....From The Tree Of..................Pain Around Us
|
_______________________________________________________ Yet Another April Edna St.Vincent Millay wrote a poem about April not being enough, and I know just exactly what she means: all promise, pretty in its way, but shorter lived than mayflies. Those too, are waiting in their wondrous wings to dis appoint. Brass Tacks I don't believe in miracles; you'll find no pretty angels posing in this picture. Don't have time to hope, hope's a sucker's virtue- don't have time at all but time's had me. There is just now and now and now and more of it, and oh my I am tired. Extinctions The frogs are disappearing. Elizabeth Taylor, once a red hot mama, dopes herself to drooling, smiles and simpers for the camera. A wedding guest without her shoes, appalling--and where is Captain America, in tights red, white and blue--who kept my faith from falling down, when I was young- when there were frogs like pollen in the wildwood. Exposed Odd to stand where someone always stood beside and feel the wind, cool as loss- leeward where the love was. I'll have to grow a thicker skin, grow used to breeze against me; cooler, more dispassionate, that part of me exposed- that used to feel fat, happy prop of you. The Way Of Things They try to be so sensitive; a pink slip, how benign- how soft, pastel a thing. Joe tried several places on the crippled walk to home to get part time. Something just to buy some bread and canned goods for the weeks ahead. The lights and gas and mortgage all would have to wait; he'd make some calls. Everybody said 'that limp'd hold you up; I can't afford a gimp. Go try the place on down the block, but I'm afraid they hired some aliens last week. The goin's cheap that way.' No one knew of anyone who'd hire a fifty eight year old for anything a teen could do for less. Last night I saw old Joe and he was decked out like a chicken right in front of that new fastfood place in niggertown and someone fired some bullets from a nine that had him dancin. The Visit After living like a mole for a week- he invited her over. The curtains drawn completely up till then so that anything could be lying about, and he wanted to make such a good impression: that he was doing fine, just fine that life goes on, whether or not she casts those dark, witch looks his way that used to make him giddy as a child tumbling for her, pratfalls, hats with hidden rabbits; verses- verses by the ream rolled at her feet. First thing she spied was a love letter heavy on the pining, and the last thing he saw as she walked back out the door was the way she was always shining- even in rain. Why The Whale Sings Onyx depths vibrate with a massive low melody. In moonlight, comes the tail. Giant as an ocean liner, blubber scorpion rises up and slick with ocean, shows its split wing- slaps back and disappears, but it may surface; capsize what you ride in. Mournful are the sounds it makes repetitive as grief, the reef reverberates with song so lost and haunting, sonaring its lonely heart; fish to fish and dreaming love as isolate as islands floating- not another isle in sight. Hoping in the cold, chill depths and fervently, to touch on something solid that will love its great hump back, forever. The bigger the thing the bigger the longing the larger the anger when thwarted, left bereft. Mouth Of Blood Once grafted as part of something else, the severed disbelieves the act of severing. 'Never' is the faltering place. Each time, that word will not translate. Leaves the sayer with a mouth full of blood- the wound's too new, but give it time. Life loosens what feels part of you. Fitted with prosthetic forgetting leg, the first few steps away are hardest. Specific Gravity Carry your own weight as luggage shifted through a long, brown corridor 40 watts of light- to find you've overpacked. Simply have to heft it pushing air that's suddenly lead, and pushing back. There is excess of flesh; you puddle when you lean to tie your shoes. Laces jump from fingers that were deft once- lack of certainty; belief in shape, the feel of things- your face is unfamiliar. Your face, the world, the dreams are someone else's; that person lives in a lighter frame and sapling happy with scores ahead to become a part of the stand of wood, unyielding- still though, here you are full grown, diseased- and heavy/ slow. The Making Of The Calf Alright no foolin now this is make or break, these lines are what I'm dangling from in this upended cup called life where every act swirls- leaves like tea leaves left behind for some poor sods to find and figure out just what in hell God had in mind when he made me, so this is first: I was born a favorite child a girl child of a weekend drunkard nearly a decade past the first two of his life. I was like the only sun the real son didn't count, and this was such a frightening burden, having sun inside convinced that only I could shine on that split, darkened life- grew in belief that I was center to all the broken fathers, pleased in any way I could spin a web, whatever was made up, made whole and strictly to the letter of what fed fire or need---- I pleased- that's what I do, and only god knows in his infinite mercy what I am- between the 'you and me' there is a membrane of non permeable skin I'm within and you're without; I see but never feel the injured texture of your longing. I've had practice being numb, but never seeming it. The sun's gone down so long ago, the darkness is a friend I never have to shine to get to know. On To Page 21 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
|