Month: June 2010

i am predicting my legacy

a few years
or perhaps a millisecond
cobalt skies impregnated with frost;

a small boy, crystallized lip, pale and
wearing his fingerless gloves with pride
tramping barefoot home
to the warm and dirty stove

and outside his door,
beyond reach of the step

streets away,
under a pile of snow
on a cracked, dirty bench
between the whispers of souls past–
a poem on a fluttering piece of ripped paper

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this is called School

I

natives in uproar-
children chopped the chosen ones.
neverending republics.

II

anti-drug bullshit
no one’s really listening to
the sexist jock teacher.

III

the spice of a Cajun
master and his protege
enlightening us, his sacks of paper.

IV

clicks of blunted fingertips
drown the lectures of the old
new mother

V

Idiocy reigns.

VI

somnolent, anticipating two more beeps
(they’re not really bells)
Thoreau watches from afar
Pound apologizing to simpering aesthetic Whitman

VII

fleeting moments
in the mind of a genius with ADHD;
time to go home again.

Literature at 11

it’s the beginning of May, you fuckers
the spring is emerging bursting through
buttoned-down branches, free at last
(though spring is not in fact Black)-
yet we are in boxes.

i’ll tell you, teachers-
you, who preach masculinity (don’t be a Faggot you pansy, come ladies)
you //Bitches of the AdminiStration <school board>,
wise as you proclaim yourselves

I’d bet you my guitar you have yet
to learn the secret MacLeish sought to teach:

Poetry is F.e.e.l.i.n.g-

not a goddamned case study.

(so what did this poet mean, class?)

tres voces

L:

I am standing in the center
of a maelstrom;
I am locked within and crumbling slowly
dust you are and to dust you shall return
and will he see me if I disappear?
will he know?

M:
I am crouched in the corner
of my mental mind and meditating;
this has numbed me down over time.
and will he know me if I am myself?
will he love me still?

R:
I am new to this game.
the rules are impossible; I am stubborn.
another chain has linked me here; it rusts, it snaps.
I wonder if it will cut me deep enough.
and will he stay with me if my blood runs fast enough?
will he heal me?

Landon’s song

this is my dilemma, you know:
you remind me of velvet,
crushed, and redolent with the years–
sex in sexy places,
the ruination of the innocent;

the dishabille of the morning after,
gazing blue-eyed/brown-eyed at
nameless somethings taken from nothings
for a night’s something else.

you remind me, too, of…
well, rain. You know,
the way it enters the day so abruptly,
and vanishes in a saturated breath?
the way you know it’s coming, yes,
but even as it arrives never find yourself quite prepared?

that’s you.

you came rolling in on the thunderclouds of my fetishes
and rained a pleasure so succinct it severed me. Utterly.

and now as you drift my fingers are furled,
my heart is wound into a knot like a tumor– its cancer being unrequited,
apologetic love for someone so hard and cold that
when I touched your reflection expecting it to waver,

you shattered instead.

you took the tune at random

I’d like to think the reason
you pin those bug-eyed Ray-Bans gazes on my rainbowself is
because in the solitude of lassitude you envy me;
you covet mine–
you wish to touch my feel.

or maybe I just have a crush on you;
why else would I care that you’re looking at me?

I’d like to know your laughter is because
you find me amusing/that you’re titillated to tears
by my nonjokes and my unriddles
and coffee cups stirred with innuendo:
a tongue for a straw,
lapping up attention as it steams from the froth to dissipate.

(I could be coffee, you know.
At least it leaves an aftertaste.)

or maybe I just want you;
why else would I care that you remembered me?

I’d like to believe your lips are on mine
because you want them there–
because you notice the subtlest tilt of my smallish mouth
as I struggle to drive home a point and get lost in the middle of the road,
strand myself on islands of half-assed debate and debacle,
and taste the sweet fires the sour ice brings to my tongue.

I’d like to believe you wanted that.
I’d like to believe these are your fingers in mine
(that you needed my pulse).

or maybe I just wanted to fuck you;
why else would I care that you touched me?

I’d like to have faith that
this magnanimous magma you’re converting
from my hot-tempered French
and sweetly submissive Caucasian blood–
the earthen calm of Native Americans and whatever I took
from my Spanish and Italian ancestors is a promise;

a covenant sealed by the semen
somewhere on somebody’s sheets–
(this is not su casa so it’s not mi casa, now is it love?)

I’d like to have faith that the breath that I stole from a dying man
[myself five minutes before]
means that I’m not a whore after all.

or maybe I’m in love with you;
why else would I care that I woke up alone?

word to the wise

today my mother talked to /lectured me on sacrifice–
that is to say, she gave a detailed list to me
of sacrifices she had made for myself that I had heard already
so as to make me malleable enough to demand a sacrifice from myself–

well, now.

tonight i got my blue glass plate which i allow no one to use;
i made her tuna sandwiches– two, though i hate even numbers
(and tuna as well);
i made them with bread that i’d wanted to eat, too.

i put the tuna sandwiches i hated on the plate that i loved,
left it on the counter for her to have after her bath

and i went to bed with my hands spiced
with tuna brine smells that i hated

and that was my sacrifice.