Postcards, the Attic Cabinet by Sam Rasnake

To Duchamp

There are no tapestries here,
no weaving, no nights spent
undoing empires worth saving

We are glass & tubes & gears
that grind the wheels that turn
under a metal veil streaming

as if a single life – forgotten or
remembered – could be forged
in a blast of sand and steel

– New York, 1913


Ssshhh – Don’t tell anyone. I’m outside the hotel room
where Chet Baker died. What made him think he could fly?
I bribed the bellboy to let me in to see the window.
My fingers against the cool glass – the city, a cluster
of lights waiting for dawn, and suddenly I feel wings –
I swear – opening from both my shoulders.
See you soon. Maybe –

– 1994

To Buson

One crow walks the roof of a blue Mustang, speaks
to the sky, to nothing, speaks to hear his own voice
when it falls against gravel – Surely this winter,
from its wild and lonely places, will cover the hard
world in a breath, a shadow, in a moving on the wind.
He must know something, then hops down, disappears –

– 2006


– for Edmund Kohler

The dust is everything. All times between
living and the dead blur to nothing, to one
foot in front of the other, to a slice of raw
potato, and water that hints at tea.

You should see this place. Dark hallways
with wrecked doors, empty stairwells where
music is silence. A broken city – Piles of
rubble here and here and here. So many.

– 1947


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Filed under Sam Rasnake

8 responses to “Postcards, the Attic Cabinet by Sam Rasnake

  1. What a Great Flash! Love the treatment of the Theme. Thanks for sharing.

  2. Now I want someone to mail me a poem. :)

  3. Kim Hutchinson

    Gorgeous, Sam. Just gorgeous.

  4. Such an interesting selection, they each have their own story to tell, their own life.

  5. Perfetto, Sam.

    Prosetry, each a sweet truffle. Peace…

  6. Pingback: Week #28 – the postcard | 52|250 A Year of Flash

  7. Not sure what I like most, the format, the seeming random selection . . . No, has to be the text, the “speaks to hear his own voice when it falls against gravel ” (and Buson and Blue Mustang in the same context), and “to a slice of raw potato, and water that hints at tea.” One of my favorites.

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