Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Mediocre Star-Matter

I could be anywhere right now,
Reading my poetry
On a sidewalk bench in Bali, perhaps,
My hair a pigeon’s nest,
Curb-side poet, preacher of the prose,
Each day another rusty penny,
No fancy PC, no notable publication,
Just a beggar with a Dixie cup.
Maybe I’d be somewhere near Idaho,
Hugging the makeshift robes
Of an imposter Jesus in some convent,
Fingers bristling of what it feels
To touch the confess-less hand
Of another body while I’ve still
Breath enough to exist outside
My mausoleum of prayers and psalms.
Or I could be a streetwalker
In the gemmed city of Bangkok,
Slant of my eyes searching the footsteps
Of church men and socialites,
Drunken college kids and uniformed oppressors,
My body a street-side carnival ride
Where stranger men drop their quarters
For an hour or a night,
While my sad eyes flash beneath
Well-lit hotel signs and closet bulbs
Like new pennies.
But I am none of these women,
And who is to say
Who becomes what entity,
Our souls dangling like invisible twine
Beneath the ocean of the sky,
That gaping mouth of whatever random
Universe we each inhabit,
Until the Gods, the elements,
The dusty pieces of hollow stars
Plop you into whatever life you become,
Surreal as a graveyard plot,
Something you never knew until it born you…
Eyes and guts and half-sung lullabies,
As sharp and hot against your ears
As the hum of the stars you once rode atop.

Written For Toads.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Finer Things (A Poem)

I wonder what Bukowski would say
About how badly I long
For the sunburned coves
Of California or Maine,
How boring summer mornings
Find me daydreaming
Of a tiny island, wildflowers
In ropes around my wrists and hair,
How much I’d love to pick with him
Wild berries or crescent-shaped peaches,
Fresh juice sticky on our fingers and chins,
How I’d gather his loneliness, too,
Onto my callousless hands,
Tender the way my heart is when it gives,
Tender in the way I’d kiss
Each wrinkled puck-hole along his cheeks,
Recite to him a trail of my favorite things…
Pink, books, Plath and Yeats…
Invisible things I gather in my berry basket,
Each one unseen, though they mean everything to me.

Written for a prompt at Toads.