For Fuck Sake! You’re always jumping to the wrong conclusions.
You should be thanking him… he was saving my life.
Not that you care anyway, you selfish Bastard.
Eh? What’s not to believe? You’re nuts, it’s all in your head!
Of course it’s glistening, there was a fuck-load
of slurping & munching going on… shit’s in deep.
What? Damn right we’re naked, health & safety first, muthafucker!
The beer & drugs are for the pain, duh!
This is an accident scene not a party, fool.
He’s shaking ‘cause of ‘Venom-Shock’, dipshit!
You’re going ‘round in circles, chasing your own tail, again.
You haven’t even asked me how I am? I could have died.
I’d cry if I wasn’t so God Damned angry with you!
Oh, here we go with your Sherlock Holmes bullshit…
just ‘cause you’ve been lucky enough to never see a snake
doesn’t mean that we ain’t got none, buster…
you’ve never made me spurt but I know the potential exists, right?
You need to check your head, mate, seriously…
turn around and fuck off so we can get dressed in peace.
Leave, go… and in future, if you plan on being so fucking rude…
coming home from that factory early, have the decency to call first.
Summer nights I sat
drinking a bottle of
Ballantine eight year
old straight from the fifth
listening to the Moonlight
Sonata, a fugue for a poet
with no words, a pianist
with carpal tunnel, “Electric
Prunes rock!” he’d said in
an interview before a concert
when he could still play
Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann,
a curtain call Prokofiev toccata
guaranteed to bring the listeners
to their feet. And the long lost
girl who said, “All the poet’s
songs are sad ones, are the ones
with refrains like ‘too much of nothing
makes a man ill at ease…’ or
‘melt back into the night, babe,
everything in here is made of stone’
or ‘I had too much to dream last night….’”
Too much to dream. Last night,
every night, each unwritten sentence
eight years long begins, “Hello, darkness my
old friend….”as if each poem were
something that could only be composed
while paralyzed on the death bed of love.
We can’t do this
Of course we can
We’re doing it right now
She put her hot mouth on me
Spilling her cocktail as she moved
Under the Merry Christmas lights
We’d bought just last year
I watched her ass wiggle as she worked
Black panties still around her ankles
Fingers doing the work I couldn’t reach
Her groans mixed with a children’s choir
Coming from across the street
And I came to the sound of something
to Jingle Bells
That would be the final time
I signed the divorce papers the next morning
by the window
and wished to God it would stop snowing
that we would get some relief from it all
for a little while
After you’ve guillotined me and placed
my body in the sarcophagus I’ve
requested, after you’ve repressed me
and overruled my wish for lindens
to sway at the moment of my death,
a peace will saturate the burning cities,
and the children, ravens on shoulders,
will don babushkas and bayonets,
mourning me for twelve sunrises.
They’ll worship and clutch my image
on lithographed banners. You can’t
masquerade in disguises of my
caricature, for the children will menace you
because the savior of their republic sings
no more. Quarrel among yourselves,
prove you’re not the disease. Flex
muscles, gobble delicacies, allow
your eyes to twinkle. Either offer
them suffrage–declare that your mission–
or squeeze yourselves into the hothouses
of greed, dress in helmets and sashes,
and indulge in glorious last flings, because
the moment electricity ends, they’ll
overrun your battlefield, and you may
commit one or two atrocities, but it is then
that we’ll achieve victory you never knew.
falls upon roses,
and i am
reminded of your
always cutting into my
body with the fangs
i try to forget so we can be
strangers as you demanded
yet i can’t quite manage
for you haunt like
i know you’ve forgotten me;
left me in the past
probably only remember me in amber and scarlet
sunsets that sing hymns in summer
yet for me it is harder
i am always the girl that loves and cares more
here i am caught on the erosion of your
name against my
i should probably bury the hatchet,
but my temper spills over me like a hurricane
choking me out until i forget who i am;
but i cannot let it win
for i am love and light and so instead of burying the hatchet
i desire to bury you.
I’m squeezed into a picnic table
with a bunch of people I don’t know,
dragged to this party by my sister
for free beer and food. In between
bites of a fat cheeseburger, I hear
the bald guy in the Yankees t-shirt
at the end of the table say, So, Ronnie,
how you been? Haven’t seen you
in a while. I’m doing better these days,
answers the guy opposite me. He’s got
the blown dry hair of an 80’s porn star,
now streaked with grey by the last thirty years.
Both my parents died last winter from cancer,
he continues after wiping spots of mustard
from his mustache, only six weeks apart,
so that was real tough. The whole table murmurs
I’m sorry, watches him take a sip of Diet Coke.
Yeah, he continues, they left me the house,
so I’ve been living back there since March.
It was weird at first being there all alone,
but now I’m sorta used to it. He takes some
potato chips off his plate and eats them slowly,
and while staring off over my shoulder
into the neighbors’ yard, Ronnie says almost dreamily,
Sometimes I go into my mother’s closet and look
through all her old dresses that are still hanging
there. Is that so weird? I feel the table become still,
all I can hear is the ballgame on tv coming
from inside the house. The bald guy stands up,
says he’s going to go grab more beer for everyone.
I take a long, last swallow of Coors Light, shake
the can a little bit just to make sure it’s empty.
I look down at my plate, and push some cole slaw
around with my plastic fork. Looks pretty damn watery,
must be store-bought, I can’t help but think to myself.
Nowhere near as good as my mom used to make.
As I sit, and watch life go by
I let my feet swirl and twirl
To the beats of the guitar of my heart
A golden one it is
And its notes are played by a mysterious being
A being I claim to be my muse
My sole lover
My reason to hold on to life!
I just sit, fold my hands under my chin
And watch life unfold itself
Pray, its gardens are beautiful
But I am not seduced
I never have been
Why, if life is to end
It is surely a dream
If life is to end
It is not be fretted about
If life is to end
It is not real
And the beats emanating from the guitar of my heart
Bid me to smile at clouds
To dance, while keeping myself still and composed
To paint, while keeping my hands tied
To write, while keeping my pen capped
Pray, of life and its many stages
I’ve had enough
Of life and its many stages
I’ve seen enough
Now, I wish to breathe the exalt of newness
I shall do as my muse bids me to
I shall follow his pulls
By simply swirling and twirling to the tunes he plays
There, on the strings of the guitar of my heart!
Think mercy balanced on its
treble notes, apotheosis tipped
soft-soled, petal-skin sheaved
like pressed beads on salt flats.
Hidden for years under pious
slabs, it stirred halo-hooked
with silver scratches of sundials
caught ineffably dearth, fertile
soil spread rot like seven years
farmed out in beetles and rain,
sucked in scent of burned drift-
woods. Then the glowing hours
streamed from the ends of their
fingers wreckage torn salient
pale, with the dark already gone
out of dull eyes, drifted back
to the terminus of annihilation
on taut, splayed wings, allayed
as a graceful arc of light cast up
nerves’ panoply, between buds
of resilience and yielding, as
the earth returned to the folds
of gospels and prayers, forklifted
serpents to its wingspan mouth.