Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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the left hand is unclean
newsweek’s little shop of errors
sells the arab street lies stoking terrors
they’re a weapon of mass desecration
clearly hoping to smear their own nation
inflaming Islam’s sensitive standard bearers.
i really had to clean this up. It's now weak, but at least presentable for a family site.
You ought to send it to NewsWeek. Good poem.
I think the only thing I could offer newsweak is a gobbet of spitttle. They are not worthy, I deny them my essence.
LOL.
A little stirred up are you?? :-)
Yes, but I'm cute when I'm mad. :^)
oops, newsweak retracts
venom courses nontheless
serpent bites own tail.
wow. you took essence in a nice direction
i knew the essential
when you held me
against you to hear
the music of your breath
my inspiration
Exquisite!
apartment
I say jeez, and I know
my laundry is clean
and hung out like an advertisement
of intimacy that has succumbed
to suds but its ok, I need
to see the fabric that flaps publicly
with cleanliness in case of random accident
that might leave things wanting explanation
so I have pinned you to the line
on a scrabbed temple to the outdoors
a balcony that by any other name
would still be the smallest stage
upon which we called each other dear
the concrete floor is a canvas that accepts
the drip dry pattern of your fading presence
under the roof that pretends to shelter
the spattered rings left in the dust
which will never be completely exposed
to the washing of the rain, or my imperfect
regrets.
Give it to me straight
We have triangulated
the silences to find the absolute
position of loneliness
What transit can measure
the angles of the landscape
that describe our pointed disagreements
And when we map the places
that submit to the relief of Euclidian certainty
we might graph the finality of our positions
though we ache immeasurably
to disregard the science and curve the spaces
we create to justify our boundaries.
Intelligent design
I stepped into the sun
keeping the roofs of bilbao
from sliding into rivers
of light by my studied
conviction that sighted
by the horizon
and I rested beside walls
resurrected from the notion
that angles are always right.
so when at last sunset
squeezed into purple
night along the surfaces that glided
titanium into stone and glued it all
together with the idea that
form does not fix function
nor function fix design
we touched in shadows
that tumbled us into each other
and found reason
behind the curve.
Self serve
There’s no use
in pushing it
why not fill up
you go to the restroom
and I’ll pump,
but not really
cause its automatic
if I don’t screw it
and swipe too slowly
be mine, be mine, my one and only
the receipt (?) for “yes”
produced like a burp,
the aftertaste of payment later
while you throw the twizzlers
down like a challenge
you can’t gas up without a snack
but I just want to know if
there is anywhere along the road
where we can stop for a real dinner
Summer morning news
There are too many
degrees of separation
for us to say we’re not
hot cross- worded lovers
but the sweat pops
on our skin like
the headline that teases
our interest in bold font.
We are folded upon
each other and embrace
the story within
slipping out of our editorial
carefulness, spreading
the broadsheets with laughter,
letting the coffee cool
while we sport like tattoos
the lessons of the news.
Out of practice
She was a hitchhiker
low-rent rider,
sometimes driver
running on windfalls,
turning on a dime
leaving directions
to the crow flies crowd
reducing the road
to a pattern of parallel
ruts wheeling a straight
line out of circles that
never come undone,
around curves that spin
out the uncareful
whoops to everything
that seemed to her
centrifugal in the end
Swirling in the morning after
whiskey river reveries, and
sailing away over submerged
archipelagos waiting to rise
she remembered there
more ways to be lost than found
like a weed is just a flower
growing in the wrong place
tho everyone’s got to be somewhere.
eureka
Break me gently and descant
for what we have disengaged
is the future in silence that plays
every note-less moment
like the dust that is displayed
in this days last light
And we can’t pan out
that something glittering
from the dross that is lighter
than the air we are currently
riding, for between us
there is just the shaft
That shows everything
in motion as it gilds
with the false hope
of fool’s delight that for which
we would fools be if just
for this approaching night.
The loneliness of Manhattan
Dos passos left
the party early
and everyone
he had impressed
wondered why,
transferring his
passion to reason was
such a disappointment
from one so promising
yet still his Manhattan seeks
its own destiny with the sun
while on daedalus street
the traffic doesn’t stop
tho everyone looks up and weeps
The long distance runner
keeps up the pace,
and tony, tony can’t you hear
the crowd, they’re telling you
to cross the bridge,
tho its not really clear
if you’re getting in or getting out
“How big is America?”
“So big,”
that spread an infant grin
between two arms
that were raised high and wide
sea to shining sea
the manifest to a promise
that leads everyone on to find
the secret of their own labyrinth
where it follows that the thread of fate
is yours alone to trace
and the future is not just a prize,
a goal, a finish line,
for first we must decide
to run, to dance, to ride
to fly , to choose the life
that can't be chosen for you.
Funny, but I was watching an old movie, and the WTC was in the background. I still after all this time,want to cry. So I was thinking at the libs taking offense at the mention of 9/11(Gergen makes me want to hurl). There is no political commentary here, just a bit of emotion, A little manhattan transfer, a little trainspotting, a little loneliness of the long distance runner, a little saturday night fever, a little mythology and a little remembering.
What poets know
Safe to say that the best
cider apples have
experienced a little distress,
windfalls, worms(just a few)
bruises that should be removed
if you care to look for them,
but if pressed, don’t inquire
too carefully cause it’s the bite
of the close-fleshed fruit,
somewhat sparing of its juice
that concentrates the flavour best
the stigmaed flawed and culled
that won’t shine on any market shelf
have a future quite intoxicating
tho they clearly don’t
make for good eating.
still one can impart is savour
to a whole barrel you bet,
who said it’s the bad
apple the spoils the rest
if its cider that you’re wanting.
Lovely to see your work again.
I love your style of writing.
You have a way of adding a little twist in the last stanza that is really neat.
Just because
Eminently careful,
commanding the long view,
Supreme court wisdom.
sometimes you feel like a nut
sometimes its just
location, location, location
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