A Quicksilver Trilling
Once upon a time
we met the platinum blonde with a letter in hand and a Loro Piana Handbag.
She was quiet and
frantic at the same time, the obstacles of running from beautiful to damnit!
You popped
bubbles in the hot flames, in flamenco streets with bleeding trains that lead
you
from the whistles
to the cheating rainfalls.
Now, she’s as
quiet as a storm swept flower.
Now, she’s an
atomic bomb in my heart of desire.
She’s as damaged
as the ignorant meal to the fiery belly of a carnivore.
Meeting the
vagrants are as easy as meeting you she’d laugh to herself.
Maybe she’s just
a little deaf when this city shakes in a quicksilver trilling.
A little blind
when the joy with from a celebration to a thronging.
So you missed the
thrills of the small crowd now. That
city took your bravery and your crown.
It’s hard to be
superficial in your walk. The thrills of
a million helicopters circling down.
your heartbeats a
quilted bundle of wires. In the Hollywood hideaways the public does watch.
Hurry up to snap
a picture of her durable nucleus falling apart. Behind the bars, to the many
alcohols and
elixirs falling straight down the cold rocks.
Her beautiful monuments show some cracks
and the drinking
of the sweet fruit tree has become a little thick in the dust cloud social
ball.
Maybe she’s just
a little deaf when this city shakes in a quicksilver trilling.
Maybe she’s a
little thirsty when the water is sealed from the dams to a willing thirst.
This blessing is
just a disguised curse when she’s dressed up for another Judy Garland downward
spiral.
I’m starting to rethink this shadow looking at his shoes, playing little Mr. Socialite wearing a poor
man’s Bruno Maglis. I’m standing here holding your golden cup. The feathers of your golden goose,
and a shrivelled-up ticket to the sacrifices you make at Tiffanys. My culture lies behind the ropes
holding the inside of my head. To play lover and not to play dead. So you can play elegant and hip
for the artsy coffeeshops. They can spell your name in the drink and your heart melts, and you finally
feel like a somebody. So you tip those baristas and joke about the rats. They don’t know art, don’t
have MFA’s and haven’t been bought their gardens to thrive. I just watch the fakeness leave your
timid hazel eyes. And you try to just to the restroom and cry, I hear you in their weeping like a saturnine
coyote.
There are a
couple of genuine fools, walking around pretending to be the rules of cool
They folded under
the pressures of rebellion, but they are beginning to wonder my darling.
They are
wondering exactly how many canvases you have put your brush to. Since you tell them all
you’re so smart
and like a branch I’m just this poetic clown stuck with oversized t-shirts and
the smile of
a stripped
screw. Don’t worry he’ll pay for this
free meal at this simpering Italian Restaurant.
Then he’ll
be on his way
back to the job of being a wonderful muse when the art professors aren’t
calling you.
Never to share a
true linen of a sunrise together. Tell me exactly what art is when you don’t
know the
art that is
natural weather.
Oh, maybe she’s a
little deaf when the city shakes and is shrilling. A little quicksilver trilling.
The sunrise is a
little overbearing. Can’t see the canvas
from the golden glare that I’m wearing.
Operation, a
colourful tornado on a disco floor. Weak
legs are dancing.
Drunk and the quick
pills are mixing. And you’re a drunk and
grinding against pistons of strangers
trying to keep
from pissing. They want to call you up
for a night of glistening, and introduce you
to a hypodermic
waterbed. You forgot me behind the
trees. A little dirty when you have to sit and
plead. You have nothing you really need, but
everything you want is in the halos of that river.
Well, the birds
wake up a little earlier than you. And they seem sick without the worms to
chew.
There isn’t a
masterpiece for them to view. You went
right into the darkness with your colors and your
strength. Frail bones fail frail forests. Simple supernatural spells bring crumbles to
a magic mountain,
the journeys are
hard to walk when the valleys and the lakes are droughts and scrawny to swim
in.
Oh, maybe she’s a
little deaf when the animals stopped howling.
The wind is full
of heat and rain is even melting. Around the curves the body is sealing.
The city is
shaking to a quicksilver trilling.
From the windows,
we used to see the clarity of the glass.
Now it’s a little oily and overcast.
It’s a holocaust,
razor sharp raindrops with teeth that bite, just like a brand-new disease.
The queen must
hide from the flee. Our humanity isn’t built anymore on heartbeats. Sometimes
humanity is built
from cardboard signs. Hold a little
higher and ask for a prayer. Ask for a
shave of cool air to save you from a Tinseltown cataclysm.
So what does the
wonder girl do, when she goes from the pretender to blue to the shrew
Does she realize
her hair wasn’t always so cute? Does she realize the geniuses are all crooks?
Does she feel the
jazzy palm trees have always been a little plastic and fake?
Much like the
hypnotized starlets in the platinum blonde deconstruction game.
Oh, maybe she’s a
little deaf from the chess game that keeps yelling checkmate!
Maybe she’s been
blinded by the hysterical cut-throat authority waifs. Maybe she’s just part
of this jealousy,
vanish haze they thrown on you to make you a product.
A little pill sick when the city keeps
shaking tiny slits of cracks in this quicksilver trilling.
Now, she’s as
naked as a blurry mirror. Now she’s
feeling as pitiful as a stuttering preacher.
Now her art is
less of a picture that hangs above bountiful nouveau vanity mirrors.
Her art is the
magnetism that pulls the moon through her evening’s veins.
Her art is when
the clouds move in and pulls the curtains of stars over her delicate frame.
Maybe she grew
tired of her ears constantly ringing.
Loud masochisms and feminine leeches
luring and lingering. A city shook to pieces in a quicksilver trilling.
Callie’s Dad : Obituary
I
found myself an ill mess
sweating
all over my bed
switching
alarm clocks on and off.
I
could swear my heart was
pounding
nails in my head
I
was all engaged in the world of me.
Well
I read somewhere that
Callie’s
dad died about 3
Summer’s
ago.
4
Summers since I knew her.
And
we had visions of a
wedding,
but July dresses are
much
to sticky and itchy.
So
I think I remember the man
vaguely,
Callie’s Dad.
Met
him at a family barbecue.
He
seemed drunk and rude. But he shook
my
hand and informed me there was still some catfish bites on the grill.
So
I remembered your mom,
always
answering the door, a
little
teary, a little dreary. A
dirty
rooster t-shirt and makeup
many
hours worn and hair she
combed
flimsy.
I
once gave Callie a school ring
and
said with this we’ll forever be.
And
like a dumb young boy I skipped
home
or drove in some out of date car
with
neurotic loud voices and
shredding
guitars. Callie ignored me and kissed
my
cheek. And she said
“goodbye”
as I was still developing a personality designed for her.
Now,
with cloudy coffee, a
wasp
in the room. I am
thinking
of our drive-in movie
date,
and her daddy threatens
her
with the tricks that a full
moon
will bring. All the men
are
searching and hunting and
the
women are the prey he says.
He
wanted her to always stay.
But
she strayed to another.
A
blonde combover 27 year old, Miller Light addict
A
town boy with no city, no artistic aspirations.
He
could read the hell out of a TV guide.
In
her father’s obituary I find
out
he left this Earth with 5
different
wives. I am sure the bills
will
never end. And Callie surely doesn’t remember me
more
than a 2 week boyfriend. Her and blonde
Dennis
have
6 mouths to feed and I’ve got a closet full of magazines
with
cracks in my seams.
CORPSE FLOWERS
Oh my honey is blown out like a cyclone,
the air smells like corpse flowers
The storm must have been a bad one. Unruliness was the only rule.
The town deputy is speechless. And his racism is lost in translation.
There are sips on Jameson. There are muttering hippies looking for a
blanket.
There are men with straw hats spray
painting signs about torture.
There are no abortion signs falling down
like dominoes.
What I hate to say is, maybe our town needing
a tornado.
Maybe every girl and every boy needed to
rummage through this junk.
To find what is authentic and what is damaged.
Where are the friends that said they’d warn
us? Where are the protectors?
Fragmented gentlemen. Exploited women. The foes meet the flock.
The blisters are popping from every hitting
rock.
An old man’s last breath, quell his
appetite to be released
from the worries of glory and the worries
of having to live in a battle
day in, day out, naked, bruised up, bravado
doctrines, and hungry skeletal stomach.
His lady, tired of his whiplash and
persisting witchery
decided to empty her lips of it’s dry intimacy,
take the dolls and the talisman
and drop a little iodine in the jar, make a
bottle of poisonous wine.
The sky has cracked now, raining down a
hailing of tiny eyes
we are invaded in waves to the crutches of
a slanted hallway
We love how to shadows look in the hidden
arms of new divinity.
They lead the dragon to the bait. The flames now icy. Our bodies impressing gods
to a new spiritual colour. Excavated a million miles of corpse flowers.
A little wind just blew in.
Fishkill, NY
It was a lame morning, another
picayune argument amongst
the early risers and the late-night
ravers.
I was tender in my muscles
I was craving the sugar I once found in
Fishkill, New York.
We had many moments together in a late
Spring Week and a half.
From a Friday the 13th (another
speeding ticket)
until Memorial Day (another Uncle buried)
That man fell over dead in a redundant
consignment shop.
Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Dale Earnhardt, and
a collection of racist dolls.
He had a woman he was seeing there, while
his wife was working hard
making money at the bank.
He was pretty much a rain drenched jerk.
No umbrella while chasing lace.
While in Fishkill I took Sugar off the
hitching thrills
A free spirit, with the Lord dancing in
her bellbottoms.
Let me in to your flaky rides to the city
my darling.
She failed to tell me she was twice
married.
Once at 16 again at late 17.
Divorced when the babies never came.
I said well I’m just a 19 year old bad
writer.
Not ready for a family or to exchange
rings just yet.
Let’s just walk around the river and kiss
by the trees.
She said “well I guess that is fine with
me, I’ve only known you since
the birds began singing daily.”
“Just drive me in your yellow car and away
from my mama’s watermelon seed porch”
So she thought everyone was out to abandon
her.
She began to mature more and more on the
next lonely night.
I pretended I could stay forever, then
like a punk I’d escape when feelings felt to real.
Escaped to a drunken night on my cousin’s
boat dock.
She said “I am glad that maybe my
instincts are fully developed”
“And maybe you are just another boner in
Fishkill’s Friday trash pick up”
Away for another 6 months
the yellow car now with a broken door
handle.
I got a job as a butcher cutting meat in a
neighbouring town.
Did a little grilling too. Did some cheap
stealing and felt cool.
I always thought about quitting every day.
Then I saw through a blurry eyed morning.
She was there in the store with a man
twice her age.
Moustached and muscles, tattoos of fast
cars and demons.
I said hello, and she faked a smile.
To detract from her new green apple, I was
showing too much red,
blushing because I was realizing that
hidden love in my heart never left.
She whispered to me when he went to get
some fresh cold cuts
I’m in the tiger’s cage now, I could feel
her loneliness and rage.
She left me a letter that read “maybe
someday”
sitting on a tomato paste can. I slipped
it behind a cobwebbed an of beans when mustache
began looking.
Maybe maturity comes from a narcissistic
smoke as it fades.
Your “ideal women” and you’re a scared boy
battling urges to leave.
I couldn’t find her again and the good-bye
left me pining for years.
I always wondered as I quit that job.
Dressed in jeans, a dirty hat and paint
smeared jacket.
Began to head away from I-84.
I bought some shoes and exchanged payments
with some villagers for some basic goods.
I found my love throughout years on the
road.
Learning to swim as a man
Once I got cleared out of Fishkill’s
throat.
THE LUKEWARM TRAIN
There are days you remember the rambles of
Chattanooga Misty.
Not quite bright, not quite dumb.
She was a lost Girvin girl living in the
Kentucky woods.
She maybe was just born into ignorance,
perfume all the smoke from her cigarettes
before she comes back.
Didn’t know that her ass tore through the
seam of her jeans.
She was looking to scoot away from the
rabbitholes to the rabbitcage.
And so she learned to be a smooth talker,
hide that shy, act that brave.
She was not too fond of all those
presents. You’d just to present to her
to win her heart.
She’d rather be glum, take in the latest
drug, and drink until heart cannot beat.
Well that’s a wild one for you, feeding the
bikers their barbecue and their beers.
Sets you up for a ponzi scheme, and then
disappears into the arms of a deadbeat.
His politics have become something of a
joke. His hair that was precious and
begins to croak.
And now she’s wondering why her tan is no
longer a cloak to hide her real self.
She thinks you can’t read her, everyone who sees her becomes a mystic and
can see
the flowing ego that won’t let her doves
free. She’d rather spend time as a
thrush digging up worms.
Well when she’s going insane, I won’t be
anywhere near. I’ll be riding high in
musical notes.
I’ll be chattering with the jealousies she
hid in her bones. I’ll be the water, the
nature, the trees
where her nest fell from long ago. When they ask, oh, where is she at? Maybe, I’ll be truthful or state
a fact.
She’s been running away for about a thousand days from herself, her
mind, and her beauty.
She’s been a little glum, brainwashed, trilling in the mud, and unaware
of the twilight sorrow.
Well the crows all ask, for a quick
boarding pass to see if she’d like to bring her fruits and berries into
their decoy jungled home.
I’m sure she’ll just pretend to be a new
disguise, as always. Maybe from brown to blonde today.
Maybe I’ll go from celebrations to breaking
in the snake. Maybe I will be the one
that’ll finally break
break him and just leave him a nervous
rattling drum. Rippled streams, leave
him hanging and never to
call him back when he needed you most. So who is really the lost one here? The stones throw will just
shatter those crows. Because he just sits there year after year
refusing the find new homes.
When he’s going insane, just sitting in pity and haggard, stuck in his eternal humdrum woes.
She’ll be stepping aboard, from East to West,
seeing the world in an everchanging brain.
She’ll go from palm trees to mapleleafs,
and drink the margaritas and drink in a Summer rain.
She’ll be the one, living on stepping
stones and hitching into the soundwaves of a lukewarm train.
David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana. He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen and Hard Rain Poetry inspired by Bob Dylan. He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020). A compilation of 4 books "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" (look under books tab in Amazon) under Cajun Mutt Press & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022) David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire.
Twitter @DavidLONan1 @feversof and www.feversofthemind.com Poetry & Art Group on Facebook.
Website is www.feversofthemind.com for many interviews, book reviews, short stories & poetry from many.
No comments:
Post a Comment