Archive for March 8th, 2011

Wanting My Dead Heroine V. 2

Millions of strands, perfect shape, coffee-brown, curls for play,
ecstatically-sharp passion with big eyes which were calm but so powerful.
Her power pulls all of me like fur from huskies into a vacuum.

She loved Respighi, louder than all the other sounds. I love loud.
She wrote to music. I would have shivered and written with her.
We would have moved our hearts to the music and locked eyes.
Pines of Rome. She of the Pines would have been my lover.
I would have licked every part of her. I wear droplets
as I air-conduct the Pines with perfect knowledge, institutionalized spirits.
I want to mix batches of Roma with her, making her shake tight curls,
watch her eyes as she smoothly places both palms on my cheeks
with these tasty fingers that meander in the most affluent way.
Tough fingers that know all there is.

She loved Neruda. She was marvelous with surreal etchings.
Surreal is what I hunt for, even when my dark, wet, wool blanket
has me stuck in bundles on floors who don’t care for me
and sneak stabs of shark teeth into my tough fat when I finally sleep.
She would have hung from the fan and sprinkled poems on me,
blowing kisses and shaking her tight curls, laughing mouth open.

Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
Women who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive sexuality
that is deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains.

She killed herself and I know I would have saved her, resuscitated her sharp eyes.
I would have saved her for me. She would have written for me – Deep, hard poems.
She would have held me and blown in my ears while I soaked in her words.
Women who love art, they are my chocolate mousse.
They charge me back to breathing air that keeps me moving and dreaming.

I wish she were next to me now. I would stay on earth for her.
I cannot ever write again for she has said everything that is stuck in my heart.
When I die, I will go where she is. I will search forever.


Still sappy, this is a revised version of the original. It is Wednesday again and time to share the experience of One Shot Poetry Week 36! These Wednesdays come along so often!


, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


Broken and Picked Up

Evelyn at Filling a Hole led us in another duel today. (Check out the last duel if you wish.) Her version is up!

It is difficult to keep up with her talent. We alternated lines and then this time, we were allowed to use any lines and any parts of lines including using parts more than once. The gamblers would say hers will make more sense, be shorter, more succinct and more artistic, but I tried. The original version is below in italics.

Been on shelves, Sails empty.
Broken and picked up, my chains affix me.
With floorboard leaks and roses with violent flu,
Where will you put me?

Burns good, a touch black, read bad.
Relocation nation, my chains affix me.
I traverse billowing hills, new land, no flight.
Where will you put me?

Firestarter resting gracefully,
willing to piss out any flare ups, my chains affix me.
Many thousands of parrots, they sweet talk freedom.
Where will you put me?

Fire my boat through a purple tornado.
Truck and luggage stuffed in my mouth, my chains affix me.
I’ll never be whole again, broken and picked up.
Where will you put me?

Trucks, parrot cages, tricycles, water sign sits.
Rich, rich realtors are along for the ride, my chains affix me
A night is still night, silence still captivating.
Broken and picked up, my chains affix me.

I released them to fend for themselves.
Rivers cut lovely channels, can’t use Yellow Submarine,
And I shall ride in a boat with my luggage and tomorrows.
Where will you put me?

Broken and picked up, where will you put me?
I’ve been on shelves, have held trophies
But now I wish for relocation nation
trucks, parrot cages, tricycles and rich, rich realtors
Are along for the ride, new land, no flight
Rivers cut lovely channels but I traverse billowing hills
And I shall ride in a boat with my luggage and tomorrows.
Sails empty, my boat is powered with my wrecked soul.
Burns good, a touch black, read bad
with floorboard leaks and roses with violent flu
A night is still night, silence still captivating.
Firestarter resting gracefully in an oddly-organic spare.
Water sign sits in the corner, willing to piss out any flare ups.
Many thousands of parrots fire my boat through a purple tornado
I released them to fend for themselves; they sweet talk freedom.
my chains affix me to my truck and luggage stuffed in my mouth.
I’ll never be whole again.

, , , ,


The Magical Wagoon V. 3


I was young and I drove a piss-yellow, Ford station wagon.
A friend called it the “Wagoon.” He said it was wicked.

One time, Jennifer dropped a love note in my Wagoon.
She promised me she would be with me forever.
I knew then nothing bad would ever happen.
I drove my Wagoon, well over the speed limit,
with all of the windows down, even the back one
that might asphyxiate me with the richest exhaust fumes.

One time, I wanted to floor that Wagoon
and fling myself off of the dam and die in flames,
but it never happened and I never knew why.
I was neither drunk nor high.
I was crying in the 7-Eleven parking lot when I came to.
I wonder if it was God.

Jennifer played the violin.
Her entire being would swim warmly through me.
One time, Jennifer left me because I wasn’t good enough.
I know that all sorts of bad things always happen.
I wish I still had that Ford Wagoon, but it was scrap long ago.


, , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Role Model Stuck in Dormancy

A stick figure at the prehistoric Leo Petrogly...

Being at peace and soothing,
not embraced as wise,
can I warn her of boys
when she sees my bad
happenings with girls?

I fear the lady grown
but not grown who thinks
me a joke,
older than airplanes.

She lives here, but I
am no better than boards
in the roof, a stick man
wishing her a good day.
Every day.

I want to be the guru
who teaches her
about loving human beings,
but I am dead fish to her.

I want to show her
how patience works
so beautifully in my life,
but she does not have
enough to sit with me.

She calls me Buddha man,
but I am merely
a recovering alcoholic.
I hope she doesn’t drink
like I did. I pray about that.

, , , , , , , ,


%d bloggers like this: