The Fly

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on The Fly
Aug 252011
 

All our nobility's munched blank by Time;
impossible dreams fit simply
in an unattended trash can
topped by Gower's lugubrious head.

Dead again
in my dreams, repetitive as a horror flick,
unfixed as a workaholic's mealtime
or freckles on a cancerous face.

I worry about bothering to worry,
the WHY of these needles my consciousness carries
more to damn than darn.
Why paper the slide to oblivion with sandpaper?

The august face of a kicked-up possum's skull
mocks my mutable deportment,
my rubbery reckoning with the moment's emotions.
Where now the surprised eye

bright as a blackberry cell?
O possum!  Once rooting for riccola in the compost bucket,
tipping its richness, now a fly
(always the same fly, same fly as ever)

straddles the corpse of a rind
on a mound of coffee grounds
in a moonlight you are done with rummaging,
and I almost done,

rubbing its hands.


Dive, Dive

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Dive, Dive
Aug 252011
 

Clear tape
anchors the motorcyclist's window
thrown up frivolously against
the howl of "onward."

Naked and splayed
as an exhibited newt
staked out flat as a collapsed tent on felt,
I read the accompanying sign:

"Here lies one
dull as the other one---"
It lacks the garish wet that one
finds requisite for life.

Frail light
elongates lingeringly enough
to define my diving bell,
the clear weirdness of here.

Here, without an onward.
A here too full to ask: from whence?
A here deaf with wetness,
drenched with now,

a prismed bubble.


Empty Aria

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Empty Aria
Aug 252011
 

The web of syntax fastens
but does not fascinate,
empty aria of here to there
without the concrete context of content.

I extend my fingerling claw to a thread....

"Filament, filament, filament,"
just like the old so-and-so's bag of beard
threading the elements
whisper-slipped from his brain-sac.

The cotton candy pinks my mouth with glue.

Why dot an I
unless all connects to all,
we know not how?
Lying down together

I say to you what you say to me until we hear it.

A vivifying sample
suspended clear in a petri dish
twists forth its tentacular longing
like a potato eye

bursting to see.


Time-Traveler

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Time-Traveler
Aug 252011
 

Do I long for the life of the Young,
unfurnished by loss?
Every place new, yet familiarly full
of itself, just as it is,
and not disfigured by ghosts,
by odd bits of old decor, absent everywhere
save in memory?

I settle on the stuffed settee
with its price tag jammed in a cushion-crack.
How what surrounds us drowns us!
Even if the flow and flood's
merely memorial, the happenstance and trash
of a past no gloved hand has come
to cart to the junkheap....

Invisible lines
crowd before and behind me,
tenants of Shelley's "Triumph of Life,"
a chain-gang spectacle of hope
leading themselves in a closed circle
like Dante's damned, like caterpillars a-creep;
step, wait; step, wait.

My moment comes:
the grey guard stumbles, I dash for the line,
escape to a featureless plain or ice floe
--either will do--a highway widened
to destination, a pupil aghast
at its own seeing....

myself a mote
alone on the blacktop.


Hell, Darling

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Hell, Darling
Aug 252011
 

Hell, darling,
stares at us across the breakfast table
as we pass the salt and brimstone
and snap the paper

crowded with crowing cowards.

We're chafed by the hurrying goers in the Tube,
the racy lackadaisical others
who groom themselves and consume food
out of sight.

Other places, other faces
eat the intimate knowing of them;
those who remain strangers to us,
to me, really, my dear guest-stranger--

improbable possible lover
full of shifts and slidings, unexpected music
glad as a stack of glasses,
tragic as matches.

Lord, help keep these words elided from my speech!

We eat our words and whey,
sugaring the pus.
Toast scolds
my inner ear's inner aria . . . .

Writing's just
a wounded man's spastic tracks in the snow
--a litter of gesture
against littleness.


Fuck Crutches

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Fuck Crutches
Aug 252011
 

Dinner meats
and beer after beer revealed
a fostering affection flirting
finny and familiar as goldfish
washed from their bowl on the mantle
by our tidalwave of talk.

Your stories were reckless as guesswork,
a blind detective smelling after footprints,
his nose sodden with cold.
I told my hummingbird heart's
inner aria,
flying backward and forward at once.

Down at Der Wunder Bar, sipping lemonade,
I telephoned my flaming doll to declare
"I'm drunk!"
like Zapatistas at the barricades.  We watched
The Charms punk and skunk frantic as ants, while you
barracudaed through two more SoCo's and lime.

"Hurry up, please, it's time,
Hurry up, please, it's time."

Square dawn's backwash
through the frigid windowpane revealed
our underwear, pink and blue,
entwined like DNA at the foot of the bed,
a pair of mating snakes
tight as wrung laundry.


The Zone Below

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on The Zone Below
Aug 252011
 

A purgatorial, picture-perfect Saturday afternoon
pulls her pin-striped awnings down, lackadaisical and O.K.
with limited sky and expanding shade.

I twirl an umbrella drink and watch my toes roast
in the zone below my cool equator's waist
--all centaur once, now nulled to rubbery numbness.

Too lazy to invent, I lie
and note-take connections sifted out by Time,
my editor and better.

What rings against my enlarging ears
still childish and complete?
Full of a whistle's insistence and a tin drum's beat?

"Only you," I would lie,
but you are not here-- my dear encumbrance,
taking the hip-weight of my own imbalance.

I remember our days of ire and fire, burning out
fierce seeds that germinate my present dark,
surrounded by a shade that shadows out the lark.

Do not come again.  Do not!
My downhill backyard is all otherworldly now,
mounded snow and ice frothing at the plow....

Rest, remorseful shade.
Take my sunglasses, explore the Everglades.
Just do not intrude, intrude, intrude

your half-tone tune into my afternoon.
"Tu whit, tu whoo."  How rudely forced.
With my pink umbrella drink I'll beat you back!

Guest ghost, how homeless you've made me--
second-guessing what the mirror insists,
my hard-nailed words unpinned from referent.

Time rolls me like the driftwood dead
my enervation imitates.
Oh la, olé.



 

Jungle Incursion

 [Poetry], Hell, Darling  Comments Off on Jungle Incursion
Aug 252011
 

You know me
talking always,
a Gatling gun of guesses
shooting pillows into feathers....

As fine a time
as that is, whirls and twirls
of dusty angels, feathery stars,
I want solider talk. 

Commandoes who shoulder
through my slop of verbiage,
triangulating sightlines
on the night-goggled target.

My dictionary thins,
my words wasted by AIDS,
helpless helpers
flashed to ash.

Alphabet blocks
tumble from my molting mouth.
We touch them together
until the words glue.