died in the wool
interred in the down
down down below
where the sand shifts slow
whisper powder in a sleeping ear
drop a rung from wake-up’s ladder
let the grains tell the brain
of an unfilled spotlight on the stage
a mother of uncertain sighs
highway roam in a mobile home
a patchwork blanket sewn
but never reaped outside bedsheets
hairpins turn
unfurl a bless'ed tress
‘cross a vacant breast
long-missed and amethyst
secre-tarry for a moment
the oft-pricked finger lingers
and the dictaphone phrases
the pitter-patter of little defeats
will the watermill forever roll?
the spokes, finely scored,
bear buckets of white oak board
to keep a jejune heart fully-flooded.
***
11.05.2009
5.22.2009
End of a drought!
The first poem I've written in 13 months, the longest gap since I've started writing. Hmph.
Unintentionally, this appears to be economic crisis-inspired, with a bit of 1930's depression-era flavor. Decrying community hypocrisies, down with the rich, up with the scrappy maverick, that kind of sentiment. I leave the literary and/or psychological analysis to you...
***
CIVIC, PRIED
The town drunk
from the wishing well
and spit a filling back willingly
a fecund second ‘til it hit the bottom
de-loused in the flophouse
manhandled for panhandling
by soup kitchin’ cousins
and hoarse thieves tirading a trade
apprentice the season to be polly
wanna catheter to streamline the scheme this time
the mislaid plans of mason men
a foundation crumbles like broken bread pudding
unsure footing for a stood-on cornerstone ceremony
buckled knees of the vie eye peas
bottomed-out top hats and split-seam spats
can’t keep the ice cream parade afloat
with expired milk carton kids;
will those wanton batons higher
and beat the dire drums drier
In the parlor Trixie
was bristlin’ Dixie
she watched from the window
hurtin’ through the curtain
ill-to-follow fallen women,
sworn to skip the stream they swim in,
but tin ears telephone the others,
gossip ‘mongst the city mothers
now resigned to the line
‘twixt the sweet and the swine
she’s a slingshot send-off
Y-stick in back pocket
one-eyed and dog-tongued
a nose thumbed
at the stuffed sirs and puffed hers--
the last of their unkind
no quarter will they find;
the meter is up
and minded by the maid they have betrayed.
Los Angeles
5.22.2009
Unintentionally, this appears to be economic crisis-inspired, with a bit of 1930's depression-era flavor. Decrying community hypocrisies, down with the rich, up with the scrappy maverick, that kind of sentiment. I leave the literary and/or psychological analysis to you...
***
CIVIC, PRIED
The town drunk
from the wishing well
and spit a filling back willingly
a fecund second ‘til it hit the bottom
de-loused in the flophouse
manhandled for panhandling
by soup kitchin’ cousins
and hoarse thieves tirading a trade
apprentice the season to be polly
wanna catheter to streamline the scheme this time
the mislaid plans of mason men
a foundation crumbles like broken bread pudding
unsure footing for a stood-on cornerstone ceremony
buckled knees of the vie eye peas
bottomed-out top hats and split-seam spats
can’t keep the ice cream parade afloat
with expired milk carton kids;
will those wanton batons higher
and beat the dire drums drier
In the parlor Trixie
was bristlin’ Dixie
she watched from the window
hurtin’ through the curtain
ill-to-follow fallen women,
sworn to skip the stream they swim in,
but tin ears telephone the others,
gossip ‘mongst the city mothers
now resigned to the line
‘twixt the sweet and the swine
she’s a slingshot send-off
Y-stick in back pocket
one-eyed and dog-tongued
a nose thumbed
at the stuffed sirs and puffed hers--
the last of their unkind
no quarter will they find;
the meter is up
and minded by the maid they have betrayed.
Los Angeles
5.22.2009
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