it’s not enough to be
clever; each little sound byte
performance padded; deeper philosophies
cold, carrying scaly sustenance; what is
a poem
if not a poem; a hard
tea-thin blade dimpling the pink
precious flesh of yr mother’s throat
helpless to understand
her dripping wet hair
cast again
salmon short shorts dipping
sweets into coffee
arhythmic now
one cheek lips the seat of her chair
like a slick, shimmering thing fighting
back toward the sea
her feet form and terror in flats, arc gently lifting
the spirit reaches out across formica, bulk tile, thoughtless
typography, salon perfect designer moms
so beauty is baited, youth a barbed hook
tested on her psalms.
[i keep a blank moleskine next to my bed. i’ll wake up in starts and jot words, ideas. recently i rolled out of bed and found this entry. i’m not sure who wrote it. very weird. very minor editing.]
The brain function!
each line flirting dangerously close to each above
suburban new jersey tan
sandy sandals skin cement
The patterns repeating!
another handsome man
illuminates his jaw
foreground becomes background
the first assistant cameraman earns his sleep
and Fellini’s big toe is bleeding again
On the third re-write:
“Terrible! the cruel bees have sucked all the life from these poor flowers.”
The camera pans, eye follows
think cribward, lens exposing film
light through the apartment’s curtain
sounds at city dawn, as an also-ran theatre
absolute silence; safer here between
her blinking lash against yr ear.