Last nights poemoid rant for the poetry event, with minor amendment: No Cave for Me You wont believe this! Tell me - Can you believe what he said? He told me, he said Baby, just you and me, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, Yeah, and you, beside me In the wilderness. I said, What? Like live in a cave? Look, Dummy: the blings the thing. Fox furs, and stiletto heels, and a Mercedes SL550. Champagne parties every night, if I want. The beautiful people, Like on Miami CSI, With Foster Grants and sugary beach sand, Cigarette boats and string bikinis. I dont want no flies in my eyes Out in some camel-shit desert. Not with no long thorns and deep sunburn And filthy water from some cesspool of slime. I need my hot-tub friends, Draped in silk, pouting at me with lip balm, Wearing shades and hair extensions, Offering canapés and Russian caviar By a clear, blue sparkling pool. I have to have pumping music from a hot band, Set up on the deck, out by the spa - None of this dead-silent hermit stuff. Hey. Old crackers and stale wine aint enough, Not for anyone who wants to be alive. I need a waiter placing a napkin; I need a valet dangling the keys; I need a bellhop wheeling the luggage; I need a flight attendant pouring drinks; I need a salon girl buffing the nails; I need hours in the parlor, with righteous air conditioning; I need a cashier swiping the card; I need fresh ice cubes in the stainless steel bucket; I need scented oil on the masseurs palms; I need coffee for breakfast, Sominex at bedtime; I need galas in the museum; I need poets writing me odes; I need . . . the Mother Lode. You got it? None of this athletes foot itch in some desolate place. Give me emotional movies and popular plays, And a magnificent hat for Easter. Ill enjoy short visits with others brats, Just to confirm my choice was best. I might want to stay in touch By cellphone, Not smoke signals in desperation. For social communication Ill take recognition from the doorman, A bow from the maître d. You want my peaches? Well, I want my peaches ripe, and peeled and sliced, Not rock-hard green or bruised and mushy, Picked up off the barren ground. Oh, you say a tent, not a cave? And a nearby clear, refreshing spring? You mean a leaky, motheaten cloth And an algae-growing pit? Oh, sure. Much better, Tarzan. King of the Chumps. Guess again. Wheres the limitless credit line, The bank lock box, the Swiss account? Wheres a condo at the beach, a tropical cruise? You say you offer freedom? Well, Ive got news for you: What and whose freedom? What and whose? You might as well run rich When youre losing the race, The Eternal Race with the Eternal Blues. Yeah. Thats what I told him. And I meant it. Can you believe? Foye Lowe, October 7, 2014
Posted on: Wed, 08 Oct 2014 13:13:54 +0000
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