Sitting at my window,
I have seen a scene:
a sun lowered and pulling
my sight behind it,
everything orangeing,
shadowing to grays and blacks.
And with the following black,
I have just finished thinking;
alrights and obscurities,
whats, hows, and thatsfines,
lists and trifles, fights and answers,
laughings and smilings too.
Having just finished thinking,
I'm finished for the night. Ink
drying, I am ready to be sent to
tomorrow. Climbing into my
envelope I fold myself, creasing
at the neck and knees.
The warmth and privilege of
this envelope will not go unnoticed.
The travels I'll encounter
through the course of the night
will not be remembered come dawn.
But at least I'll arrive safely.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Mona Lisa-esque
Everytime she walks past, I hafta rubberneck 'er. She is no striking beauty, no keel-over gorgeousness that'd make me pitch a tent for those legs reaching from the heels to godknowswhere.
But she's no strain to the eye, either. I mean, I don't mind a lot of her. I don't mind most of her.
Her eyes are lightless and curious. They bead like the eyes of a stuffed animal, an inanimate softness with a permanent smile and an absence of thought. And though they don't sink into her marbled complexion (pale, hived, and porous about), they are cradled by the subtle billowings in the wake of the bridge of her slim nose, rouged with the deprivation of sleep, carelessness, and acceptance. Her face is long and worn, 19 going on smoker-50, as if she's got no friends, no joy, and works the day and night shifts just to pass the time. The time of an insomniac; it's somethin' else.
And simply to spite these inadequacies, god made her lips their own. A supple pout, red like an autumn Maple leaf, and looking aroused--engorged-even when she's not. And it's saddening to think that these lips may never have been touched and--at that--so rarely smile, even in the weakness of a smirk. I don't care who you are or what god you follow, you cannot unimagine your imagining of kissing her. And I imagine kissing her, slow and powerful. Slow and powerful enough for each nerve ending in her lips to meet their dopplegangers in mine (being a man of lust and not love). But what lust is carried out gentle and precious? Slow and powerful?
But she's no strain to the eye, either. I mean, I don't mind a lot of her. I don't mind most of her.
Her eyes are lightless and curious. They bead like the eyes of a stuffed animal, an inanimate softness with a permanent smile and an absence of thought. And though they don't sink into her marbled complexion (pale, hived, and porous about), they are cradled by the subtle billowings in the wake of the bridge of her slim nose, rouged with the deprivation of sleep, carelessness, and acceptance. Her face is long and worn, 19 going on smoker-50, as if she's got no friends, no joy, and works the day and night shifts just to pass the time. The time of an insomniac; it's somethin' else.
And simply to spite these inadequacies, god made her lips their own. A supple pout, red like an autumn Maple leaf, and looking aroused--engorged-even when she's not. And it's saddening to think that these lips may never have been touched and--at that--so rarely smile, even in the weakness of a smirk. I don't care who you are or what god you follow, you cannot unimagine your imagining of kissing her. And I imagine kissing her, slow and powerful. Slow and powerful enough for each nerve ending in her lips to meet their dopplegangers in mine (being a man of lust and not love). But what lust is carried out gentle and precious? Slow and powerful?
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Journalist (Exposition)
First meeting through friends removed, I stared
and tried to hear her through the roar of the bar.
But we managed to establish names and ages--
dialogue--the climax of the narrative occurring
when she lifted her black dress to show me she
had scriptor hipped, passing black lace panties....
We exchanged decreasingly casual causal glances
when lips pulled away from one another's ears.
We exchanged subtle flirtationsmiles and eyes,
uprooting my hand from my side to plant it on hers.
So we departed the bar, hopped a red train
and set off to debate ars poetica in Brooklyn.
--"So--why do you think I let you up here?"
aired from her mouth like cigarette smoke.
I sputtered "To discuss poetry?" "Maybe," coyly.
She stopped me, mounted me, and kissed me.
I kissed back, mounted her, and said with a kick
and a grin "I had hoped, but I hadn't thought."
It was nice; we sweat, spit, and our bodies came
away with blue bruises and streaking scratches.
...We smilingly whispered poetry on the floor in the
dark hours of that morning at the end of her bed.
We try to recall what we said, why we felt, how
we were, and remember only the sex and regret.
and tried to hear her through the roar of the bar.
But we managed to establish names and ages--
dialogue--the climax of the narrative occurring
when she lifted her black dress to show me she
had scriptor hipped, passing black lace panties....
We exchanged decreasingly casual causal glances
when lips pulled away from one another's ears.
We exchanged subtle flirtationsmiles and eyes,
uprooting my hand from my side to plant it on hers.
So we departed the bar, hopped a red train
and set off to debate ars poetica in Brooklyn.
--"So--why do you think I let you up here?"
aired from her mouth like cigarette smoke.
I sputtered "To discuss poetry?" "Maybe," coyly.
She stopped me, mounted me, and kissed me.
I kissed back, mounted her, and said with a kick
and a grin "I had hoped, but I hadn't thought."
It was nice; we sweat, spit, and our bodies came
away with blue bruises and streaking scratches.
...We smilingly whispered poetry on the floor in the
dark hours of that morning at the end of her bed.
We try to recall what we said, why we felt, how
we were, and remember only the sex and regret.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
"Anybahdy gotta pen in heah? I'm notta Boy Scout f' chris'sake."
"Faggot, nigger, kike" and the like:
words I've seen carved into white
on tiles, plastics, walls, and boxes
of tissues with knives in order to shock us.
And I wouldn't think to look for hatred and slurs
intuitively in the bathrooms first.
But men seem torn to drive their knives in
or not and consider their silence a sin
because I guess their thinking that this is a must
to write to other anonymous boobs their lusts
of women and hilarity, bigotry and booze
with single, simple-sentence manifestos like "I hate jews!"
And the opinions are grand and the opinions are bold
with the pretentious intention of spreading what's told,
selling to like-minded fools, the young and naive,
who should be so taken by what they read as they relieve
themselves of the burdens of food, and standing in thought
to instead sit and rest for a moment; so deeply sought,
for a chance to abandon our social realities
and in our solitude contemplate those angry misanthropies.
words I've seen carved into white
on tiles, plastics, walls, and boxes
of tissues with knives in order to shock us.
And I wouldn't think to look for hatred and slurs
intuitively in the bathrooms first.
But men seem torn to drive their knives in
or not and consider their silence a sin
because I guess their thinking that this is a must
to write to other anonymous boobs their lusts
of women and hilarity, bigotry and booze
with single, simple-sentence manifestos like "I hate jews!"
And the opinions are grand and the opinions are bold
with the pretentious intention of spreading what's told,
selling to like-minded fools, the young and naive,
who should be so taken by what they read as they relieve
themselves of the burdens of food, and standing in thought
to instead sit and rest for a moment; so deeply sought,
for a chance to abandon our social realities
and in our solitude contemplate those angry misanthropies.
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