how i lit a match
watched the smoke
do one turn
then leave.
how the porcelain owl
has vacant eyes
watching waiting never moving
and the street
gutters stink like piss.
Category Archives: poem
even men get tired of it all
he is
so tired
of trying to be
determined to be
this other half that
thinks it needs
just another scene
so tired
of endless mind games
reflections same
this other half that
thinks it’s sane
so tired…
[circa the Degas journal, 2003]
an American tourist in Rome (circa 2002)
i take a rest on a dusty rock
that whispers “2,000 years ago
in the valley of the Roman forum…”
and i lean in close
i realize everything:
notice now the graffiti
the red wine making toasts
the Italian playing John Denver
the gelato sliding down your tongue
i watch the wheels of the bus leaving
my breath stolen straight from my pores by ghosts
splendere i come Roma
i wish i could make a study of birds
only takes a handful
of grain tossed,
with that film of dust
settling into the life line on
your right hand,
for them all to come —
where they land and peck
in short calculated bursts
is living room to a woman
whose wellworn face
has the hard lines of a beak.
accepting it
look close to
see the secret–
the subtle shift
of shoulders thrown
back straight.
when the Atlantic coast is your only passenger
tonight, it is done–
the half moon is your copilot
and you find the iconic
Joni Mitchell and Sam Cooke
agree soulfully that
tonight the steering wheel
feels more alive
that tonight,
when the Atlantic coast is your only
passenger sleeping
somewhat restlessly against the window,
you have
but open miles ahead tonight
and your headlights
witness only the
fringe reminder of trees.
if i should die tonight, he says
he says if i should die tonight
know that
i’ve always
loved the curl
of your lip
and to my grave
i will take
the soft curve
of your hip.
October [a poem by my great-grandmother]
Thought it was time to feature Alice B. Johnson, my great-grandmother again with a rather “timely” piece….from her book, Where Children Live (1958). enjoy —
October
October always casts a magic spell
Upon me — I should know, too well,
What nature’s autumn wine
Will do to hearts like mine —
My lagging feet will, somehow, stray
Through dusty leaves, my heart will stay
Beside bright goldenrod
And where pink asters nod.
My steps will pause beside a zinnia bed,
Flaunting heads of orange and of red,
With maple leaves a sheet,
Blanketing their feet —
Melancholy days? Not these!
When nuts fall from the walnut trees,
Must busy squirrels remind me, too,
That I have housecleaning to do?
loneliness is a brick mason
alone means
that they all pile up
like so many November leaves
harbingers each
of skeletal limbs left cold
like a rug dirty with the
piling up of days
that creep shadowy down
the brick hall —
—
a heart beats faint with
prescience that for now
the art is safe.
red bull and vodka
twitch sip long
draw through a thin
plastic
straw twitch
glance the club over
like suited man
lip praises women
flaunting red
twitch sip
hip swagger walk
to the bar as the pull
sounds
like a purr purr
this kitty city needs
a sip smack more
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