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Archive for the ‘My Poems’ Category

Merwin, Merwin where are you

One day Andy Warhol will take a photo of all this
and turn it into a Marilyn Monroe triptych
with pink and purple dots
and cheshire cat smiles,
an island where washing machines
curl into smoke bombs
and little shoes wait to be worn

I don’t know if Merwin walked by tonight
Will you cut the wires
Will you show me the detonator
where Vietnam war Vets make games
of door stoops and step landings.

I might slip once winter settles in
I might find my car full of smoke
The dents in my front door might detonate too,
but Merwin, Merwin where are you?

Everybody went, I thought I was going too.
The audience only knows what it needs
She’s fat or she’s skinny or she shits,
She parrots what the tests have already shown.

Slate bombs and firecrackers and jugs full of percolite
little stones
cars in ghost lights beneath fake trees
and blue glazed vases that tell where the arsenal sits
in the condo between the ladders where nobody lives

That’s what keeps you on air
That’s what keeps you on ride
When I step from my house
Who’s on my side

Now my car has black fingerprint dust
and they’ll leave it alone

The first hour they taped my mouth
The second hour they shook my skull
The third hour they blistered my breasts
and now I sit all alone

Even the lover in you cannot bring her home
A performance keyed up that no one can see
an audience that takes to trader chatter
partly somewhat sloppy and partly somewhat whole

pieces of my life taped together in a dress
rehearsal to the death
full-hour programming
I work or I don’t

I cannot breathe
I’ll always be a little late
but no more headaches and no more colds
A fake cigarette in a fake mask mouth
might need a smoke

Once we run out of colors
we’ll know we’re through
the script looks like the rainbow
You got old people
but mostly young

Insiders or outsiders none have defects
She’s not too affectionate
He doesn’t use his paws
He’s a piece of paper
they like to laugh and touch

Keyed up cats and no food dogs
I can make this amount of dirt turn to diarrhea dog shit
Your vagina blood is sprayed on paint
Members of the cult, you know what I mean
The minute you become gods you work without cameras

the minute you put on sneakers
you’re part of the camera-and-sneaker clan
Where a nice old lady sits on a bench
looking for slaphappy rainbows and slicked on skin
The nice couple on the pedestal
has made a request
to cornhusk it and bubble it a likeable best

where humorizing and glamorizing are paid by the hour
I pretend this just isn’t happening
I pretend if I don’t talk it all
she won’t notice
I just stand here and pose
like I did on the slide
as a child in 1975

I don’t believe in ratings
I just shake my dick

Or play a gay boy sick
It’s obvious who’s queer
It’s obvious who’s upset
I’ve decided enough is enough but I still get paid
by third-seat writers who work on the slade

If the signatures aren’t authentic
is the independence real
Jefferson and Adams, they had their fakes

Dozens will view it
I would like to see the show
I’d like to look at my show everyday
I’d like to be a bit easier around people
I’ll calm down now if you’ll please sedate me.

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Old Hotels

I have a pair of opera glasses
gold rimmed in white ivory
that sit on a shelf in my bedroom
next to books I read as a child.
The glasses have a straight handle
long enough to fit in the hand of a delicate girl
who wears white gloves to the theater
to watch Rigoletto,
and has learned not to fidget.

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And Here Face Down

My life begins again
and strange the trees I see through the window
now the shapes of faces and eyes
formed by shadows in branches and leaves.
Now the light of the sun
spreads from houses
on the ridge of that mountain beside me
Up there dead to us
the bitter future of those few
who live there
their speech
edged in teeth
clenched against their sheets
who see torture
edged across the surface of a cloud
the face of a child face down.
The eyeholes of the clouds change
and the face closes.
These are the crying voices
I never hear.
Into my bed I breathe
eager to be taken into someone’s arms
but where is the dawn
and laughter
in that land I do not see.

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Here are the beautiful things

I such curtained

I such

that have surrounded us

like a young lion

and delivered my life.

Here are the beautiful things

your face

I awake in your likeness

I will love you

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The Comb of Stings

The Comb of Stings

I was born on the edge of science
I was raised on the queen of line

I was fed on the bridge of waters
I was crossed on the c. of springs

I was loved on the black of summer
I was lost in a blind of wings

I was fall on the catch of batter
I was rise on the comb of stings

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The Yellow Sweater

Typography and type face,
point size, leading and line length.
I adjust the spaces between your words,

to make sense of the meaning.
The words are there
like the yellow sweater

tangling at the foot of our bed
the night we make love.
The sweater twists in our feet,

jams in the sheets,
tangles in the edge of the covers,
as we fasten and unfasten each other.

Few things in life are clear to people. 
They look into their hands
and forget what it is they are holding,

what it is they want to hold
what hesitates in the water between them —
those lips, those lips.

Did you have those so many years ago,
and one willing to see them,
waiting for them to open,

like words on a page to mine.

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The Triggering Town

All things belong

to the music of guns,

after you’ve put one to your chest

and pulled the trigger.

It initiates everything else in your life —

who you love

where you work

what you eat

where you live.

It is the one thing

you can depend on,

closed around that wound

the act of setting and

resetting the safety

then turning it off.

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