"dillon" poems
and what lucie is what you get
or so a new voice, charmingly said
Puns profoundly... playful direct
pull me toward this new subject
less than a year is all I've got,
to see from such new eyes
absorbing all which might be taught
when my memory's a minefield...
I get so far ahead of myself
I wonder why I write
without the longing, without the lost,
how can we know how deep the cost?
to feel or not- Its a choice now-
& it's as it's always been
Ours to give,
and to receive.
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 2:20 PM UTC
my paris begins with
those early days
as a conscious flaneur
i recall the couple
seated opposite me
on the metro
when i was still innocent
of its labyrinthine complexity
slim pretty white girl
clad head to toe in denim
smiling wistfully
while her muscular black beau
stared through me
with fathomless orbs
and one of them spoke
almost in a whisper
qu'est-ce-que t'en pense
and it dawned on me
yes the young parisienne
with the distant desirous eyes
was no less male than me
dismal movies
in the forum des halles
being screamed at in pigalle
and then howled at again
by some kind of madman
or vagrant who told me
to go to the bois de boulogne
to meet what he saw
as my destiny
menaced
by a sinister skinhead
for trying on tessa's
wide-brimmed hat
getting ****** in les halles
with sara
who'd just seen
dillon as rusty james
and was walking in a daze
sara again with jade
at the caveau
de la huchette jazz cellar
cash squandered
on a gold tootbrush
two tone shoes
from close by
to the place d'italie
portrait sketched
at the place du tertre
paperback books
by symbolist poets
but second hand volumes
by trakl and deleve
and a leather jacket
from the marche aux puces
porte de clignancourt
losing gary's address
scrawled on a page
of musset's confession
walking the length
and breadth of the rue st denis,
what an artist's paradise
(as juliette once wrote me).
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting ****** in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
I walk down Dillon street,
sun baking cement
and aging wooden doors.
No grass grows in this
mania of row homes
and crowded restaurants
save the few brave weeds
peeking out of cracks
in the sidewalk.
Father Kolbe School:
stands as a rose growing
in the midst of this barren
bar-studded desert.
Dozens of children play
kickball in its roped off intersection:
theirs for thirty minutes a day;
laughter of future senators
and junkies clad in clean
pressed blouses and plaid jackets.
In these moments
they can shriek and relax,
so few years before they sweat
over non-sufficient funds and
that shaky feeling that comes
from the ache of more;
more money more coffee
more time.
I should know, my forehead
is often soaked to the bone.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:46 AM UTC
Um, my apologies to Lindt, dunno where that flavour originated when I first tasted it.
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7FeeKWVi5Q]
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCLVIII)
Lindt was the standard for good choclate, hence
Gone to the dogs as Dillon's to avail
Tastes like the thing itself, whilst in betrayl
Swiss choclatiers own powdered milk for sense?!
And our Wisconsin pride on top fr'intents--
Or what? I nibble one and t'other, frail
As private testing is, and call both pale,
Milk choclate nothing to the real stuff, whence?
Charge me with aye, a fault and swear tis poor,
I'll put on Broforce' soundtrack, thinking too--
Ha, what?! Being "friends" is--stop there as it were.
Trust in the LORD with all thine heart--and do
Not figure. I love Andrew. Rain blots fer
Effect aught blue skies, and no choclate's you.
10Apr17b
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Oh my gosh,
you really grind my gears!
Stop looking at my llama page,
Or else I'll **** you with multiple root beers.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
"whitman's for the white men" I laughed
marauding through the green squares
AL and I cursing the wind for
our bad lighters and
she laughed again too.
"don't you mean the whole Ivy League"
"yeah **** **** curse the Caucasian
Patriarchy dude"
she spit drool on the grass by
Dillon
"yeah man I don't know, I'm a bit
nervous you know."
she looked like a pummeled cartoon ghost and I wondered why
then behind me I heard a Hi and
I said to her "uh... Remember the American Spirits" (she ended up getting me newports)
I turned around and oh uh hey
back in his room explained to him what Imbroglio meant somewhat
hurriedly and then I knighted it the
Whitman imbroglio looking at the door map
This poem wasn't titled the way he suggested I should
But I think it's ok
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
He was.......
everything to me
and it hurt to let him go,
i cryed the most for him.
I was trying to change,
my parents did'nt like him
so in order to change
i had to set him free
as i let him go i wanted to take him back.
Hearing him beg to me,
was the biggest pain in my life,
he knew me so well
and loved me like no other.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
Molly,
Molly Jane.
I never told him that was going to be your middle name,
He just knew he was going to name you Molly,
But I thought of you as Molly Jane.
You were going to be perfect.
We were going to be perfect.
You were going to have little ginger curls
And big hazel eyes,
And chubby legs,
And your father’s pout.
We were all going to love each other.
I never knew how we would make it work
But I knew we would love each other.
He didn’t.
He didn’t love me.
He loved the idea of us,
He loved wiping away a broken woman’s tears
And fixing her.
That was what he loved.
But Dillon,
Regardless of what I drunkenly slurred to my family tonight,
You’re no fool.
You knew in your gut you needed more than that,
And when you look inside yourself,
You know that’s all it was.
It wasn’t me you loved.
You loved being needed.
At least for a while...
I’m not a charity case.
You don’t get to be with me
Out of pity.
But I wanted you.
I’m a woman at war with myself,
Trying to recover from the whiplash you left me with.
All I know
In the pit of my stomach
Is you’re both gone.
Molly Jane,
And Dillon.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
that rerun I watched last night
the *** version of Gunsmoke
where the foreplay is not
nine seasons long
I limped just like Chester,
yearning for Miss Kitty,
knowing her
and Marshall Dillon were
upstairs, having a "tea" ,
and well, in last night's version,
Miss Kitty was unforgettable.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
A gallop at an Upstate New York Rocking Horse Resort
A Junior High School Senior trip
But’s here’s the tip
It was the Dead of Winter on a February Day
Welcome to the resort and step this way
There were a lot of things the resort offered
One of them of course was riding a horse
So I got to ride Tiger Lil
The horse was wide and built to fill
But to ride, one had to be determined and have a strong will
Well it was the trail a waits
The trail was icy and warranted a caution of fate
My thought, “I am riding this horse and this is the date”
Like I said before, the trail a waits
Up the trail being an overpassed high
In the distance, the ride was a temporary resort good-bye
Horses took us higher and higher until we reached the top
Suddenly, one of the horses through the rider off
I got terrified, and jumped off
Immediately the resort hands got my horse back
Later being reunited with Tiger Lil and me
I said let me think and see
Tiger Lil I knew I would be riding
However, the horse had me abiding
But I took control of the horse reins
It was the valley I didn’t want to see
We are heading back to the resort
I could see it in the distance
We were finally back to the flatland ground
I got off the horse, and my heel on my shoe broke
Tiger Lil laughed in it being a joke
I moved like a Marshall Dillon as I was that sore
I would name it, but it hurts, and I don’t think you would want to explore
When I got back to the bus, I told the Driver to lower the bus
The Driver asked me how low, I stated all the way
Arrived back home
My own territory to roam
I made it through the whole ordeal
This was a true story being for real.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC