RED DRESS
red dress.
whirls me around,
stares me down.
coquette smile.
do you remember...
my name...?
because i don't.
remembers yours.
another time,
another life,
another me.
you were there...
and you...
and you, and you...
all faces
with no names.
but we had some
good times, didn't we?
UNTITLED #1
duct tape
tambourine
hypnotically
melancholic
things i
never knew
about
you
making banjos
and finding yourself
striking
chords
bleeding
notes
UNTITLED#2
well you sure got my attention...
put those boots to work.
sling yourself over that guitar...
and willow-weep me a story,
honey-dripped
and silver-tipped.
full of that stuff
that jump-starts the heart,
and buckles the will.
draw the duende
out of it's slumber
and tear through
the thousand veils i'm lost in...
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
He
He cuts down the lakes so they appear straight
He smiles at his feet in their tired mules.
He turns up the music much louder.
He takes down the vaseline from the pantry shelf.
He is the capricious smile behind the colored bottles.
He eats not lest the poor want some.
He breathes of attitudes the piney altitudes.
He indeed is the White Cliffs of Dover.
He knows that his neck is frozen.
He snorts in the vale of dim wolves.
He writes to say, "If ever you visit this island,
He'll grow you back to your childhood.
"He is the liar behind the hedge
He grew one morning out of candor.
He is his own consolation prize.
He has had his eye on you since the beginning."
He hears the weak cut down with a smile.
He waltzes tragically on the spitting housetops.
He is never near. What you need
He cancels with the air of one making a salad.
He is always the last to know.
He is strength you once said was your bonnet.
He has appeared in "Carmen."
He is after us. If you decide
He is important, it will get you nowhere.
He is the source of much bitter reflection.
He used to be pretty for a rat.
He is now over-proud of his Etruscan appearance.
He walks in his sleep into your life.
He is worth knowing only for the children
He has reared as savages in Utah.
He helps his mother take in the clothes-line.
He is unforgettable as a shooting star.
He is known as "Liverlips."
He will tell you he has had a bad time of it.
He will try to pretend his press agent is a temptress.
He looks terrible on the stairs.
He cuts himself of what he eats.
He was last seen flying to New York.
He was handing out cards which read:
"He wears a question in his left eye.
He dislikes the police but will associate with them.
He will demand something not on the menu.
He is invisible to the eyes of beauty and culture.
"He prevented the murder of Mistinguett in Mexico.
He has a knack for abortions. If you see
He is following you, forget him immediately:
He is dangerous even though asleep and unarmed."
-John Ashbery
He smiles at his feet in their tired mules.
He turns up the music much louder.
He takes down the vaseline from the pantry shelf.
He is the capricious smile behind the colored bottles.
He eats not lest the poor want some.
He breathes of attitudes the piney altitudes.
He indeed is the White Cliffs of Dover.
He knows that his neck is frozen.
He snorts in the vale of dim wolves.
He writes to say, "If ever you visit this island,
He'll grow you back to your childhood.
"He is the liar behind the hedge
He grew one morning out of candor.
He is his own consolation prize.
He has had his eye on you since the beginning."
He hears the weak cut down with a smile.
He waltzes tragically on the spitting housetops.
He is never near. What you need
He cancels with the air of one making a salad.
He is always the last to know.
He is strength you once said was your bonnet.
He has appeared in "Carmen."
He is after us. If you decide
He is important, it will get you nowhere.
He is the source of much bitter reflection.
He used to be pretty for a rat.
He is now over-proud of his Etruscan appearance.
He walks in his sleep into your life.
He is worth knowing only for the children
He has reared as savages in Utah.
He helps his mother take in the clothes-line.
He is unforgettable as a shooting star.
He is known as "Liverlips."
He will tell you he has had a bad time of it.
He will try to pretend his press agent is a temptress.
He looks terrible on the stairs.
He cuts himself of what he eats.
He was last seen flying to New York.
He was handing out cards which read:
"He wears a question in his left eye.
He dislikes the police but will associate with them.
He will demand something not on the menu.
He is invisible to the eyes of beauty and culture.
"He prevented the murder of Mistinguett in Mexico.
He has a knack for abortions. If you see
He is following you, forget him immediately:
He is dangerous even though asleep and unarmed."
-John Ashbery
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
beaten and unable to beat
how ridiculous
to continue in this vein of self-torture
given just enough to cling to,
just enough to seal it shut
knowing he is a fool for the dreams he has,
and dreaming them still
breaking hearts and breaking bottles
broken words from beautiful mouths
starving ears lapping up the poison
that craving that won't be pacified
so seeing the beauty he owns the pain
over and over and over and over
refusing to learn the lesson
just for the chance... for the chance
perfect men and perfect skin
perfect body, perfect smile
passing over something 'blemished'
refusing love
surrendering fulfillment
everything wanted but somehow not enough,
surely there is another who has it all
the pretty bow and the pretty soul
with perfect teeth and perfect beliefs
it would be too easy... so we make it hard
it would feel too good... so we stand alone
it would be too right... so we make it wrong
so then, a piece for you... and for you, and you
and what is left but something beaten and unable to beat
and nothing. nothing for him, and nothing for anyone.
how many fractures before the glue won't hold?
it's a tired game, played by tired men
who want nothing but to hunt for something
that is right in front of them.
to continue in this vein of self-torture
given just enough to cling to,
just enough to seal it shut
knowing he is a fool for the dreams he has,
and dreaming them still
breaking hearts and breaking bottles
broken words from beautiful mouths
starving ears lapping up the poison
that craving that won't be pacified
so seeing the beauty he owns the pain
over and over and over and over
refusing to learn the lesson
just for the chance... for the chance
perfect men and perfect skin
perfect body, perfect smile
passing over something 'blemished'
refusing love
surrendering fulfillment
everything wanted but somehow not enough,
surely there is another who has it all
the pretty bow and the pretty soul
with perfect teeth and perfect beliefs
it would be too easy... so we make it hard
it would feel too good... so we stand alone
it would be too right... so we make it wrong
so then, a piece for you... and for you, and you
and what is left but something beaten and unable to beat
and nothing. nothing for him, and nothing for anyone.
how many fractures before the glue won't hold?
it's a tired game, played by tired men
who want nothing but to hunt for something
that is right in front of them.
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