Monday Poem: Love, Uninvolved (in its own horror)
What if, when you die, you get stuck in one of your old dreams? Like the knotty one where you keep telling me, “There’s so much I’m not telling you”? I’m thinking of us at City Hall, combined, dancing— With four sinister feet . . . The best citizens lined up in a parade to gawk, and grin, and hear me serenade you. Hear me say a prayer: God, excuse their grins. Me, in black; you, in off-white. We don’t want to show off anything too bright. Anything enters Everything, spits out Nothing Read more…
Monday Poem: Going Out and In
We never do that anymore. Whenever she asks me to invite her out for an evening on the town for dinner and glancing at others similarly coupled, my excuse is that my eyes and mouth are exhausted, so tired from talking to and looking at . . . By then, she has faded wide away, entirely uninterested in what more I have to say. And now the accumulated fades have produced an inaccurate hate, (maybe) able to cure a corrupted love of the cinema, the theater, all of these and those tragic shows designed to inculcate desire, enter-staining the mind Read more…
Cold Coffee
Intending only to drop off a story sobbed dry of more than memories, I arrived at evening, and arose to leave on the dawn of erased promises of freedom. That’s the sum of several one-act plays under the heading of “Adultery,” the reviews of which, of course, led to divorce, separating me from a son, twelve years young and already delving into the worship of dust, the past. Our recent ritual, every Saturday, starting at noon: A repast of bread and blood, semi-relaxed exchanges, reposing questions that ask about regrets, and whether I should have let the woman with periwinkle Read more…
Gaming the Names
Strange language: You always say “blame,” but it never ends with “me.” Mélange of names untimely played during our faceless moments of intimacy, lacing traces of previous relationships— If I’m not bothered by the fact she was fathered by another man, then why should you be by my not-yet-committed act of naming her after one of my estranged ladyfriends? “I’d rather let her die,” I believe, is a rather extreme reply. Didn’t I offer to pay, care for the baby as my own? It’s silly to argue over a medley of letters, pretending a certain combination could turn out to Read more…
Invitation to Overse/InterVerse
No new material this week (for days I’ve been trying to complete a poem and thus far it has defeated me), but in honor of Saint Valentine’s Day, I invite you to check out the poems here.
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