Post by mfwilkie on Apr 27, 2009 1:09:23 GMT -5
It’s April.
It’s night.
And leaves are speaking
in a key of falling rain
flat roofs
disagree with.
Where there are no trees,
liquid with the potential for music
pocks the sand,
becomes the sea.
Sandpipers hide and gulls
are as silent as unborn lambs.
Beyond listening,
?
?
Questions like that have always bothered me.
The askers dump a shit load
of quandary on your head.
Insist you answer. Yet,
you know they’re only looking
for an atmosphere they can breathe in.
Yours has just been totally fucked!
The guy at the Savings and Loan
has a million politenesses in his pocket-protector.
You take his card
and warn your friends.
Glitter is not blinding,
you know?
You know
the days of the week,
the months of the year
all by name,
going forward,
but what year was it,
what month,
what day,
what hour,
and what were you wearing
when you realized
you needed a library card?
“After reading Howitt's account of the Australian gold-diggings
one evening..."*
One evening,
I moved my life
around the corner
to be alone again.
I fed it french fries,
a coke with no ice,
and let it burp into a napkin.
Then, when it was ready,
I let it pace its own level
of paradise
with popped corn
and a movie.
This is where I fight the urge
to write about you in a poem.
To write about you in a poem
is to write about me
engaging a memory.
Even the full ones
lead to loss.
A best friend lost.
Best lover, lost.
Sensory depravation.
All in a NY minute
that will bloat itself
while you compose
your muse and make an exit
in the first couplet in recorded history
that farts.
It’s night.
And leaves are speaking
in a key of falling rain
flat roofs
disagree with.
Where there are no trees,
liquid with the potential for music
pocks the sand,
becomes the sea.
Sandpipers hide and gulls
are as silent as unborn lambs.
Beyond listening,
?
?
Questions like that have always bothered me.
The askers dump a shit load
of quandary on your head.
Insist you answer. Yet,
you know they’re only looking
for an atmosphere they can breathe in.
Yours has just been totally fucked!
The guy at the Savings and Loan
has a million politenesses in his pocket-protector.
You take his card
and warn your friends.
Glitter is not blinding,
you know?
You know
the days of the week,
the months of the year
all by name,
going forward,
but what year was it,
what month,
what day,
what hour,
and what were you wearing
when you realized
you needed a library card?
“After reading Howitt's account of the Australian gold-diggings
one evening..."*
One evening,
I moved my life
around the corner
to be alone again.
I fed it french fries,
a coke with no ice,
and let it burp into a napkin.
Then, when it was ready,
I let it pace its own level
of paradise
with popped corn
and a movie.
This is where I fight the urge
to write about you in a poem.
To write about you in a poem
is to write about me
engaging a memory.
Even the full ones
lead to loss.
A best friend lost.
Best lover, lost.
Sensory depravation.
All in a NY minute
that will bloat itself
while you compose
your muse and make an exit
in the first couplet in recorded history
that farts.
