i'm in nick carbo's latest poem


The leader never stops feeding
the projector--the ticka-tic-ticka-tic
is one day and the next, one ocular 
meander from room to vector,

sky light, ad hock breakfast
of Scottish porridge with a dash
of Demerara sugar. We used to
eat together, perfectly aligned

colours passing through Bolex lens,
splashing light onto our white minded
condominium wall. I gave all my
Super 8 mm, 16 mm, and 35 mm's

to Johnny Dufresne when I was made
to pack up my junk after the divorce.
I said I can't take those where I'm going--
Amsterdam, Venice, Lisbon, London.

Here, in flat # 5 on Daisy Bank Road
I buy pink and purple daisies "for me self,"
make expresso coffee with an Italian vaporetti,
click off the hob unit to save electricity.

The uptake reel is devious, deliberate 
in steady wind, wind, wind, dredging up
the muck I made. Banished like Cain
or Able, Adam and Eve from you know where.

Tic-ticka-tic, ticka-tic, ticka-tic, trrrrrrrrrrrrrl.
Moments of sharp focus are hardest, I've torn
my wedding vows, twisted the alignment, returned
to the dark cinema hall after the projector has died.


(Nick also gave me a couple of typewriters.)