Some say the tambourine holds the scurrile of its own shake
‘tween its rind and rims
casting chatter like an obligation
on our listening while we baste the scolded, sunsetter
skies with glances, calls, utter and tormented staring, and base hope.
I believe the percussive rings rattle longer for wantonness
Like the dying path of lightening on closed eyes
or
more perfect remembrance of thunder through thumbtips on a hazard steering wheel
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Hotel Montage
I’m naked and the green apple bolus I work
near to chokes in the back of neck/ the girl in the lobby holds her own hands/and the English
work the room.
One substantial moment after another in Beverly Hills
(far greyer and broken down than you’ve been led to believe)
who holds true as a pistol under a pillow.
I will not transfix in the heart of america’s worst city, nor settle for less, or expect
those hot dying sunrays to brown our insides clean. Too alone for cryptisisms
too married to my work to carryon through this sand.
near to chokes in the back of neck/ the girl in the lobby holds her own hands/and the English
work the room.
One substantial moment after another in Beverly Hills
(far greyer and broken down than you’ve been led to believe)
who holds true as a pistol under a pillow.
I will not transfix in the heart of america’s worst city, nor settle for less, or expect
those hot dying sunrays to brown our insides clean. Too alone for cryptisisms
too married to my work to carryon through this sand.
Monterey Blues
At a whale house, the Mazda pr man tells me that it’s black
and white on Cannery Row.
That’s not a poetic phrase. Really, its here up high in Monterey and that’s what I was told. He Says,
That deepening shadows are endemic, but don’t spread. Fall structured instead. Broken at least in two
dark and light,
north and south,
Like a back break
Like a bisector broad face.
and white on Cannery Row.
That’s not a poetic phrase. Really, its here up high in Monterey and that’s what I was told. He Says,
That deepening shadows are endemic, but don’t spread. Fall structured instead. Broken at least in two
dark and light,
north and south,
Like a back break
Like a bisector broad face.
If The Alamo Had A Boathouse, I Would Be In It
If the Alamo had a boat house I would be in it
writing a poem – sons of clean-calved Texans – while curtained
by a rose of green heartwood too lush for this desert stone sacrament.
Hailed by Travis and hurricanes
these staged stones may have baked for a few days, sucked blood, and fell silent; had not
teams of signing ladies laid it plain.
Had they pitted in the lofts of Pharos,
cadre would have lightning roped-a pyramid
instead of sticking idly by four palace walls, sweating drear night, and a fruitless homestand.
Boathouse stays humming through reverie
Five electric fans, green grass, and thee.
writing a poem – sons of clean-calved Texans – while curtained
by a rose of green heartwood too lush for this desert stone sacrament.
Hailed by Travis and hurricanes
these staged stones may have baked for a few days, sucked blood, and fell silent; had not
teams of signing ladies laid it plain.
Had they pitted in the lofts of Pharos,
cadre would have lightning roped-a pyramid
instead of sticking idly by four palace walls, sweating drear night, and a fruitless homestand.
Boathouse stays humming through reverie
Five electric fans, green grass, and thee.
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