Vintage by Amy Lowell

I will mix me a drink of stars, --
Large stars with polychrome needles,
Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,
Cool, quiet, green stars.
I will tear them out of the sky,
And squeeze them over an old silver cup,
And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it,
So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.
It will lap and scratch
As I swallow it down;
And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire,
Coiling and twisting in my belly.
His snortings will rise to my head,
And I shall be hot, and laugh,
Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.

The White Hours

there are three white hours in a day,
one for each daily prayer
said whilst the dealer throws the cards down
and declares the day a bust.

there are three white hours in a day,
and i wear mine like a black dress,
that molds to conform to the days personality,
and usually ends up a horrid
frock with holes.

there are three white hours in a day,
one chime made the city jump,
a second one and the baker dropped the bread on the
butchers wife who ran the knife into the wall
and pierced through the little girls head

making her dunce hat fall like sand to the ground,
disingrating into a steady stream of nonsense,
my hands move swiftly to capture all this as it is.

there are three white hours in a day.
if we can spend one inside me
and like a book you can read me
althought it’s jumbled and the inks running
fast everything should be there somewhat in tact.

maybe we’ll jump the broom tonight
and kick up our feet like the floor fell through
while dancing in giddy circles
pretending that there is no house
and there will be no tomorrow.

or perhaps, this will be the white hour where yout health fails,
so does my head, my heart,
witl perish with either.

L.A. Confidential

It was dark in the afternoon.
Your silent house, I watched it
sigh. I watched the blank T.V.
almost willing it on but I did
not want to disturb you.

Your daughter was in your
L.A. dining room of wall to wall
mirrors around her but they
only reflected the table where
she sat back and so she did not see
me—her pen moved frantic across paper.

I moved into the living room,
trying to keep away from you,
I didn’t want to disturb you,
while I remembered,

running fingers along the
pictures of family I never see,
the piano that’s been so long
out of tune—

after a minute or two L.A was
still there and you were gone.

She left the dining room,
I left the living room,

the hall seemed silent.

Something washed over the L.A
house—

I could hear the solemn apologies
of that death suite—

The next time I dreamed of you
I was passing old warehouse doors
and such desertion brought me back
to you, to what I miss—I remembered
—they wailed, I did not. I thought then
your leave was timely.

The hall seemed silent as I reached out
to touch your door when something
said- Wait! Death has been here!

Yes. I said. I can here her now—the
solemn apologies—the death suite.

I finally saw,
you wore it well.

and so we dance (throw back)

we wonder what will happen today,
what tears will be cried tomorrow
and what pleasures we’ll soon know.

the table was set for one, among the ashes of my old pages
i can see what i will become. black ashes and black tea,
black coffee and red roses.

i wonder if she even cares or am i just there,
because what it is to me it it not to her.

too high, that is my preferred flight pattern,
i wonder, imagine eating pieces of broken sky,
and then watching our bodies turn from us to it.

we’ll walk around with clouds floating across our brow.
i wonder about the cards cast last night, the queen of hearts that
upside down and right side up. and the king of diamonds that
did not want her--does she feel?

do we question?
no so we dance until we all fall down.

Digression

Food
1.

To a suggestion that I make amends with myself.

To you I say there is no justice,
Without heels on, with no lipstick and no perfume,
And to you who knows nothing of the woman I know—chic,
cheek and all of that—
it’s so hard to talk to a woman
who left me in a graceless world of pretend.

And as I hesitate to speak,
I am so quiet, these days,
I am so hungry, these days,
But in my hands there is never anything to eat,
There is never anything here.

I tried to take a bite out from (of) our lady,
Only token virgin of a common sermon,
And so I hesitate to speak,
Mary tasted of motherhood.
She tasted like stale wine and coffee beans,
And Perry Ellis 360, your kind,

Mary, Mary, will you marry me?
Through you I can bear no child,
For I still am one.

Back to you again,
It’s all to you,

Call me a sadist of the mind?
Point out my dike tendencies—
Do you know what a dyke is—
It’s part of the game,
Part of the game,
So what if I’m a bit like that,
I am, I am, I am,
And a mother should love me unconditionally,

Feed me,
For beauty is what you eat,
The things you can cook,

I’m hungry,
I’m digressing,
And I’m done for now.

nightmare chronicles

Bless me father, for I have slept.
It has been two days since my last trial,
And these are our confessions—

1.
she walked deep into a room,
hands feeling around in the air
though she knows there is nothing there but
stagnant life. She moved without looking around,
Only noticing the boy, her boy, so concerned
With looking down that he could not see
That she combed her hair, or the care she
Took putting picking her clothes out of vogue,
he did not look up!

The light trickled away from the sky,
The angels reeled the sun back up,
And she took careful steps on the dark floor,
Trying to catch his eyes, but he kept playing,
Playing, playing, and would not catch her eye.

Such portrayal, he said.
Exhausting, she said.

2.
He saw no room. He was in a parade down main street,
A thousand feet in a thousand rhythms on the dirty
Concrete where chalk and spit and oil and water drops
Culminated in cracks that were too numerous and
Smooth squares so few. Yet peace lasted only
A second or two before something rose up from that
Dirty rock and waved it’s large arms loudly,
Making even the horn players crumble like paper planes,

He had a gun that wouldn’t shoot,
He had legs that wouldn’t stand,
He had a heart that didn’t take on demons,
He had no Vegas hand,
He had double sixes, no aces.

Did It end, she said
Could you end it, he said

3. Interlude


She tried not to speak of what happened next, and
He kept rotating in his bed to get the images out of his
Head and she wished to peer behind the sun to see if
Angels were really there then there were the things in between that no one
said, when she closed her eyes she again saw the shadow
moving, moving, moving
over her out of sync, her voice fading faster than she
could blink, but the shadow hard lined—these things that were in between
they did not talk about. He remembers moving through people,
breathing, breathing, breathing,
demons finally down but so are the people they
dragged all the way from the town hall to the grocery store,
and all he was looking for was a little hand to connect to
the human puzzle that he— she remembered almost tasting
the struggle—and these things in between their dreams bits they
could not maintain and so they took reign.
Killing them, killing them, killingly them,
Steadily—
So what to do, she said.
Check under the bed and in the closet, he said.

They checked nightly,
religiously, and they prayed:

Our father,
Who art up there, somewhere,
Hallowed was thy voice when I dreamed a dream,
Thou kingdom was dark,
And thy house was stark,
Thy angles craved liquor.

she prayed:

give me this night,
a dreamless sleep,
and forgive my laviciousness,
I asked my shadow no favors,

He prayed:

So lead us not into our nightmares,
But deliver us from evil,
This we pray again,


Amen.

between now and when

Between now and when you left me
my head has pounded in that
Uneven rhythm to the semi divine
Vision of when you poured coffee in
My garden and made the flowers grow,

Sowing things that only I should sow.
But I don’t blame you.

It is the woman in me who keeps brining
about these irrational tendencies,
pulling on my thin heartstrings with
her teeth and bringing me dreams of being,
just being, without meaning or fear.

Yes, simply being, just being,
And having you near.

But the fantasies that she brings,
Only happen in the spring,

And winter is my weather
So I’ll put on my black coat and wait,
Pound out frantically about this standard fate,
Of being caught up all over again and why the rose stems won’t sever,

Dreaming of being, just being,
Simply being, nothing less.

She talks through my own mouth,
Straighten up and fly right-
Throwing even my darkest dreams into a forgetting light,

For he wants me to take off my coat and admit,
That your coffee really is sustaining the roots,
that when I put on your garden boots they fit,

and that’s it.

Nightmare Chronicles

There was always a maze,
a door she knew.

Solitary windows that
Anne peered through.

Walls with gaping holes,
floors with no strength.

Sweat that gathered on her neck
for Satan to wipe away.

They were always amazing, she said.
Damn crazy, he said.

But his were of repeated things—
angels lined up while he bit each wing.

Destructive things.
big black trombones.

His mother in hysterics,
him locked outside.

Southern sun blazing,
eastern promises nothing at all,
the western lullaby in her tongue.

Trying to reach her on the phone only
to hear her breathing with the other one—

He could here that rustling,
her faithful theme music weak,
that old racist swing she loved.

Repeated things, he said.
Sweet things, she said.

He wiped the sweat from her neck,
Letting Satan stand and watch,
perverted nightmare theology,

angels still waiting their turns,
watching too, but she never let him
in and the show fell through.

He smoked away, he and his
father in their man like ways.

Flipping off the economy,
cupping themselves to democracy.

Confessing, digressing, until
his eyes were again wet.

He wondered how he could forget
that he couldn’t bring him back with Newport cigarettes.

He told her this.
They needed one another.

They slept, and he had another nightmare.
She dreamt of a mother.

Spoken Lullaby (East 56th Street)

Time keeps ticking as
cars keep driving past my window as
girls keep laughing on my bed as
the playground on east 56th stays young.

But it’s not—there is no more
innocence unless you are talking
about that which lies in those little
shoes that come play by day.

Because then the bigger boys
come lean by night, they slap
palms in exchange of goods and
blood and they roll the dice to
what they would call in Rome “dogs”
but here with the good old boys it’s,
snake eyes peering up from the dirty concrete.

Time keeps ticking as
the suits straighten up their ties as
stories creep through my head as
I have had enough noise.

I climbed into my closet just to
be alone with myself for a while
so that the noise from her story, and
his story and hers too wouldn’t,
couldn’t keep chasing after me.

I fell asleep on the floor dreaming
a world of fantasies where I’m no
longer eating bowls of travesties—

but time keeps ticking as
the dice still rattle and peer as
the playground with the children,
the— blood,
the—good old boys,
those—snake eyes.

The exchange.

Time keeps ticking as
my voice spills out sweet and
I speak this lullaby about
east 56th street.

love letters

Sometimes pen scraping paper
sounds so harsh it has no soft
overtones, only dirty implications.

But this is a love letter that I write
with the best intentions and
thoughts worthy of good soap.

And there must be days where
you wonder if i am to full of
words to speak to you-

There must be days where you
follow my shadow through that
door and when it closes on your
foot, you good shoe, when I do
not answer the bell-

I cannot answer the bell because
it’s an elite society that only lets
the few through.

There is no room at the
table for both me and you.

But I love you.
Really, I do.

holy interlude

i missed you too much today,
it is never like this.

no, no,
i do not like this.

the bright lights turn white to form a big blank
page across which the memory waltz in picture play--

no, no,

look, there is that bridge, no, yes, and look,
there sit you and i.

no.

i prefer to only see it when i close my damn
eyes, not like this.

i must paint it black again to a scene where there is nothing
but a fleeting dream or too.

to one where there is merely a woman who sits
and types out the daily news,

her red nails clacking away before she throws the papers up
to waiting angels hand.

i prefer those days to these.

the light flickered through holy stained glass, i put the pen back in my
shirt and prayed up.

With Her

ashes fell from her bent cigarette and
would not go out where i stepped,
but we did not burn up.

on the back lot certain things we
discussed. carefully, i turned the thing
i pretend is my wedding ring.

"what do you think we'll be when we stop
growing up?"

do you think we'll be inside when the rain
shows up.

no.
oh.
her gray smoke went into the air real slow.

sink or swim?

you and i will learn how to get by.
women like us- well. well.

well. i think i will have some regrets.
there is a poem in that cigarette.

Hollywood

why do those streets shine?

because it's those broken glass hearts
that sink into the pavement when the people
shatter.

meanwhile, the holly babies continue their
empty chatter at the coffee shop everyone
knows is run by hispanics but it was
the white man who posed for VOGUE--

this is the world you crave at night--
so seduced by this culture who's sins
are on too tight, and when i say how can
you want what you see you ask me,

haven't you ever had fantasies?

yes, but on tuesdays i separate stories
from dreams (and the nightmares in-between)

look.
smile, holly baby.

so you know why they shine?

sin is in. sparkle cheap. it's all those quarters,
thoughts, and dimes. that broken heart glass.

you know, you know,
hollywood jazz

early morning

we sat facing each other at the kitchen table,
and i listened lightly as she told me of when her
grandmtother would push her into the shower door.

you see i had a rough time, she said to me,
her eyes to the floor and then she picked up her teacup.

and i will not ask more, for it is only 5 am everything cannot
spill out into the yawning tiles so soon.

the rest of the confessions shall be professed,
as noon dances through that window, she began to cry.

wanting to look away I cast my eyes
to a seemingly painted sky,

it all took place early this morning, when the innocence still
shown behind her eyes, before bowing to the evening stars,

the devils charge.

self-same

self-same

yesterday you fell asleep
on my shoulder with your hot
breath, the coffee in your cup grew
colder, but you slumbered on,
move on.
daddy loves me (yes he do),
daddy loves me (daddy loves who?)--
move on-- daddy hates me (indeed).
daddy hates me (indeed).
move on.
do you know what i thought,
while i was playing with your hair?
(there are muses everywhere.)
yes. today my voice rings falsetto--
move on. (alright)
daddy left me, daddy left me (bastard),
should I call him father.
(why call him anything at all.)
my dreams were discolored,
i woke with a start, i tried not to wake
you too, i put the cover back on us,
i'm getting good at being discreet.

Prayer Of The Hours (The River's Song)

If I were a nature poet,
I would write this river a song.
But I am a poet of dreams
I can merely say to it: dear river, flow on.

We recited the prayer of the hours while Paris slept,
and the brothers on the mountain ate.
While the sun splayed gold on this still country.

We kept the hours with benevolent souls,
though some eyes in the circle were darker than crows.
But they knew it was not the hour for their savagery.

And darling it was like magic,
bittersweet faith. That toss and catch
rhythm beating while the boy on the porch, wept.

But the river never ceased it's flow.

For those begotten notes struck passions
rivers can easily forgo, they answer to a different power.

And so they disregard the passing hours.

HE

while my sister dreamed of an ever after,
this night sky brimmed with his laughter and
there he sat. eating hopes that had been sent up
while with my hands i prayed that my whole life
i would survive. thrive.

but who knew, who knew that there is nothing
we can do- you may be alive but you may not thrive
if you do not believe in you- who knew.
time for more prayers. i picked mine up,
she dropped hers off (we call it the jesus shuffle)
nothing was answered; our voices were muffled while
we boarded that train heading back from no where.

that fat boy in my car drummed his thumbs
his eyes full of his mama's cake- another man
in the next car decided that he was tried of being
awake- the train pulled on and out of the dust and
through the rusty tunnel that once made a bridge
between you and i-

see everything comes back, to that
damned laughter up in the sky.

how i used to smile like everything was fine,
until he spread out those diamonds on his rye.
set his eye on me, stuck a fork into my heart,
and began his feed.

Sunset Boulevard

How we said we'd never change
even if we moved to Hollywood.

Still the faucet would drip and the
clock would pant like I do on my runs

around the block and back.
Yes, I would wear more black and perhaps

your music would be more glamorous but I'd still
look the same when I sleep and you'd still eat

those Pop Tarts by the box, and those girls under
the florescent lights, those curious creatures...

How I said I'd never leave as I pushed
that big black car down Vine, sometimes.

You spoke of your vices through the glitter
that this city breaths instead of air and poisons

without second thought. That director sent me letters
from Brazil, though we had not danced

in years, and when we sat the Formosa,
there was nothing left to scream about and

we walked out. Yes, this I recited when we
walked side by side in that intimate stride-

My hate belongs to daddy,
your heart to Dizzy and Parker,
these nobodies to Sunset Boulevard,
this woman, this woman, to the avant-guard.

Take Six (Off Hollywood)

Take four was last night when our arms
touched on the corner of Lexington Avenue.

Take five was the fury I danced
away in my bathtub with my torso.

This is take six, pancakes and champagne,
this is divine-

He said, take one blue pill in the morning.

Darling, I thought about us yesterday.
Wasted way in a great big chair that
held me like my daddy did,

I tried to sigh you out.

There was no release.

So then I tried to write you out
with the repetition of the word beautiful.

Beautiful for the notes you played me,
beautiful for the way you enraged me.

Take four was when I woke up
dreaming at 2 am.

Take five was me standing in the museum,
staring at drab, realistic painting of children.

Take six was delovely,
take six was candy cherries-

He said, take three black pills at sunset.

Take four was when I lined
the windowsill with pop bottles.

Take five was my toast to
the damning of men.

Take six was cherries and chocolate coins,
Ice cream in bed, rocky road from a chipped coffee cup.

He said, take one violet pill at night.