I like my drunk poetry best
no matter what I say
when I’m dry and sober.
you know, the real emotions test
is being genuinely gay
when the damn day is over.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
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I want to spin the taps
on the faucets of your hair
and watch your tresses
flood the pillow here beside me.
yet, never alone, the company
of those who flicker candle-flames
always keep me entertained
with wishing you were here.
no sleight of hand by any season
could console me for the loss of your smile
of girlish enthusiasm if a trick of my own
has caused you some fleeting delight.
I still write you
little poems of little consequence,
yet long for a messenger
– be it bird or boy –
to send them to you, fresh from my hand
a thousand times a day.
The winds of last night
have blown the limbs from trees,
torn the leaves from branches,
and scattered them on the sidewalks
like dull confetti and still streamers.
The beauty is in the destruction;
the tree trimming of clouds breath,
shaking every blade of grass,
stripping the dew away
like pearls silently falling from a string.
Japanese Poem Imitations
Posted: May 2, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beach, Coffee, Eye, Flowers, Girl, Spell, Tide, Trees
I
when flowers bloom in
many fiery colors,
I imagine the
bright sparkles which I,
in your eyes, no longer see.
II
bamboo grows along
one part of the lagoon beach
where the iceplant twines
below it, a dress
around the feet of a girl.
III
at the end of this
I recollect the times I
have failed to achieve
the smooth of the tide
and the soft wind in the trees.
IV
coffee reminds me of
a brew of roots and beetles
which you’d make me drink
and I would cough to
say I knew your spellcasting.
“No!”
“Why not?”
asking the question
and not taking no for the answer.
Impressions
Posted: April 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Cat, Dreams, Eye, Flowers, Fountain, Gold, Heart, Mountains, Sleep, Stars, Tide
you’re a kitten curled up
after a day of curious exploration,
ears twitching with dreams
and unconscious poise,
lulled asleep by the intricate rhythm
of your heart rattling in its cage.
you’re two shiny blue eyes like children
on Christmas day, lips slightly parted
and twinkles streaming like the stars
in the Milky Way, one languid arm
of our beautiful, beautiful galaxy.
you’re one sunrise that explodes slowly
over sleepy violet mountains,
the opening of a gigantic flower
or a treasure chest at the end of a quest;
all pouring gold in fountains and cataracts
into the tide around my feet.
like an addiction, an Indian
– scalped me and I liked it
without my hair to hide behind
naked and bare to the attacks that never came
from between your ears,
just soothing fingers
which gripped my arms for a moment
and then let go like a diver
leaving a springboard.
Cliffs Look Good in a Certain Way
Posted: April 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Damn, Earth, Grass, Green, Grey, Love, Ocean, Sky, Woman
the most damnable thing
is that I’m wistful, how it could have been;
a cliff by the ocean, powdery earth
and a fistful of the tough grass
to keep me from falling
into a grey-green sky;
an ocean with waves and tarnished sparkles
to lap at the leaden bluffs
where I first remember dreaming
of being in love with a woman.
hopefully I’ll be
hushed up to your family
over a couple of awkward conversations
where you tell relatives
that I’m fine
and then explain the mistake.
somewhere I have left a coal,
a cancer, burning; fond memories
concerning my love for you
and I am loathe to stamp it out
or fan it into flame.
there is a sadness in my eyes;
they’ve watched the indecisions
that make me so utterly human
– this is how I make the time
that is worn on my face.
I
catch myself
looking at my hands
and how I trust
in them.
they hold and play,
they press and grasp and fold,
capable of killing,
forcing
things
along my way;
they’re just barely under control.
and for a split second he paused
figuring out how he got here,
a room full of people dressed in color
swirling as if the floor
was too hot to touch.
he never wanted as much
to stop the music, wonder where
he learned to move like this,
a stutter step that you can’t resist
admiring: sculpture in motion –
everyone knows he creates as he goes
– so it comes full circle like his limbs.
now you move in your unconscious arts
soaked like rain through every pore;
your love for your form
is inconcievably lovely,
believable, beyond me –
transforming, like a dress worn
for a special occasion:
a fantastic ball or a secret liason.
Untitled Poem #160
Posted: April 29, 1993 in PoetryTags: Beer, Friend, Joy, Light, Love, Smoke, Untitled
what is life without a smoke and a beer
freely given and freely recieved
like the love from your friends?
life’s little joys to be consumed
and forgotten in the moment.
happiness tends to be transitory
like the light zipping past you from the sun
or one smoke and one beer when they’re done.
heated with rose wine
from a big cheap bottle,
I immerse myself in beach sand.
full and sun-warm,
like the fat flavored wine,
like Mediterranean sea-air;
I remember through the hiss of the surf
how it was like blood down the back of my throat,
that wine,
and how I must have been meant to drink blood on the beach.
Imitation of Charles Bukowski
Posted: April 27, 1993 in PoetryTags: Green, Money, Red, San Diego, Wine
once at a stoplight in San Diego
one middle-aged bum in a dirty red flannel
asked me for some change ‘cause he had a couple children
I said that’s not the reason but I can guess the real one
he said he lost his job just a couple days ago
said he had no money and he didn’t have a place to go.
the light turned green but I asked him what’s the money for
he said port wine; I gave him a dollar sixty-four.
Untitled Poem # 159
Posted: April 25, 1993 in PoetryTags: Heart, Magic, Mind, Smile, Time, Untitled
the heart is a marvellous thing.
it does not think with logic –
it “thinks’ in magic
so your mind usually takes
a bit of time to justify
what your heart says is right.
meanwhile your heart is smiling
and has its arms crossed
over its chest, very comfortable
especially if you’ve listened.
I want you to see green
the way that I see green
in all of its fluorescence and grandeur:
a lawn and a suit
and a rain-clean forest in Hawaii fed by moss-strung waterfalls,
frog skin and garden hoses and glow sticks,
the bindings of books with gold letters,
childrens’ animated watercolors;
the hue and cry of the lifelong green
of the ocean where kelp beds hang,
or of a new car,
or of an apple.
what are my admissions of guilt
even going to mean to you? nothing,
just words on a page – only I
will be fooled that it is some great testament
to poetic honesty,
something that will move somebody.
not likely – each one of you
has your own set of things to admit
to yourself – dole them out like movie tickets
but there’s no need for you to come
watch my Saturday matinee.
the decline of Rome was a beautiful thing:
around the Emperor you’d laugh and sing,
pasted on smiles over plenty of warning
while the city skyline is crimson with burning.
spinning like the gold of a fumbled coin,
maybe I’m ready to leave in the morning
but not tonight
while I’m this beautiful man…
I tell you these dreams are hourglass sand
and I won’t even fight
to keep all of this that you think is real;
it’s always been mine and it’s no big deal.
if Rome is burning, then that is fine,
I won’t lift a hand but to drink more wine.
let go of my heart.
I don’t know
how you retained that part.
I thought I had cut
all of that sentiment out.
it seems like a Devil’s wart,
growing from the palm of my hand,
growing from the bottom of my foot,
growing like a tombstone from the center of my heart
regenerating and disgusting.
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