Its crazy editing old poems in that it completely brings you back to a different time in your life. I remember exactly how I felt writing this, even though so much has changed since then. Prove It All Night I would hold the camera on you For ten minutes, Watch it, And feel empathetic. I would hear, in voiceover, One word- seduction. You turn and smile As the jangle of a pop song Calls forth an end or a beginning; A capping of a denouement, Or a preamble to exposition. I would lounge under and around A bed Whereupon thy hair is spread and thy hand Strokes that mattress In imaginative and stilted Amorous gestures. I would steal your keys, To clean your floors, then Still the heart Before it pops. The neon gods are whispering; The whiskey bubbling and fostering a dangerous will. All the vehicles are in ditches for the night; The hands with hands to hold are clasped And the lonely, lonely still. Looking for your special place proves futile; Always moving, Always rushing. The casino is open on Christmas Eve; It has the aura of a Shakespearean comedy- Identities reversed and people unmasked; Misplaced love or misplaced ire; Most importantly, In this world, This day and age, Moneys exchanged For ten minutes your eyes are square with the cameras, And you burst forth in honest tears. An avatar for mankind! Lamenting, lamenting, For oneself till pity seems too pithy an emotion; You accept loneliness, And you accept that once A body was wrongfully stroked. A body, what a theme, What a place, what a temple. We worship and adore them; We sell them and demean them. The body is always front and center; It is the vase holding all the flowers Of sentiment and soul. This screwball comedy Is a dangerous game When your house is leaking in three spots, And your grandfather remembers less and less each day, And the family must cut down the trees you grew up climbing To pay for outstanding debts; You drink and drive to disastrous results. It is dangerous to put faith In tongue-in-cheek roundelay, Or what seem innocent murmurs At the tail-end of playful midnights. To be direct Is to win the day, And to keep quiet is To gently let this fever pass away. Or do I have it wrong? Backwards? Is the expression simply the end? While the silence, the pulsation, The unspoken and hidden, The actual story. There is a tide turning Down the mean streets Where she learned to keep the beat, And she sits ripe, waiting. Water and liquids, floods and droughts. Steam-baths and beer, too much beer. Red wine, red wine, whiskey, gin; Tequila then back again. Water, liquids, floods and droughts; Holes in the wall; Constant leakage. I heard there closing the movie theatre down, And all that will inhabit it Are ghost. If you believe in ghost, Perhaps just as likely Great actresses themselves Will walk right off the screen. I heard they are closing the movie theatre down And have only sold five tickets to the final showing. Two of them were actors who were in the movie; The other three a street-walker Arm-in-arm with his two johns. There is a hole Between us. Id pull you through If you would come over to this side There is an empty apartment; Id meet you there If youd come over To this side of town. Lift me from The deluge; Stifling concrete, The dying and diseased; The buzzing, refusing to cease. May pop songs, Great pop songs, Accompany A musical interlude For the ages. Afterwards, Realistically, Some air will be let out; Some thought mulled over; And some practical observation Will make itself prominent. Then, Again, Ten minutes Of tears and self-realization.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Nov 2014 00:00:33 +0000
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