the me in gasoline

the me in gasoline on water is a rainbow
of potential sliding around, skimming the tops, spreading then
unraveling with every
exhale of the Bay
shape shifting like a scream
my perplexed smirk distorted then tortured
and mad in the only possible way

the slick bird above me
purple to orange to blue to barely discernible shine –   
oh shine on, you gull, shine on
free from such thin and colorful prisons as this.

the re-reading of The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

wrote a rough rough sketch of this several years ago, just after college i guess. revised slightly here today. here’s a link to the poem, one of my all-time favorites: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

the re-reading of The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

the silence after
roars like a night train
it shakes the house so
that Eliot and I
curled in our green tea
must turn twice, and again

i sense your
presence absent
who to guess that nothing
could be so heavy to move
the weight of all that air
blowing precarious

to and fro, to and fro

Paul Simon is wrong

Paul Simon
says he has poetry
to protect him

I have these
fingers that must
press a pen
must tenderly pour
over a page
or a keyboard and
the poetry treats me
like a patient
bled dry by leeches

no no Paul, these words
offer no relief

they just keep sucking
me dry until