A found art poem. Based on the real, and not so real, ads from the Weekly Alibi. Part one of however many we need.
I SAW YOU
TO "DAMN YOU’RE SEXY"
I’ve got the red, red
hair, but no tattoos.
Carried a parasol
at the parade and
wore a feather boa
to Renee’s. Did
you see me?
DIDN’T I
Leave you once
already? How come
you keep playing
all the characters
in my soap opera?
-Mr. Clean.
CLUB 211
Blonde beauty in
black, your eyes so
blue they must have
been a gift from the
angels: Negro Model
& Camels ... who are
you, my love?
OUR TIME SPENT TOGETHER:
Immeasurable.
Vists:
Regular.
Surroundings:
Varied
(dentist, car . . . )
I’ll always be
a part of you.
Who am I?
Do you
need to ask?
CHET OF THEBES, DORK BOY
the Fund ...
Ballon Fiestas ...
Power of One ...
"-er" ...
nefarious plots ...
movies ...
Ben & Jerry’s ...
know all and see all ...
Lord of the Rings ...
I’m always right.
MIDNIGHT BLUE
I saw you at Castle
Superstore.
I like what
you bought.
I was the one
sad about
the mouth for
sale. Call me
or just come
over.
PULSE ON 7/7
Dancing Gladiator
of My Night: I’m
apologizing for my
behavior in case I
caused you any
trouble. Would like
to start over / See
you again for wine /
dinner if unattached
/ interested. I am
your words so true,
a kiss whould only
be shared by two -
maybe me & you -
CREAMY BEANS
Can I chew on
your butt with
my molars?
Love
the FBI
PIG
Last time I
place and ad
it was to cele-
brate your love.
Now it’s because
you’re gone.
I love you
anyway.
BEFORE SUMMER
You laid on the
couch in your
shorts and I’ll
remember the
way you
protested my
birthday gifts
with the
creamy blue
of your eyes.
I could’ve been
your Charlemagne.
ON 6TH STREET
You:
in a green
& white ford
with a
great smile.
I want to
be yours
forever.
LOVERBOY HURTS
more than a bit.
Nothing to grip
except myself.
Soft pressure
of your fingers
along my length.
Lactose tolerant.
Exquisite
exhaustion.
How does
your journal
read now?
MEGAN
Library smiles,
Catechism
prayers,
Glances in
the cafeteria.
I’d trade every
day since
to go back
and turn
you around
and just
kiss you but
You’ll never
be absent
from my
heart.
JOEFIEND
Are you sure
you don’t want
to try those
naught things?
KINKOS GIRL
I saw you at
Kinkos. You
had a cerulean
smile. I was
wearing shoes.
I never order
enough copies
and the quality
is never
good enough.
-Nobody.
ENGLISH 101
I’d believe you
if you said the
Germans won
the war. Let’s
debate who
wants who
more and I’ll
buy you another
bag of tootsie rolls.
I SAW YOU DANCING
in the kitchen.
I thought your
pelvis was broken.
Let me feel
your pain.
I want you!!!
T
I would climb
the stairs to our
secret microwave,
forever with you,
if you’d only run
away with me.
JOHN H.
I met you
after Boot
Scoots. You
helped me
defrost
my windows.
I was hoping
you and I
could get
together.
Find me.
ELEGANT WOMAN
and beautiful, too!
You have been so
good to me. Why
for?!? I am captiv-
ated by your jewelry
and I like your car, too.
Is it for sale? Love me!
CANCEROUS
You lick your
pixie sticks like
you’ve been
home too long.
Call me when
you forget the
names of the
constellations
again, my genie.
CORPORATE COFFEE
(Starbucks, shhhh)
You: cool, blonde
preppie, feminist
with an attitude.
Beautiful, loved
by all. "I’m not a
WASP because
I wasn’t brought
up that way."
Oh, really?
Me: brainy, dressed
in silver spandex
and faux lapin
(I’m not sure which
you’ll recognize first
- my brain power
or fashion sense).
Hey, California girl,
NOT WASP, Leo,
give me another
ride in your
big blue Ford.
I want to kiss
your freckles
one by one.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Absent
Yes, I've been absent. Completely AWOL. I've been working (on that OTHER job of mine) and working takes a severe toll on my writing time.
I've recently decided that I'm going to pull my old postings from myspace and move them here
to blogspot. For the majority, those posting were poetry, so expect to see more of that side of my personality here as well. This site is just going to have to be a hodge -podge until I figure out what needs to go where. Its sort of like moving from one apartment to another, except I'm moving from one brain-space to another and all the contents are in utter disarray.
More about what the hell I think I'm doing later. Thanks
I've recently decided that I'm going to pull my old postings from myspace and move them here
to blogspot. For the majority, those posting were poetry, so expect to see more of that side of my personality here as well. This site is just going to have to be a hodge -podge until I figure out what needs to go where. Its sort of like moving from one apartment to another, except I'm moving from one brain-space to another and all the contents are in utter disarray.
More about what the hell I think I'm doing later. Thanks
Poem About a Dead Cat I Found at Carino's
We are murderers.
Our substance is murder:
Our hunting eyes, our
long fingers, our
brutish thumbs, even
the hot breath off our tongue
is murder.
Even the our best
intentioned, the well
intoned, the perfectly
measured assemblies
of our gnosis are ladened
with that fearful capacity.
And were I a pigeon
or a mouse or some
critter trapped here in
our dense matter, our
thousands of thundering,
gas-smelling islands, I might
seize with the urgent horror of it,
of being entombed by these
machines a hundred miles thick.
Of all the powers of the
cosmos, of all the spheres,
of all the sephirot, all the
forces impersonal which
reign their Judgement, who
would have thought it would
be a chair --a chair!-- to
snatch up that spirit.
I was made the sad
accomplice for having
to bare witness -- because
didn't some one have to? And
wouldn't it be you, had you
been the one to chance that
place at that moment, on this,
the dry crust of the earth?
I'll share because it wounds, and
to be wounded is like reading
a book, like hearing the sound
of creation, or so we say now
when all of us are fallow fields
for much else but grief. Shush,
you chattering jawbones, let me share:
The poor cat had wandered
in of his own. It must have smelled
like a meal in that building, even
old as it was, but its curious
to suppose how even in our
dried up husks there's enough
to nurture the small
things that wander by:
Our rubbish is mana, sweet vanilla.
But this one, little cat, followed a bird
through the hole in the wire mesh in
the screen where the copper thieves
had, earlier, cut through with their clippers
and made off with only the nickel
off the chrome sheen of handcuffs.
When I found him there, he was
on the seat of the chair, the yellow
one, neck twisted and body
lounging. It hadn't stirred to my
approach, ever clumsy, rubber
squeaking, pockets jangling, even
teeth clacking and cotton
rustling to sharp ears of cats.
So stiff, the body of his fur
calm and unchanging, level
like water on a cool pond.
His arm, I saw, when I stood
above him, was caught
between the slats that made
the backrest of the chair, caught
where the wood tapered to a vice.
There was fight in the wood,
a hard fought fight, but only
teeth marks in the lacquer
and chips in the veneer.
And there was fight in
the joint of his arm, a
hell of a fight, and
I could see all the
work of it on the floor,
beneath his mouth
in a heap of black,
So it was that chair,
the yellow one,
and not the purple next to it,
or the blue, or the red,
that had brought him
thirst and hunger and a
belching black murder.
And had I come earlier, so
what then? Another creature
lives on and dies some
other way in the stomach
of a dumpster, or under the
wheel of a tractor trailer, or
what other fingers of death
are there in this city?
It was only an odd one,
in some ways inevitable,
just a jarring end to witness,
and maybe next time: mine.
So what then? And who
comes in to find me in the corner,
slumped in the chair, and
who writes the poem of me?
I hope their pen is murder; their
eulogy, a fine death and a long
tale of regicide, speaking that
I took the coin of the dead and
passed it on to the Merchant, but
I'll be content if they say he did
nothing but find a dead cat on the
yellow chair at Carino's.
Our substance is murder:
Our hunting eyes, our
long fingers, our
brutish thumbs, even
the hot breath off our tongue
is murder.
Even the our best
intentioned, the well
intoned, the perfectly
measured assemblies
of our gnosis are ladened
with that fearful capacity.
And were I a pigeon
or a mouse or some
critter trapped here in
our dense matter, our
thousands of thundering,
gas-smelling islands, I might
seize with the urgent horror of it,
of being entombed by these
machines a hundred miles thick.
Of all the powers of the
cosmos, of all the spheres,
of all the sephirot, all the
forces impersonal which
reign their Judgement, who
would have thought it would
be a chair --a chair!-- to
snatch up that spirit.
I was made the sad
accomplice for having
to bare witness -- because
didn't some one have to? And
wouldn't it be you, had you
been the one to chance that
place at that moment, on this,
the dry crust of the earth?
I'll share because it wounds, and
to be wounded is like reading
a book, like hearing the sound
of creation, or so we say now
when all of us are fallow fields
for much else but grief. Shush,
you chattering jawbones, let me share:
The poor cat had wandered
in of his own. It must have smelled
like a meal in that building, even
old as it was, but its curious
to suppose how even in our
dried up husks there's enough
to nurture the small
things that wander by:
Our rubbish is mana, sweet vanilla.
But this one, little cat, followed a bird
through the hole in the wire mesh in
the screen where the copper thieves
had, earlier, cut through with their clippers
and made off with only the nickel
off the chrome sheen of handcuffs.
When I found him there, he was
on the seat of the chair, the yellow
one, neck twisted and body
lounging. It hadn't stirred to my
approach, ever clumsy, rubber
squeaking, pockets jangling, even
teeth clacking and cotton
rustling to sharp ears of cats.
So stiff, the body of his fur
calm and unchanging, level
like water on a cool pond.
His arm, I saw, when I stood
above him, was caught
between the slats that made
the backrest of the chair, caught
where the wood tapered to a vice.
There was fight in the wood,
a hard fought fight, but only
teeth marks in the lacquer
and chips in the veneer.
And there was fight in
the joint of his arm, a
hell of a fight, and
I could see all the
work of it on the floor,
beneath his mouth
in a heap of black,
So it was that chair,
the yellow one,
and not the purple next to it,
or the blue, or the red,
that had brought him
thirst and hunger and a
belching black murder.
And had I come earlier, so
what then? Another creature
lives on and dies some
other way in the stomach
of a dumpster, or under the
wheel of a tractor trailer, or
what other fingers of death
are there in this city?
It was only an odd one,
in some ways inevitable,
just a jarring end to witness,
and maybe next time: mine.
So what then? And who
comes in to find me in the corner,
slumped in the chair, and
who writes the poem of me?
I hope their pen is murder; their
eulogy, a fine death and a long
tale of regicide, speaking that
I took the coin of the dead and
passed it on to the Merchant, but
I'll be content if they say he did
nothing but find a dead cat on the
yellow chair at Carino's.
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