Posts Tagged ‘Red’

Floodgate

Posted: February 14, 2002 in Poetry
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Closing my eyes against this real light,
I see warm red through my eyelids
And if I stretch my hand out blind like this
I can imagine caressing your face,
Turning your chin up to taste your full lips
And the salt tang of the sea
That has faerie dusted them.
Hanging out in trees and lagoons;
Spray-painting abandoned concrete;
Stacking records on the autoplay spindle
And rearranging my room
To the crackle of spinning vinyl;
Romping pell-mell over islands
Chased by hunter dogs and fat wild boars;
Floods of experience wrapped in whispers of red hair,
The clickety-clack of eight wheels and nine inch nails.
I know that my every effort to erase what we’ve done
Has come to naught but a floodgate
Open wide of oh my god
I never forgot, only forgot to remember.

One lone onion
Singing in the kitchen,
Singing in its red net bag,
Singing on my cutting board.

He’s singing “Faith”
By George Michael:
Faith will keep him
Whole and untouched.

My beef stew simmers nearby,
Watching and waiting.
I hide around the corner,
Knife in my hand and
Tears in my eyes —
His brothers and sisters
Made me weep.
George Michael never makes me weep.
Wham!

Target

Posted: December 9, 1994 in Poetry
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Look around you
at the wrecked shelves,
the damaged or opened merchandise,
the floors littered with tags,
sale shelves half-empty
with slower-selling items or
taped up single boxes
priced as marked.
See the hanging advertisements,
the red and yellow eye-catchers,
the signs leading to popular departments:
Toys, Electronics, Sports;
Christmas Trees in our Garden Section!
Follow the heavy traffic lanes
by the shopping cart wheel skids,
the grease marks from boot heels,
the ravaged end-of-the-aisle shelves.
This place is empty now —
the midnight wind whistles outside
the blinking store front
on Christmas Day.

Ah, this bright light —
I was a closet Vampyre,
dancing on cardboard tombstones
with flexible skeletons
who beat chopsticks on
overturned Folger’s coffee cans
— it shrivels the flesh
and weakens the bones.
I’ve heard of the process of aging before,
from people older than I
(that was all that mattered back then),
but I opened the door
just by living this long;
it was a voluntary process
to keep myself “sane”.
My closet life still lives —
the dust and cobwebs are real,
cardboard and coffee cans lay around
— it’s a mess just like I left it.
I have little time to clean up,
much less to dust them off and play;
something I swore I’d never say.
I wished to conquer this aging
in this age.
I watched the best voices of
previous generations
wither and fade,
mature and become jaded
as either adults or escapists —
I wanted to outdo them all
by keeping busy
preserving those things
that people forgot to remember:
those things that go bump in the night
and lurk shiny red-eyed in the closet.
This bright light
— reality for those who think it so —
is the bread and butter of adulthood,
and it cannot be avoided
through ignorance or rebellion:
they just won’t go away.
This revelation comes with
the exposure to aging;
the fact that changed my whole game plan.
Closets, shadows, mysteries and skeletons
beating Folger’s coffee cans with chopsticks
are for children and lunatics:
people who aren’t grown up enough
to withstand the scrutiny
of this bright light.
I hold to my original wish —
I have remembered so far
you must bend like the willow
young grasshopper —
Seuss did it,
King does it;
to each his or her own closet.
Oil your hinges,
dust your skeletons,
tune your Folger’s coffee cans:
Magick is the marrow
that runs in those bones,
and still fires the eyes shiny red.

Black Jack

Posted: June 6, 1993 in Poetry
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I
and when the madness comes
she creeps around the corridors,
pausing to stomp on cats’ tails
pausing to drive in rusty nails
and slam subconscious doors
behind my eyes.

II
it would be easy one day
to fall down and stay,
not moving, wherever I was
and not respond to my rescuers;
to get placed away for refusing to speak
or move or do anything for myself.
so easy and tempting, just for a week.
I’m sure they’d find something to do with me.

III
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE:
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I love her forever.
Can I trust her?
I can trust her.
Will I love her forever?
I GO ON THIS VICIOUS CYCLE.

IV
the air was full of birds,
these pigeons and seagullls
that I had disturbed
walking along the beach by myself
wondering if she’s all by herself.
but putting that aside
would we have walked on by
all of this wild-winged fuss
if it wasn’t just me but if it had been us?

V
keep on going until the pen runs out
and finally I might figure it out.
I’m pulling apart flowers for answers
and neither type of petal reassures
me of this thing I’d like to realize
is right or wrong or right before my eyes.
this pile of broken flowers, growing higher
is colored like a cheerful winter fire
but dead without the red that makes it gay
is my heart, ashen cold and worn away.

VI
I’m frozen in the moment
that I’ve jumped from a high place
trying for the water;
it’s not enough to miss the rocks.
frozen
in the
moment.
it is stealing over my face.
look closely. there’s the rocks.

VII
I made it to 21. like blackjack.

VIII
that Catholic skull that I dreamed of
at least once a year since I was seven or eight
was me, laughing at least once a year
that I was still stupidly here.

IX
the idea of breaking
so many hearts,
of making the many upset,
of shaking alll of these folks;
it seems like the ultimate cannonball
in the jacuzzi of life.

Simple Things

Posted: May 28, 1993 in Poetry
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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)

Imitation of Charles Bukowski

Posted: April 27, 1993 in Poetry
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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.