Posts Tagged ‘Glasses’

Tails Side Up

Posted: December 5, 1994 in Poetry
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I wish on every
lucky penny
that I find (tails side up)
for you
for me
for us and wherever we’re going
in all this fog.

I want that my glasses
were halogen knives
to draw and quarter the mist of the
near future:
is it money?
is it marriage?
is it me?
that has you so distant
when I’m right here
holding your hand?

Maybe I’m a chain of flower petals
— all the “loves-me-not” daisies
of the last few decades;
all the dangling lies of the eternal carrot,
a pinata for
the materialism
of our parents’ generation
leaking into my soil.

But all I ever wanted from money
were my lucky
(tails side up)
pennies.

I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.

Rabbit Girl

Posted: October 22, 1992 in Poetry
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wet rabbit girl,
where do you go?
know puzzle piece fits you
and my rainbow glasses miss you
when you’re gone so long.

private poetry
to roll in and chew
– a mouthful of wet paper,
foam caught on a branch
in a river.

I stand as a boy
with both hands
up and out, offering you
my heart
with hopeful eyes.

if not, I’ll go home.

La Cascada

Posted: July 24, 1992 in Poetry
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Water falls as the hair and voices
Of nymphs at La Cascada.

Removing my shirt and glasses,
I place my eyes and nose
Through the surface of the pool
To be bathed by hands of water,

Falls like silver tinsel
Or ribbons of moonshine
And moss-maiden hair
Perpetually combed
By the white fingers of
La Cascada.

Her touch upon troubled features
Is like a lover smoothing covers,
Leaving pearls upon your eyelashes
for the morning.

Geoff Stearns rose dripping
from the ocean strung with
seaweed and shaggy hair
but without his glasses
which the mermaids claimed
for the memories.

Butt’s Up

Posted: August 15, 1991 in Poetry
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oh yeah.
I wasn’t even
allowed to compete
in the darkie circle
where you were allowed hope.
my identity
was my glasses
and the computer
that was my entertainer.
all the people
I called friends
would have sacrificed each other
in a moment
for a turquoise ray of hope
at possibly being cool.
I wish I could honestly say
that I listened to the Cure
in my dark room
and was depressed,
but I was too busy
pushing away your laughter
by being the first
to solve Wizardry,
gaining some sort of recognition,
some sort of self-respect.
no I was less than cool
to identify with
the solemn cries of Robert Smith
or the wail of Siouxie
– it was beyond me
and my AM radio.
I couldn’t fathom
the courage it took
to compete for coolness
so important to the young
in the early hours
only the text of my
computer games
told me what was real
and how important I could be.
a graphics princess
couldn’t know how sad
her hero truly was.
butt’s up.