Bar Scene
Midnight, the bandit, has come again.
I’ve gone through another vision,
facing a dry sundial,
& I thought, as I sat before the party,
who lifted their distorted faces:
— No camels today, only more armies.
Their hands held beer cans,
like priests hold chalices,
& their clay voices, full of pretend,
shattered when they spoke.
My friend, the sun,
passed the bar window unnoticed.
I could have leaned like a beggar
against the door & cried for air—
I could have sat among the plants an atom of soil
& become absorbed by my own leaves.
Instead, I turned up my collar
& walked across the sky, bombing like the night.
Old Poets
Still unpublished—
Shooting beer, coffee, and nicotine
at crazy nerves—
waiting in un-pressed Dickey’s khaki in stashed
Eighth Avenue cafeterias,
caught hiding behind Dick Tracy
with yesterday's news:
Extra ... Extra … Truman Drops Atomic Bomb on Japan!
War Ends!
A mid-town lockout,
spilling his draft beer
across the Saturday Review of Literature,
where Wallace Stevens' s heavily insured eyes
stare back like dead olive pits
from the bottom of a martini—
The nutty poet-uncle as obscure bum,
muttering to Whitman's ghost
with handwritten copies of poems
dating back too far to remember—
To find himself he can now Dial-A-Poem
and discover obscurity sitting there—
just another busy signal to hold onto.
He does a lota eccentric weeping
upon the bumpy lines,
while keeping detailed lists of memories,
written in blunt pencil
on the flip side of our minds.
Published in Down in the Dirt – April 2020
Anna’s Parting, or about Angelo
—Sunday, isn’t it? Sarah’s sister said,
giving discreet glances to her reflection
in the Art Deco wall mirror.
—But it doesn’t matter, she says,
—no matter what they say.
Anna, an old-young lady,
standing among the broken glass,
the forgotten names,
& cat’s eye lashes.
Anna, warm in antique raccoon coat,
smiles & says hello to Angelo,
who sits inside a snowstorm
upon a battered barstool—
They breath loud music & laugh their words
while tears roll down their tongues.
—Forgotten? Who me, baby? Sarah’s sister says,
pulling what’s left of her face together:
—They remember me, honey, they do, I tell you.
Anna shifts her weight, smiles for herself
& hastens for the door.
Angelo, among old friends & other cowards,
inhales deeply Anna’s parting, as if he were in love.
Female Fruit Picker
(a southern scene)
Into the harvest light with dirt-clogged hands,
sweat tearing down dusty cheeks—
Strawberry clouds sweeping past
through a pale blue haze.
A burnt rust goes way down on Donna’s neck,
gold in her vision, gold in her head,
but her eyes
are damp with clay—
but her eyes
are wet with fatigue,
and the future hours will burn way down
tomorrow’s youthful bodies.
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