"magnavox" poems
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away
A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way
Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.
Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away
A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.
A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.
Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way
Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Dead leaves fall from a living tree,
captured by a breeze, to gather at my feet
tiny mounds
of earth browns
and ill-colored greens
piled on one another / rustling / serpentine screams
tiny graveyards
un-esteemed;
reminding me of last evening's
public television show (almost
appalling)
a special / they called it
on letters from the holocaust,
a reading / from surviving
members now grey and slowing
as they speak (aging)
in sepia slideshows during their
somber, teary-eyed recollecting;
lifting ghosts and rocks
heavy, from the moss
of their memory
silver photos of nannas, sisters,
brothers and fathers lost
fading details of the war
which time has (and they gladly)
frost, depressing
me with my big screen magnavox,
i remote control a pause...
&
still dead leaves of cemetary browns
and soldier greens,
lifeless and lifted by the wind
without empathy / or guilt of sins
an airy power, a commanding force / unseen
gathering / stems or limbs
of these casualties / of autumn
none following the flight
of concord cold fronts
clustering together / piled / inartistically
at my sandals, toes wriggling
crunching underneath my feet
weathered
death seems simple - like a mindless breeze,
natural and indifferent dust devils
it is the way of things
shifting graveyards of leaves
as if a memorial of use-to-be's
from a roar of sightless tragedies
memorium of wars
tombs of bodies / images of defeat
not so simple or beloved
the nature of such things
in these leaves i see
of thee i sing....
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Articles on how to write always feature
Pictures of old Underwoods, and maybe
A cup of pencils to the side, and some flowers
In a vase, wilting symbolically
One longs to sees images of an Apple II
Or maybe a TI994A
A battered Radio Shack TRS80
Cursors flickering in defiance
A Magnavox Videowriter, loading slow -
The 80s had their Nobel dreams too, you know
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 3:43 PM UTC