Archive for May, 1993

The Prince of Spring

Posted: May 31, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

for all of my twenty years
I have had one healthy fear:
that Love will find me cold and dry
for being a Prince and held so high,
but my heart longs for fiery blood,
wide-open eyes and Love, true Love,
not courtships played to gain the hand
of the Princess with the tracts of land.
for Love that fountains from my soul
for the heart of a girl who’s honest, whole;
someone to Love me and someone to share
all of my fears with; someone to care.
for I am no better than any man.
a Prince or a Pauper, the same we stand
in God’s eyes you’re worthy or not,
it doesn’t matter, the gold you’ve got.
Love is life’s most precious thing,
even for me…
…the Prince of Spring!
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.
for I am the Prince of Spring.

Simple Things

Posted: May 28, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

so we’re not seeing eye to eye
I think I’ll go splash around in the tide.
you are so beautiful when you’re upset,
it always comes to me as a surprise.

I’ll watch your face turn red and green
and I will listen to what you’re screaming
and when you’re done crying and bitching,
I’ll take you to get ice cream.

such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things will let you smile.

such simple things like poking your stomach
and when I dance and sing you songs.
when you get free coffee at Roma
sometimes you forget what’s wrong.

(chorus)

so quit your sour-face nonsense;
the sunshine rains down like leaves from the trees.
let’s go sit on the grass like mushrooms
and smell the flowers like bees.

(accordian solo)

these silly things just make you madder
when you’re in a crappy mood.
but all it takes is a little persuasion:
you can’t help but lose your blues.

(chorus)

Las Vegas

Posted: May 18, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

one
all these slot machines are screaming at me,
hurling forth these awful noises
like upright pinball machines amplified
and winking with infernally fueled lights,
glowering metal goblins hunkered in military rows.
zombies run them, magnetized to the pull-bars.
coin after coin after coin fed like morsels
to squat and greedy quadripalegics
to be digested in square stomachs,
vomited occasionally into aluminum bins designed
to deluge the immediate area with tinny sound.
the only chairs in Vegas are the stools in front of slots,
the seats around the tables and the high chairs at the bars.
there they go – horrible shrieks and sirens,
running dark-suited security guards
and the beaming house manager congratulating, congratulating
someone lucky enough to give a slot the shits.
night and day rows of rolling eyes and gaping mouths,
so many tiki idols to pray to with offerings of silver.
miracles, healings, wishes granted often enough to other people
to make you believe. over your shoulder,
someone with a wheelbarrow of quarters
is smiling smugly before she’s taxed,
so you turn to your personalized priest
and confess, confess, confess;
give your money to the Church of Las Vegas.

two
you are nothing without neon stripes
surrounded with millions of scarecrow lightbulbs.
it’s a neighborhood gone gaga with Christmas lights;
the competition is too apparent, so flashy –
each hotel, forty floors of cement and steel supermodel,
the strip a catwalk for these gaudy flamingos
belching forth the illusions of winners,
fireworking electrical energy through millions of neon lacerations,
igniting the sky with an unnatural aurora.
each casino like a sick-to-its-stomach smiling Buddha,
pulling people in through its gilded belly-button
to explore the convolutions of intestines packed
with other gaping gamblers praying and dazed,
being digested in the bowels of Las Vegas.
the streets are the most wholesome places of normalcy;
there the garbage isn’t hidden, or snatched up
by a look-quickly-both-ways costumed employee
with a silver handled scooper and a platinum broom,
a golden smile tacked on like a nametag –
part of the uniform – in the streets
the honking of cars is sanity;
the people who live from their shopping carts are sane
because they have no money to spend.
these streets are thronged every night,
poverty illuminated by the neon lights.

Cutting Away Again

Posted: May 17, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: ,

why does my life
suck so bad?
why do I always
whine like this?
why don’t all you fuckheads
leave me alone,
give me some room
to experiment?
I don’t give a shit;
you’re so concerned
with what I need;
so you know
and I don’t,
well that’s wrong!
I know what I am
at any given time.
it is my life
and if I don’t like it
it is my right not to give a damn.
get off my back.
get off my back.
get off of my back.
get off.
get off.
go away and be sad and confused
that there’s no communication,
that there’s no understanding
me. fuck!

For Jamie

Posted: May 16, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I still dream of the way
your long brown hair
fell over my face
in the wind in the park
as we played with the camera
and rolled on the grass
down the hills by the Mission
in a blanket of stars.

Untitled Poem #163

Posted: May 15, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

when the dew-drops poise
on blades of grass I like to
wait until they fall
before I kiss your smooth brow
when I must wake you from sleep.

Migraines That I Don’t Have

Posted: May 15, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

you know I hate to leave you
when there’s that buzzing in your ears
that means your headache’s bad
even more than otherwise
because so miserable
and so fragile, in pain,
you look more like an Angel,
saddened by the world’s tears.