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cr1090Poems
I. The Flitting *just like me to be the one to lose my nerve I don’t even think of you sipping your coffee and yawning*            his honey-throat spreading imagined hospitality like butter            on toast—the bard of Royal Street ringing bells of that            known once and only, that forgotten bard of Montmartre                                  e, e, e, e,                                             e, e, e, e, e, d, c, d I walked up and down and up and down and up and down, wrought-iron      balconies and           hanging plants and                 circus clowns and               cocktails named           things like Aviator and Little Josephine      in my ribs.            hurricane season came and went            the apartment Jacob rented painted            salmon by the new tenant            I kept walking            all I heard was jazz II. The Splatter I met a man all the way from Delhi at the mismatched butterfly-printed breakfast table. He said            “Where are you from?” and I said a little town near Philly and he said            “Where are you going?” and I said I haven’t got a clue. He told me they let you paint the walls with pen strokes and they never paint it over. He said to love thy neighbor ‘cause she looks okay and when they ask what brings you here to smile and tell them “Well isn’t that just none of your **** business.” III. The End it was           just                  like                       me                  to be             the one          to     lose       my nerve— I step off the plane humming in my best imitation honey voice a little drunk on airplane wine it’s raining here and I only remember that one line
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Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Spanish Moss
I. The Flitting *just like me to be the one to lose my nerve I don’t even think of you sipping your coffee and yawning*            his honey-throat spreading imagined hospitality like butter            on toast—the bard of Royal Street ringing bells of that            known once and only, that forgotten bard of Montmartre                                  e, e, e, e,                                             e, e, e, e, e, d, c, d I walked up and down and up and down and up and down, wrought-iron      balconies and           hanging plants and                 circus clowns and               cocktails named           things like Aviator and Little Josephine      in my ribs.            hurricane season came and went            the apartment Jacob rented painted            salmon by the new tenant            I kept walking            all I heard was jazz II. The Splatter I met a man all the way from Delhi at the mismatched butterfly-printed breakfast table. He said            “Where are you from?” and I said a little town near Philly and he said            “Where are you going?” and I said I haven’t got a clue. He told me they let you paint the walls with pen strokes and they never paint it over. He said to love thy neighbor ‘cause she looks okay and when they ask what brings you here to smile and tell them “Well isn’t that just none of your **** business.” III. The End it was           just                  like                       me                  to be             the one          to     lose       my nerve— I step off the plane humming in my best imitation honey voice a little drunk on airplane wine it’s raining here and I only remember that one line
Written by
cr1090
American
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
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