Sunday, September 30, 2012

Peculiar Bouquet



Peculiar bouquet,
mouldering pulp paper:
Dennis
the Menace, Tarzan.
       
Lois Lane. Hot Stuff.

Little Audrey.

The persistent beat
of late-afternoon August heat
on tarpaper roof,
attic garage barn,
the one window 
open wide,
slight summer's breeze.

Outdoors,
sky triumphs:
clear and vertical and lost.
Hornets nest.

Indoors, splintery
wood. Strawberry
blonde, freckle face, stands,
unbuttons.

Unzips.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Fine Points



For some,
'tis prissy, hermetic 
poise.

That's fine.

For others,
a grand slam, heroic
noise.

That's fine.

For me,
I like what I do.
I hope you do, too.
(I really do.)
But if not?

That's fine.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Crossroads



At a crossroads, horizon misty
and still
as Loch Lomond...

You forged the way, once upon a time.
At your ankles, one-eyed cat trotted along.

Compass in palm, determine anew
the reason, 
the rhyme!
If your path sublime,
cat will jog 
with you
again,
for many a season,
many a song.

The heavens embrace ghostly
trees, dream love, twist of lime,
missed,
a dust of rime.
Blonde bureau gently lit
in blue,
contents arranged. Twilight boils
above.

Ye tak' the high road...

Thursday, September 27, 2012

On a Shelf




Boston traveler
on a journey,
on a shelf,
in beveled jar.

(Late! A walk cut short, scurry back...
But wait!
Pick up side of road
shard, 
toss aside,
where 'twill 
cause no ill.)

Talons clutch your heart
no more, 
no more eely tentacle,
paper ballerina. Swoon,
a star,
concertina tune,
et'rnal. Love us from afar,
we who remain
anchored to earth, 
rent by scar, wed to
mundane, mired in
bedeviled tar.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Walk in the Woods



Everything
is fashion
after a fashion. Become 
the one
you hate; you
may learn to love
yourself, strange clown
draped in weight.

Become.

Vast forest,
orphan'd hickory trees, 
weeping weak, weary, 
ineffable unease.
Drooping leaves
of glinting glass,
felt sky, then...
stretch of molten grass... 

(Skim along, mean sun.)

Become.

A horn strays on naive night.
Single petal,
a rose...

Become.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

'Tis Autumn



First faint crush,
gentle copper
blush: 
green giving up ghost 
to RED,
segue, café au lait.

Cat a-brisk,
tail a-fluff!
Whisk!

Olé!

Fat Girl, 
O.P. and Max.
In walked Monk,
added a felonious
plunk..!

Opus de bop...

Harlem,
the Hudson.
Autumn,
a Hudson.
A Merc!

Pontiac! Cadillac!
Flapjack stack!

Fortuitous preamble,
an' shit.
A ten-spot well-spent,
an' shit.

Dah DEE dot!

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Dead Doll Eyes



Dolls positioned 
equidistant in a car
the exact size of Kansas,
a charity case.

Late-afternoon... eventide...

Four dolls positioned in terms of
disengagement,
each staring out its
personal window,
dead doll eyes scanning,
scanning for Japan,
as their car,
the exact size of Kansas,
a charity case,
barrels.

One dolls nods,
its eyes dull:
dead doll eyes.

Night envelopes.

A Mack truck, down the highway approaches,
its headlights eat
the road,
burn the stars...

Friday, September 21, 2012

Nitro (for Petra)





The bells, the bells...

Celerity of hare.

Power
of myth: never
underestimate.

Squirrel runs,
hops, skips: pauses...
runs, hops, skips across
green yard, oracle
branches overhead.

Cello, slate
oven
Beethoven
string quartet...

"A bomb exploded..."

The Baedeker torch.

Hank of hair.
Ruby glare.
Walking.
Talking.
Dynomite.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Lamentable



Saintly
beasts of bigotry,
sauntering tarmac, 
twisty maws, red eyes,
despise the thighs
of cyanide sighs,
size of paws hypnotize.

A place where loneliness and
desire intertwine,
daring
without committing
to committees.

More fulfilling,
more dangerous...

More.

Crocodile
smile, pixie hair:
delightful!
Sinister! Help in form of 
ambitious flailing.

He sells his wife's
womb.

He tells his wife's
womb:

"I think you're the cause of all this."

Gloom.

I love mountain scenery,
greenery,
small hotel, motel,
holiday 
abroad.

Sunlight streaks
across Syrian tiles.

René Urtreger holds
sway, sexy,
bittersweet, boulevard
lament.

Cement. A new leaf.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Ode to an Opium Addict





In dream,
he saw, he saw
Abyssinian maiden,
damsel with dulcimer,
more...
Sacred rivers running,
caverns measureless,
sunless sea,
'neath pleasure dome.

Released from fears...

(Now there creeps
in a thought, she sighed,
that p'raps he was
too trusting,
hence he died...)

Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Other Side of Venus



I don't care
to compete with Venus 
waiting
waiting
waiting
for a bus
at the corner of 12th Street and Vine.

On one side of Vine:
a soaring city teeming,
beaming,
gleaming,
seeming.

On the other side of Vine:
desert receding 
to distant horizon,
deserted by, even, deserters.

Sun diminishing,
moon inhaling,
stars focusing...

(Safely alone, locked in rented room,
Arthur Childs bangs his bald head bloody against
the mirror full of terrible
fish,
big fish,
little fish.)

Silver desert
silver night:
secretive cacti and pearly  
rattlers and slithery lizards and
dreaming birds and
spindly insects (mandibles opening... closing) and
whiskered rats, nestled families of whiskered rats and...

I don't care
to compete with Venus 
waiting
waiting
waiting
for a bus
at the corner of 12th Street and Vine.

But a cup of coffee with her
could 
be good.

Walk with me
as autumnal leaves
tumble
crimson and gold
in wonderland, misty...

Walk with me
to a desert,
silver, primeval,
vibrant, reverberant.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Morning Star




Won't you be
a movie star,
a shooting star,
a morning star?

(Don't you go
away.)

Movie Star
News
and gut-bucket blues
and tripod bottles of
(fuck it)
booze,
c'est les
muse...

(Don't you go
away.)

32º east of the sun.
17º west of a comet, 
seems good for nonce,
Ponce
de Leon,
flowing neon 
knight,
flowing, glowing,
vomit.

(Don't you go
away.)

The mailbox
across the street
has been half open for
over a week, 
looking like a drooling
imbecile.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Everyday (Outcasts)




It's a little
closer...
day by day,
that day when you
die
or lose an arm
or a leg.
Or maybe just your hearing or eyesight
dim...

Cancer? Inoperable cancer?

Closer,
by the day,
the hour...

(You are 
bloodthirsty because of 
your unquenchable
optimism.)

Everyday, it's a-gettin'
closer,
goin' faster miles a minute than a roller
derby.



Thursday, September 13, 2012

Even Linus


Just after four
one 
October Friday,
the sky liminal, lead,
dead
branches swooning,
the Peanuts gang
cornered good ol' Charlie Brown
in the alley behind
the toy shop.

A sock was stuffed
down 
his throat, his shorts yanked down,
down
to his tiny cartoon
ankles.
Charlie Brown was pinned,
face down, 
to the filthy ground,
face mashed into used condoms,
mud, dead bugs, debris,
dogshit.

Charlie's zig-zag shirt
was indelibly soiled.

"Mom's gonna kill me!"

Lucy forced a dirty Coca-Cola
bottle up Charlie's pink
behind.

Charlie cried
and prayed,
prayed to Jesus. 
He prayed that the glass wouldn't
break inside him, 
prayed to Jesus
that his pint-size pals would just
STOP!

Agony...

(On the street,
a stone's throw away,
parents brisked by,
unseen and unseeing.
WOT! WAH! WAH!
WAH! WAH! WOT!
Voices sounding
just like trombones. None
broke
stride.)

Charlie whimpered
and cried, 
tears and snot and spit
flew off his comic strip
face. And he
prayed to Jesus,
out loud,
a wail.

The Peanuts gang
just
laughed.

Even Linus
laughed.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Bloody Old Sun





They sit in a squat
split-level, 
he and she
and three
boys,
disengaged.

A split-level,
one of many,
one of too many,
squatting,
not
far from a shore,
disengaged.

He's the dentist,
a bore.

She likes TV.

"Shush!
I'm trying to watch
tee VEE!"

Blonde, his
hairline ceding 
to skin,
hair as flimsy 
as his gait.

Brunette,
her lumbering eyes as flat as Spanish
rust.

A shot in the dark,
a pitch in the 
pitch, bottles clanking like
lucky coins.

The boys, 
all three:
squint-eyed, 
curly copper,
speckled like the Milky Way,
smirking.

The milkman: 
squint-eyed, 
curly copper,
speckled like the Milky Way,
smirking.

Bloody old sun,
sullen oaken sultan,
drenching the sky
(alabaster like salt
water taffy):
bloody old sun,
art thou 
bloody well done?




Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Slants




Vines
procumbent, primal,
pale.

Scores
of blue cobras
(irradiant, purring,
sorting) in highland grass,
poised to descend,
overrun bulwarks.

(Alcoa. Coca-Cola.)

Vines
clamber over crumbling
mansions, stagnant swimming
pool blooms,
luminescent.

Tympani!
(harp...)
Piano chord...

She was
Party member,
via Milan:
articulate and
thorough and
feverish and
earnest. Above
all, earnest:
bed-headed, not coifed.

Bottle
green lacquered masque,
tarnished turbine,
weathered 
telephone
pole,
enameled pin...

Tailspin bandits babble
on and on,
on and on.
Pursed lips tipple
on and on,
on and on,
on and on...

Putting down pub's pale ale,
she sneered,
"He's an asshole."

Courtly quislings,
presiding a quad's
ceremony, 
cemeteries skirted.

No longer
the quaint summer idyll of 
lake, Apollonian ideal
and badminton.

"Who cares
about Virginia?"

Ants sleep
Persian sleep,
thrive in
a collective One.

"I grew weary, the 
red-faced drunks,
bellowing, repetitive."

Licorice and sherry
honeybee
rustles, spies suns.

Cut
the tether, float 
free
and distant.

Drift. Go on...
Marx & Lenin just might approve.

Avanti!

To the ramparts! Irradiant! 

Avanti!