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.

overture: i am not water lilies

there is a blue box i keep
that hides pictures.
and things.

like figures of girls too thin to dance.
words too displaced to make sense.
men with stiff knees in painted black suits.

i’ve a picture of a pink door too-

would you beat on a painted door
if you knew it to be false?
perhaps.
if you though it was hiding lovers.
and things.

but such realities, as the falseness of a painted door
are trivial in anger.
pains that are illusions
become truths all at once-
until we are swimming in an ocean
thick as pudding.

of course,
my grandmothers anger is a curse
of having “good taste”.
why- then everyone else is tacky.
mismatched.
wrong-

style is such poison.

darling i hid in the tub and poured this confession out.

sometimes an artist must work in porcelain-
trick of the trade darling-
just as van gough.

surely, he’ll know.

for though i am not of his style,
we are of the same mind.
33% mad,
but one of a kind.

we bite like a revolution,
but with half the mess.
without the overthrow.
and things.

this is not monet.

i am not, water lilies .

i really am a medley of dots.

different colors,
mostly black.

the lakeshore

when the lights around the lake are dark
only the streetlights standing tall in their brigades
can watch over the city as it
tosses in it’s sleep.

when the streets around the dark late jitter-
like the fat boy. drumming his sticks
on the train headed towards no where.

headed past the lakeshore.
a stray jogger keeps a steady pace,
a jaded cop in his cruiser watches with a blank face,
and no one along for the ride save a ghost.

the doors on the train
open and shut.
i get out and walk past the museum.
open and shut.
a business-man tumbles down the stairs into the dark,
searching for a car to take him back to his lit high rise,
away from the dark waters he merely watches with a shrug.

past the museum my matriarch starts to bark.
oh, but she cannot beat me today.
for though the light around the lake are dark,
tonight my blood flows calm-

the dark boy drumming his sticks
on the train headed- a stray
jogger. cop. ghost-open and shut. past
the musuem-open and shut. business. car.
dark. waters. city. sleep.

down by the lakeshore.

machine lullaby

is it wrong to want a heart that cannot love?
is it devious of me to want an organ that only beats,
cannot trace the steps that one danced in frantic heat,
or does not know the passions frequently discussed over wine?
is it wrong to want a heart that only fears
that keeper of time?

am i cursed for it?
am i wiser for it?

or would dear venus simply abhor it?

or would she laugh for i've said what no one would,
and i've made the wish only the damned wish they could.
does dear venus think i've discovered the secret
that no great scholar, dare pen in ink?

should i tell cupid, darling, at my door he's met his defeat?
should i ask, no, beg to sleep a dreamless sleep?

i wish for a heart that is merely a machine,
one that cannot intervene with my more
flexible emotions.

give me something that merely keeps my breathing in motion-
in, out, again.
in, out, again.

it would be delicious to have a heart that
would do just that.

one that cannot be broken by lovers or foes,
it will known no delicious woes.
no divine fantasies,
no fanciful stories.

dear venus, come on, give me something mechanical.
write me a machine lullaby.
i no longer want something that is byfunctional.
just a melody to hum, and a name to outcry.