High as a Kite. - Hello Poetry

Mar 2015

spysgrandson

across the river
the trickle of what was once Grande
I see them, huddled in their adobe squares
as the sizzling sun settles quiescently
leaving them in shielded shadow

then come the cook fires,
for the maize, the frijoles,
smoking the night sky
filling their bellies, filling my eyes
with visions of them, some silent
some filled with mirth, and song
all with hope or fear

as the moon paints their crusty hillsides silver
some will lie with one another--some will join in longing,
liquid union, planting sweet sighed seeds of hope

others, alone, will fall into dread dreams,
while winds weep and mix with coyote howls
a few will even hear the owls call their names
though the gift of eternal darkness may yet be
light years from their wretched huts

I may be there
to see the sun rise again
and repeat life's one act play,
anon and anon, or something may close
my own tired eyes, before the glory of their suffering
can be played again

upon viewing the shanties of Juarez, Mexico, from the hills of El Paso, Texas

#death #dark #desert #light #poverty

Feb 2015

spysgrandson

her pearls are real

the carpet was her friend
its woven pile stitched by a Java descendent
just for this sparkling occasion, or a thousand others
when she slithered across it
to find the crystal goblet,
or porcelain bowl

the night began with promise
a phone call from him, or the other him
saying he would be there after dinner
when it was night enough to enter
under cover of darkness

last time he had entered on the sofa,
though she didn’t remember anything
but rolling onto the floor, and waking the next morn
rug burns on her back, dry tracks of him on her thighs
and the carpet to the door

she had asked for more,
more of him, more of the wine, more of the night
that came and went like he, without so much
as a by your leave

doubtless there would be
other nights, when they would turn off the lights
and sink as one, in a silken simmering sea
together to find treasures
on the ancient floor…

more likely,
in her world of more,
he would walk away again
her left draped in sweat,
and the familiar scent
of disappointment

inspired by the Francesca Redwine painting, "One Night at a Time" from the Lush series--don't know if this link to the painting will work, but it is worth a try--great painting--reminds me of Hopper--http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c84/spysgrandson/022415fr.jpg

#alcohol #despair #loneliness #alcoholism

Feb 2015

spysgrandson

the sky weeps

the child said, the sky is crying
like any good God of years, I proclaimed it was
pre-ci-pi-ta-tion, a rational explanation
for magic I was too young
to possibly understand

Jan 2015

JLB

Gildess 1/20

Hard squirming in my stomach
overpowers.
Missed a pill by a few
hours.
Hope it doesn't seed,
hope it starts to bleed,
shrivels up and sours.

#fear #scared #contraception

Jan 2015

JLB

SPIT

Sounds glide,
graze against your lips,
and in the tides of words get washed.
Words that are honest, but
too ****
BIG
for the
time we have left,
so

SPIT.

#love #words #time #spit #meloncholy

Jan 2015

spysgrandson

those without words

they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them

they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides

they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse

they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal

they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there

inspired by the lobotomized, either by knife or by potent potion, and the lunatics yet roaming among us, smelling of truth but not saying a word

#insanity #madness #lunacy #lobotomy

Jan 2015

spysgrandson

dream 1/9/2015

who wants to know
the exact day one will die?
(not I, not I, says the fly to the spider)
but she tells me, this crooked old lady
from a dream…

she circles me, prods me
with bony fingers, ogles me
through blue blinking eyes, her mouth
curling in curious, curdled smile

you will be here a while--you have
until you are seventy-five years plus a day
how do you know this? mostly in your eyes, she says
but they are not red, from lack of sleep, I protest, and
my blood numbers are grand, all within those blessed ranges
still red, she says, and being duly desiccated
by wily winds you do not control

but I still climb mountains, I proclaim
and look for Ponce De Leon’s fountains? she asks
why do you argue with me, in this liquid world
of sleep, for I am thee, and you
are me

when I awake,
I know not where she went
or from whence she came, but woefully
I concede, the old lady, and this teller of tales
are one and the same

sometimes a dream is just a dream

Dec 2014

JLB

Can't Undo

We are crying--laughing.
Uncorked the bottle.
Can't undo
Don't want to
Sorry. Pour me one
Or four. Sitting on the floor.
Pull me into bed--it's already done
And it's fun
Can't undo
Don't want to.

#love #wine #lover

Dec 2014

spysgrandson

the very last day--unwanted pickles

what
would you say, if
on your very last day
they got your order wrong, at McDonald’s
and when you told the pimpled faced nihilist
you asked for no pickles on your Big Mac (!)
he stared at you through two gray sockets
that floated on his face, like the eyes
of time

what
would you think, if
on your very last day
conjoined twins were born in Siberia
and one would be deaf , the other left
to listen for both for eternity, and feel
the black swell of loneliness,
even with blood of a brother
coursing through his veins

what
would you do, if
on your very last day
you could buy more time
to create useless rhyme
and it would only cost…
ten cents

what
would you know, if
during the veil of night, your heart
skipped a few beats, then thumped
a final time, while you were still dreaming
of a dance, under a gleaming sun,
and cherished daylight
never to come

Still plagued by writers block--thought of this in the shower this morning. It never did get where I wanted it to go.

Dec 2014

spysgrandson

I apologize

I could
apologize for writing all
these words, ones that I seem
to have picked from piles of trash,
heaps I found while walking this flat earth
giant stale stacks of others’ discarded stories,
beer bottles, cell phones, and smashed
light bulbs

I could
apologize for boring you
for being a purloining recycler,
of all those fetid finds, of all those relics
though I am certain I didn’t know what
my larcenies and other crimes were,
until after I committed them

I could
apologize for ALL my sins,
and beg for absolution, say I am simply sorry
for being born, for breathing and producing
carbon dioxide, though plants
have never complained

#writers #block

Dec 2014

spysgrandson

coffee with Bukowski

he slammed his cup on the counter
not to get anyone’s attention
though his cup was empty
I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes
of course they were bloodshot
and of course he stank of nicotine
and of truth that he said could not be found
in the bottom of that coffee cup or bottle of gin
though he ****** up both  like…
hell, I can’t compare it to anything
and he would think a simile was a waste of words
he told me of a lover he once had, Elisa
with hair so long she sat on it
and a thirst as ravenous as his
which led her to an alley in South Chicago
where the ***** or the H put her to sleep
for good, and how he buried her in Peoria
in a hard freeze, beside her brother
who got killed in Phu Bai, by “friendly fire”
but Bukowski laughed through his tears
when he heard that ****, “friendly fire”
and he filled his glass again,
with Bourbon I guess--I wasn’t at  Elisa’s
numb mother’s house that day
and when he lost another ****** lover
to a drunk driver, he didn’t say anything about irony
just said, ****, it hurts to be close
and he didn’t trust this happiness ****
because it didn’t last, but pain, hell,
you can count on that ******* and if he leaves,
you can make some up on your own…
the waitress filled our cups to the top
so there was no space for the cream
I sipped slowly to make room
he took a swig that had to scald his tongue
but I could not tell, for he was already on the death
of lover number three, sitting there with me
waiting for him to stop the foul flow of truth

Dec 2014

spysgrandson

dream 12/13/14

I don’t know who lived there
in this stucco house, that appeared
to be inside out, with fireplace mantels
under every window, and a setting sun in each pane
walls as smooth as polished stream stones
power sockets here and there, black cords
plugged into each, all disappearing
into a mist where this abode slept

I listened for voices
from behind the walls
though one never hears
in a dream--at least I don’t
people had to be there…there
where their shadows danced
behind the fiery orbs on the black glass
I called to them, but still could not hear
the music that drove their feet

the suns never moved
on the panes, though the clock
hands spun  inside the house--I was sure of that
for the shadows faded, the dancing stopped
and whatever creatures and strangers
lived within, became part
of another’s dream

(sometimes a dream is just a dream)

Apr 2014

JLB

Nickname

“Zoomy zoomy zoomy zonch, crawly, crawl **** youzy you.” the caterpillar said. She was tired of wrapping and unwrapping herself for him. She knew how much he liked it and needed it. But it was ALL he needed. Her pudgy little flesh, ready to chew and spit out. Nothing ever hurt more than that. “At least swallow me.” She said. “At least end me. But, no. Now when I go to cocoon, I’ll be sad and cold and covered in spit. “ But he nibbled her and gave her a squeeze and a slap and called it affection and went on away.
Poor little caterpillar. Her butterfly-self better be beautiful and fleeting. Because if you come round again, poor little girl gonna fly away swiftly, you best believe.

#love #sadness #on #unrequited #renewal #heartache #redemption #moving #caterpillar