Posts for June 27, 2015

The poetry is beautiful and rare,
expertly read, exquisitely received,
but I am supposed to be
away, I feel
called by the babbling of the stream
echoing deeply against the darkness enveloping it, drawn
by the lightning
bugs hanging above like strings of Christmas lights, or else entranced by the sparks
floating toward the sky that lies always so
vast here, full of unseen infinities. I sit on the edge of life,
considering
the walk into the dark
that must come next.

Signs
on Alumni Drive
at Tates Creek Road

 “Church Access Only”
“Arboretum Access Only”

 
Mary Allen

Cold concrete walls, secret
passageways, plywood ceilings.
Artillery shell pops frantic
party favors red-light bumping
bouncing swaying tooth-ground
revelers, jackets piled in corners
eyes closed, saluting disco balls
like stump speeches.

This place once held stern shivering
soldiers with eyes aflame to the sky,
crosshairs spreading jagged flak
instead of bass beats. The blast
of bombs seismic, fragrant
gunpowder black, sweat singeing,
helmets askew, toddlers screaming
a gremlin’s dying breath out back.

Now the noise is careful, curated,
spitfire a cadence (not skyward slaughter),
four-four time laced up boots
don’t march: they dance, laces
uninspired, uninspected, unfettered
by their grandparents’ bloody
toes, air raid sirens put together
in the basements of techno nerds.

We dance, one eye on our jackets,
limbs frayed like knots. We see
open caskets in the corners,
the coroner too busy to count,
so we rave harder, faster, wilder.
If we don’t stop moving
the ghosts cannot catch us.
They are old, mostly forgotten.

It’s cute to use the chanting
of mourners in dance music now.
Like, sad is totally chic, you know?
You know that death looks great
in all-black everything, right,
as long as you don’t show teeth.
Enough booze & kill turns to fuck.
Homo sapiens do both with pleasure.

We are wild-eyed, finger-spread,
hip-gripped, groan-thick, tone-dumb,
snark-edged, skin-scraped, fuck-tards.
The only draft we know is plant-based,
pint-based, so we drink up, understand
the rifle crack we don’t hear,
the bullet we don’t chamber.
We are the spoils of war.

I live to hear your voice.
I love to hear your laughter,
see your smile or frown
as you tell me some small story. 

God, that woman two houses north.
I can’t stand the way she screams
at her oldest daughter and flirts
with the grocery delivery guy.  

The tomato plants have buds,
the butterflies love our flower bed.
The cat actually played with the puppy,
and the puppy actually peed outside.  

Tell me the little things, the flea-sized,
ambered moments in your universe
when the speed of light parts us
and the evening’s so far from sight.

Poem 27, June 27

Awakened by the Storm

I close my eyes.

I look up slightly,

first left

& then right.

At first I only see

an orange glow like sunrise

or sunset,

but the color recedes.

I wonder whether

my process is the one

prophets used

to write their words.

I squint

like I do to adjust

my astigmatism

& all colors blend.

Suddenly, I’m not looking for a poem.

I’m searching for the

llllllllllllllldddddddddddddddddddd,

but I fall asleep before she comes to me.

I should have settled

for the word,

sometimes any word

will do.

My shower delivers absolution
for the day–
washed clean–
forgiven of all impurities–
down the drain
with all that–
a fresh start.
Then with yoga,
the joints lubricated
so movement glides
loose and smooth–
a blessing on my head–
I start the day.

Joggers spill every which way with a purpose.
Women runners do pushups on the pavement.

We yoga practitioners linger
until we realize our teacher has overslept.

Our intention disappears.
Starbucks beckons.