last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...

there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia     g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.

In God’s mind,
there was infinity.
a slowly whirling,
glittering,
eternity
of terrifying bright night,
full of
flames that sprinted in ellipses,
and marbled floating globes with
golden belts of grit and sand
all this,
tethering His earth with their
gravities.

In God’s mind, there was
a glassy-toothed plesiosaurus,
smooth-skinned,
dark-eyed,
soaring through the
airy
green
deeps.

In God’s mind, there was
a rumply, wrinkly boulder of an elephant,
curling his corrugated trunk
shaking his curving tusks.

And in God’s mind there was His Child.
In God’s mind there were His children:
heads, feet, hearts,
muscles, nerves,
veins, eyes, and hands and mouths.
all these.

And once upon a time,
in God’s mind,
there was a
small,
feathered thing.
light-***** and fragile,
with a pert, sassy **** to its head--
a daring rascal of a bird!
It had a thin, flat tail like a paintbrush,
that flicked and bobbed as though
held loose in
an artist’s indecisive fingers--
As for the feet, their scales were like a lizard’s
gray, scalloped ones,
fringing eight skinny claws--
such a small bird!
And the wings --He smiled--
the wings were the best part,
those bronzy-edged feathers,
as neatly lapping over each other
as shingles on a roof.

Ah, yes,
in God’s mind there was
a sparrow.

The floor howled
in the last
lazy binge
of bronzy sun
before I broke free
to go running
the two miles
to the hospital
in Georgetown
where Dad was.

As I ran, I thought of
The Wreck
of the Old 97
which played on
the car radio
when Dad
drove us back
from the
Charles Town
racetrack
where I kept losing
the same $20
while Dad
placed exactas
and trifectas
to win
dinner money.

Turn it up
turn it up and listen
as the Old 97
engine over-coaled
and waving
with heat
races beyond rule
a bright streak
down the hill
down, always down.

The Icarus myth -
the father disappears
while the son melts
in the exploding face
of a memory.

The air is thick with perfume and cologne,
It's that time again,girls and boys out on the prowl,
Ladies flashing their fingers, to show tyey're alone,
Men responding while she walks by, with a growl,
Hormones flying all over the place,false everything,
Why cant we just be ourselves,
Make-up caked round their faces creating a ring,
To the point where we consist of chemist shelves,
Nails, skin,eyes, hair, teeth, all out of a bottle,
Surely guys, you dont like these orange girls,
Au naturale thoughts make them gag and throttle,
Spray tan this, false up that,wear a tooth pick, and swirl,
Take one home and next morning, her face is on the pillow,
And your sheets have turned bronzy gold,
You've just stood on a falsie, lacerating your big toe,
Half an hour in the bathrrom and your water is cold,
But the funny thing is, when she leaves all so bare,
You find out that she's very attractive,
Then tonight, when you see her, with very big hair!,
Call a cab, run away, to the next gig...




                                                        (c) eileenmcgreevy@ymail.com 2010

Round, earthy tone beads, strung on a line
Pebble size, smooth, cool to the touch like new silk-
They inspire a sense of safety and nurturing,
As they should, a gift from a mother.
A crescent shaped moon, bronzy tarnished gold,
An energetic feeling, feelings of power and wisdom,
Also of peace, patience, and protection-
They come together in swirling lines across the surface,
Twisting and twirling- a dance of cool metal.
Hidden, between strung beads and moon
There rests an onyx bead.
Icy glossed, blood-red light within,
The hidden passion of fire,
Or is it love, hate?
Black and white, just as well.
Around my neck from the age of sixteen
With every glance in the mirror I see
A simple yet strong reminder of
Who I am,
What I stand for,
And my connection to nature and the elements,
But mostly to the earth.

I open the window as often does
as the bronzy blinds fall on the sill
the sun still hiding under the clouds
At 0809 simmers of its hope pride
riding through the cases of my soul
calling on the winter brimming sun rays
lighted with love and pure remedy of life
dreams come to glare with kaleidoscopes hues
rainbows of chakras aligning deeply
as the gaze follows on, two suns stands
halos of two celestial giants bright as ever
one follows on the other, smiling on
Is Planet X closely approaching earth?
those sequence of the Nibiru cataclysm
conspiracies of eventual near miss
or collisions of the Sumerian mythology
presently pulling shifts on the flat earth
ever questioning the mass extinctions
and all the hidden truths as we snooze in routines

pure,
budded
and
unopened.

snow
kissed
tongues
with
white
icy
wh­ispers.

bonfires
of
scented
cinnamon
sticks
and
apple
rinds.

eskimo
kisses
nestled
in tightly
wrapped
arms.

logs on
the fire
glow against
the
bronzy
autumn'd
sunset.

dripping
from the
weathered
eaves....

the remnants
of
what's pure.

Clouds in ginger
crowd the skin
& months grow out
while I become
an eschewing hermit
who rerolls nights.
Over in your
farther morning,
flight TK 1977
is sleeking to Dublin
on the same
bronzy sun that
sings in brick.

I've felt far
from you, lately -
distance deepens
in the swaying spaces
between your words.
Splitting goodnights
with a lonely axe,
I let my mind
run away with me.
Please, be here soon -
the moon is but
a sobbing blotch,
& the grass is dying
in its bed.