Poems of love and lust
One
The morning sways with the currents of rain
making streets asphalt liquid,
black dripping silver drop by drop
from rushing elbow drains
Brillo faced clouds
darken the window
like a deep frown over the grey city
You shiver, draw the shade,
laughing with discomfort
Another number flows behind your name
one more tributary in a journey down stream
You used to brag of them
You used to celebrate their additional flow
into your life
Now, you seek dry ground,
like Odysseus
where an oar might be mistaken
for a plow
You should celebrate Spring
the slow greening under that stormy grey
You used to enjoy the dripping gutters
the drain's groan
the window's glaze
the melancholy spread of dawn
Now, you listen to the swish of tires
of cars rushing down the road,
wondering after them,
wandering in your dreams
But the Odysseus in you fades
and Telemachos grows.
It's just another
passing storm.
Two
I waited, an autistic child
dreaming in my silence of you
wearing the illusion of your voice
of creamy seductions over the telephone,
of blissful mornings after taunting my mind
not one of which ever remotely
came to pass
Three
She cried because of you,
each word a brick built upon her back,
heavy with the burdens of passion,
strangely comforting,
like a dilapidated old mansion
into which she crawled during storms,
she bore you to bed at night,
whispering with you,
each of your words worried over,
pondered on,
dropped into her head like coins.
Her mind was a wishing well,
a pale hell of dreams
in which never one came true,
despite the promises of you,
turning forever the ugly pages
till she drooped into sleep,
embracing and caressing those poems,
reading them over till they danced on the bed sheets,
like lively little pixies poking fun,
though often, later,
when I picked your book
up from her sleeping chest and kissed her brow,
I found there, the deepest of frowns.
Four
She lies on pebbles,
naked breasts pressed to the ground,
curious men parading like soldiers on either side,
guarding her perceived virginity with rigid perfection
the imperfect nature of their sex
flying colors for a war
not one is prepared to win
Five
July 3, 1989
I wake to the whistle of trains
and think of you,
you're arrival by rail
even now with the sunlight,
streaking through the window
brisk air beating back this july heat
blankets and your weekend clothing
scattered across the corner of the bed
repeating you
I think maybe you will sneak back here
some sunday night
after the bus has taken your body east
and I, stumbling home, dread the empty bed
I think of you as that rising sun
the breaking of the mist
warm in my arms, hot against my chest
my thighs, my heart,
I think of you.
Six
You've always mistaken other things for love,
broken bits of trivial dialogue,
throbbing lust,
men who offer you free trips to the south seas.
I've never understood the confusion,
having been that perpetual loyal man in the wings,
the actor that never gets to come on stage
except for a line or two,
serving drinks at your birthday party,
taking you out as an excuse to avoid someone else's date.
You've never understood why
Simon & Garfunkel's ``I am a Rock''
was my favorite song for years,
nor the reason for the books of poetry
piled high on the shelves in my room,
always with the most depressing poems
dog-eared from over use,
thinking solitary life a waste of time,
though for all the years of socializing
you still think men are cads.
Man after man after man
following you from bar to bedroom,
never calling again once they've landed on your shore,
thinking less of you when by accident
you meet them again.
They always whisper ``barfly'' to their current dates,
just loud enough for you to overhear
as if you hadn't known their opinion all along,
as if sitting on a beach or barstool by yourself was a crime.
``Why don't you go out?'' you ask me,
every friday night when I gather in my room with my books.
``You can't spend your life in your room.''
But the truth is: we all do,
whether it is barroom, bedroom,
or one filled with books.
Seven
She wears thin to nothing,
drinking up sand dunes,
eyes burning with salt and desire,
her dreams crashing under
dawn's cool umbrella,
the melancholy of perpetual motion,
rushing to and fro,
a shy actor waiting for
its audience of beach towels
and sunburns and
dancing, loving moon.
Eight
the blizzard came
after you were gone,
rain turning to sleet
then snow, during
the long walk
from downtown,
passed huge
turn-of-century
homes whose wide
windows had seen
such storms before,
worse, more furious,
lapping white up
against their steps
like foaming waves
upon which my
footprints come and
go, the path
self-made, no one
before me making
those exact steps,
nor (despite many
imitators) will any
exactly follow, my
thoughts, twisting
under my cap with
you, wishing you had
remained one more
hour as to catch the
flakes, me, ashamed
for not having
waited, for having
sent you too quickly
upon your way,
leaving me to this
lonely, terribly
beautiful path
through the snow,
boughs of evergreen
leaning, my step
erased, but not the
memory of you,
engraved beneath,
not so much in ice
as in stone, unmelting
permanent, asking you
to return home
soon.
Nine
All my life she's waited there,
gift-wrapped on Second Street,
turning corners with faceless men,
shadows of night that hover over her,
slipping away with her unnoticed,
shadows which leave their imprint
on her hair and skin, smearing
her ruby gloss, waiting for me
with spider eyes and impatient
gestures, waiting for the end of it,
to move on, repackaging herself,
untouched,
even when held by me.
Ten
She browns like an aging flower
but never does whither,
the smell of old petals clinging
to her as she grows and grooms
herself, shedding just enough
to maintain appearances,
her insides burning sweet
incense, the torchlight
beaming from her eyes,
all beacon and smile,
a whispered breath,
she is a cozy house
with one big comfortable room,
and closed drawers
and locked closets
and secrets in the attic.