Friday, February 26, 2016

AngelBug271: A Retrospective in Perspective

The things left out would fill an armory:
snow mattresses made out of fresh-cut spruce,
cross hatched, Air-Wicky, noisy in the night;
the thrum his pulse beat the last hundred yards
of a 440; locust shells on trees,
adhesive, alien, empty; new Keds.

Some themes, though do emerge, and many words.
7 poems begin with moon & stars;
and "tears" appears in every single one.
The word for Love.  The word for blood.  The word
made ink, but never flesh.  Not even chance
makes miracles.  The moon.  The stars.  The moon.

The grout between the bathroom tiles.  The wind
unrolling the awning.  Look: they are not there.

Monday, February 22, 2016

The Good Die Young

The good die young. Will you not try

To be good temporarily?

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

For Two Nights Only

Left me the day before the opera came

To town, a Fledermaus for bellowed love,
Its banjo on its knee, and would not stay,
However grievously implored. It went,

Trailing a cloud of bosoms, a mist, a wake,
Heaving the way Valkyries do. Left me,
And took up with a drummer from down South,
A treadmill salesman fit to be untied

And smooth as putting greens. Left me just as
A pitcher of tequila sunrises
Mysteriously emptied. Left behind
Headache and backache and cocks without a crow.

These are the days the market crashes, boys
And girls beneath the stripèd awnings; clay
And scalded dogs are everywhere, the heat
Like Tristan, broken kneecaps, broken heart,

And me without a woodwind to my name,
Ensemble on my own. The holidays
Are coming, leave me with a stocking, lumps
Of coal, and acappella, myrrh and myrrh.

Saturday, February 06, 2016

The 7th Avenue Historic District

Up and down the street,

Committing daily errands,
Jogging, biking, joking,
My proximate gerunds.

The neighbors. They look busy.
So much ado to do.
I sit out front and read
Of romance and virtù.

But stay when I am placed.
I do not jog or joke.
Deflecting passion's flame,
I do not burn. I smoke.

Of that they disapprove,
Although they never say so.
They move along. I sit,
Half like them, and I stay so.

Monday, February 01, 2016

Pursued by a Duck

Edge of the edge, the ducks explore

Duckitude.  They don’t know it, though.
They nibble at the sludgy shore
While we call names and say we grow

L’homme qui criat canard.  That sedge
Is served them there so we can chime,
We should admit that.  If they cadge
A breadcrumb, panic.  A loup in time,

The ground subsides, the ducks retreat
Like Muscovy.  Here, let us count.
One duck, two ducks: this life is sweet,
When wild in just the right amount.