October 31, 2004
The Best Looking Words Are Taken (rev. 11/9/04)
ìSleep is to life as dreams are to the deadî,
your voice says on the phone. We misunder ñ
stand one another constantly, words a blur
of conception, painful, locked deep in the head.
Undressing them up, they have all run unread
in backs of throats where blank spaces, demur,
are covered up to wait like a shy child unsure
of his or her first steps. Have we defied
convention while hardly breaking a sweat?
It seems to come easy to poets, this thing
called ñ well, we both know it. I seem to recall
that language is not a room left vacant
by past meanings; parts of speech receding
in order to prop up, unless we all fall. . .
Posted by Josh at 12:43 PM | Comments (6)
This Message Brought To You By The Letter C...And the Number 6
Welcome to Monsterpiece Theatre. Me name
Alistair Cookie. What me play for you
today be representative of same
cartoons, familiar ëtoon for children new.
Me recall, new boys and girls, our word of day,
original, hard to say - more me time
than word portray. But cookie digress. Me played
for fool, when Yu-Gi-Yoh be king of prime
time daily. Cookie, cookie, cookie! Break
me piece off of commercial ratings poll!
Me sell me soul for marketable stake!
Jim Henson franchise road to success like Toll
House cookie! Crumbled and bumpy; praise for Jim!
We lost in polls, me sorry to say. Om-num-num!
Posted by tony at 10:49 AM | Comments (3)
October 29, 2004
Sunflowers and Lemonade
season has set
into our bones
and beds
stagnant pools
spawn mosquitoes
that rise up to
infect our blood
little boys
tempt girls with
dandelions, and liquor
a southern belle strolls,
umbrella in hand, on her porch
kicks over grandpas lemonade
pours through the cracks
and saturates
the parched earth
Posted by garth at 05:01 PM | Comments (2)
Downed Power Lines
ìis this thing on?î
(as she shines it in my eyes)
ìyesî
(and I shine it in hers)
we sat by the fire
burning the mornings paper
that neither of us had read
wishing yesterday wasnít trash day
empty bins at the end of our driveway
allowing only enough fuel
to heat us for a few hours
soon it will be summer
but December is bleak
in its promise of warmth
electricity wasnít the only thing we wished for
but the rest could wait
Posted by garth at 04:56 PM | Comments (4)
October 28, 2004
Commemorative
In the half light of this Sunday
morning, perched in a tree,
disillusionment.
It is 10 oíclock.
The coffee burns in effigy,
last nightís scotch
burns a new hole in.
The leaves burn
and a blackbird picks at
road kill in the street.
You can get Wallace Stevensí
mug on a mug from this place
on the Internet. Can I buy one
for this poem?
Posted by Josh at 08:46 PM | Comments (3)
October 27, 2004
Pond Side in Georgia
The ugly green stinking thing wasnít dead
even with two lead bullets in its head.
It crawled and hissed and reeked like rotten meat.
They plugged the beast again; held by its feet
it leaked blood from the holes under its eyes.
We pointed, grinning, loving death and I
admit to being excited by notions
as old and gory as lifeís first ocean.
This snapperís final breath an exercise
in Darwinís little game ñ now food for flies.
Thinking of this now, I want to go back
and spare that leathern victim our gross lack
of respect, having newly found my own
voice that can see what I had not then known.
Life, being life, was not ours to discard
so casually. Invisibly scarred,
yet truly convinced; death has no owner,
it belongs to us all (turtle, father,
brother), a strange communal crime to blame
on those who are not us. We take their name,
reorder its letters to fit the sin,
and call it evil ñ worse than that within
us at our darkest, prodding dead turtles
as boys ñ each generationís new hurdle.
Posted by Josh at 05:59 PM | Comments (6)
October 22, 2004
From the Height of My Favorite Tree
Here! From your lips I feel breathing, and air
becomes mine.
Intertwine
fingers that feel like needles,
my false charm that opens fields
of timber cones. My blood soars!
Dark green vines, encrusted pairs,
morning dew wine,
a very good time;
resinous sap we eat between feedings.
Our appetites incline to a particular rhyme, meals
of palpitations in my vessels that roar
your name: Alina, Josefina, whatever.
Your name, like a pine,
Deciduous aligns:
as ice races down my back like blue beetles.
I feel like climbing back down, as before,
when racing down branches, twigs net up my hair,
in a woodbine,
line after line,
nettles netting my hair, surface so near I appeal
to the wood nymphs that appear, as from lore.
ìGood graces!î, I plea, since most nymphs endeavor
for a man who casts his design:
his graces theyíll climb.
I, with my horns, snout, and ring will reveal
the cloved hooves I clomp on beyond the maze door.
I root from up high, above and divine, forever
crushing my weight: malign-
ants plow the lime-
green mossy base of the tree where my flickering shadow congeals:
the cone that I steal another nymph stores.
Posted by tony at 12:22 AM | Comments (4)
October 16, 2004
Willy Wonka's Dilemma
Same poem-two different takes...Posted by tony at 03:48 AM | Comments (1)
Better than Ice Cream
The closetdoor is open:
my ice cream spills over the lapel of
a raincoat riddled with sprinkles
into our last year of rain.
It's so funny to think that
indulgence is not a blessing. As I
listen to the chocolate thunder
a radio announcer
claps his voice in time to it:
one-one-thousand-two-one-thousand-three-one-
my stomach grumbles wildly
as I grab the coat and lift
off all the stains I left on it,
without laughing this time. As I walk out
of my closetdoor, I see
outside chocolate oceans
that ebb and swell, break oreo
tides. Salt hershey foams to my back screendoor
which I have decided not
to fix tonight. Too busy.
All this rain a melted gallon
of ice cream that practically empties
itself. I'm willing to bet
that I put it back last night.
Posted by tony at 03:47 AM | Comments (4)
Sweet Factory
The plastic cup of
fruit is open,
sorbet spilling into dots
of last years rain.
Confections absorb
rainbow streaks a mouthful
of waterfall. Puddles are
not stale. We wade in
chocolate army boots
a week ago, a month
ago a thirty-
one caramel gun
salute. We lift a sour
worm to our storm
thirsty to drown.
Posted by tony at 03:23 AM | Comments (4)