murmuring because working at the dead letter office is like being a grief sweeper of cosmic dramas, those who keep on keening because there is dust on the furniture, the days are long, and the sound of another lemon falling on the wet grass is unbearable

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ANOTHER MAP OF AUSTRALIA

one can never tell about its voices the things you think it tells you the promises of remedies (never big on some five-year plan) the wheel of calculations deals made on those slight days of cutthroat winds that piece of grit in the eye the small stone in your shoe footprints of stories at the entrances to so many forks in the road the baggage-carousel at the airport going round and round with a couple of desultory bags in the early hours of the morning anxieties in cheap hotels those dog-eared dreams and other upheavals co-ordinates for angel-stops running through the veins of the land