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Untitled
If I was home for X-mas
I would have taken the bus to Long Beach
and walked over to East Broadway.
It would probably be cold by the ocean.
My breath would steam out and my fingers
would be numb from the chill of the ocean's wind.
The place would probably look the same, three floors with a terrace outside all of the apartments that faced the street.
I'd be standing on the sidewalk by number 302, just remembering your face and how much you loved Christmas.
It would be difficult for me not to cry as I stood there. Too many memories of us fixing up the tree. Too many years but not enough time. If I was home for X-mas, I'd have a hard time walking away. Maybe it's better that I'm not there, this way on Christmas I'll have your memory to open. The one gift that time can never take away from me.
--elliott
The Detachment
With a sick parent in the hospital.
Starting out with the noblest of intentions.
Still myself with Bach's French Suites sallying forth in my head.
Trying to break past
The grim scrim of beeping monitors punctuating the air.
Then (fatal consequence of sensory overload?)
Finding my legs lockstepped into the staccato rhythm
Which motors the place.
The robotic knee jerk
Which is - one might say -
The heart of the place.
Moving further and further into the march.
Farther and farther
From the more natural rhythms of Bach.
And losing my pulse
--Rochelle Hope Mehr
The Mean
They'll always be the master of me.
The confident, shiny people.
The people who know the answers to all of the questions.
Or who at least ask the really impressive questions.
So easy for them to walk and talk.
They glide through the corridors of life
Off-limits to me.
Executing programs.
Following through with gracious ease.
Exchanging pleasantries.
Apparently human
But cogged into some mighty, Machiavellian machine.
They'll always be the master of me.
The confident, shiny people.
They're too much on the beam.
They're sleekly efficient.
And just too mean.
--Rochelle Hope Mehr
My Words
Now they are brickbats
hurled back at me
through some reciprocal law
of poetic retribution
Unceasing pounding
to the temples
verbatim
repetition
Stoic I should be
to the onslaught
Unyielding I should be
to the unremitting pain
Who created you
How is it that you have compressed me
within your narrow focus
of implacability
If I squint and see you obliquely
will your blows be more glancing
less slamming
less damning?
--Rochelle Hope Mehr
"Blow as Deep as You Want to Blow"
--Jack Kerouac
Demogoguery vs. Blowjobbery,
Workethic vs. Blowjobethic,
Bulldozer vs. Blowjobdozer,
Birdwatcher vs. Blowjobwatcher,
Triggerhappy vs. Blowjobhappy,
Get the point?
Sanitarium vs. Blowjobtarium,
Alpenglow vs. Blowjobglow,
Oilspillsmell vs. Blowjobsmell,
Battleship vs. Blowjobship,
Gentelmanliness vs. Blowjobliness,
Get the point?
Counting Coup vs. Counting Blowjobs,
Deadsea Scrolls vs. Blowjobscrolls,
Poettaster vs. Blowjobtaster,
Doomsday Clock vs. Blowjob Clock,
Get the point?
If the wren repeats her song
6000 times a day
so can I.
--ANTLER Garcia's Pizza
emilio delivers promises
his eyes make
me hunger
in a way
my body's forgotten
eternal urgency
human vacuum
an opening that closes
out everything save
flesh fireworks
exploding
the black sky
of longing
electric tongue
he speaks
spanish skin
fluent as his
brown silk guitar.
--Lynne Savit | |
