Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
In honor of Chris's Charleston theme, I thought I'd share this photograph I took when we all visited this past December (this image is from Christmas Eve afternoon). It reminds me a little (just a little) of one of my veryfavorite paintings.
I'm sorry I don't have an accompanying poem. I don't write much anymore.
And all that razzmatazz. Thanks for reading. Here's the final poem in my memory-tastic series of Charleston Times.
music on the pavement and all I ever
the ability to hate it.
was it palm trees or beaches?
makeup running down
the revamp of
such humble dirty
tricks and dangers.
I had a crummy apartment with
a good girl in
the heart of a ghetto puking its guts out.
and the city was mud, it was cobblestone,
it was the horses marching around
for tourists and their
wedded happy cousins.
I had nothing,
knew, and I was going to die there,
and school was a fluke,
and I was just a kid, and the street
was brazen, and the only friends I ever
made sat there on the beach lighting
fireworks, and yes
of course I fell in love there
all the time
so I left. so I left
and it told me to leave
and it said no southern son and it waved palm fronds
and I left in a beat up truck just in time
before all heaven set with the sun
on the last
It is early morning. We see a figure lying in bed. Camera zooms in on his face. His eyes open. next we see his digital alarm clock read 3:45. The camera moves upside down to show the time spells the word “SHE”.
Cut to a half naked woman wearing a man’s button up shirt unbuttoned showing her breasts and she is wearing pink panties. The woman is rolling on a bed in a middle of a wrecked hotel room. She is laughing hysterically.
Look at this place. We must’ve had a good time last night.
Uh, I guess? Do you remember how we got here?
I remember meeting you at the Shot Glass crying after Jack left me. I remember you telling me that you saw Stacy with another man. That’s about it.
The man looks down and sees a videotape on top of a pile of filth. He decides to view the video. It is a video of the couple having the roughest sex ever. They also destroy the hotel room in the process. They perform Sade like acts.
Cut to a scene with the Man being appointed to a strange Council for the Arts. He seems upset. Turn their meeting into a Felliniesque circus. Make it really fucked up. A fat man with a thick Dali like mustache stands up and announces it is time to view his film.
The council turns to the big screen. The title “Jesus” appears on the screen.
The first scene is a helicopter shot of a car on a hill in Los Angeles. On the roof of the car we see a bumper sticker cross that reads, “Got Savior?”
The next scene is of a Nun holding a glow in the dark cross starring into the camera in a creepy manner. Cut to a parking lot where two middle aged guys are throwing hardcover books at parked cars. In a garage a teenage boy is practicing electric guitar.
Cut back to the first man sleeping on a couch while it storms outside. He is now bearded, kinda like Jesus. A woman sits in a parked car outside his window. She is crying and cursing and naked. The man stands up nude, walks to his window, and opens the blinds to view the woman in the car. The man scartches his beard and walks over to a desk. He opens a drawer and picks up a book. It is a Superman comic.
The screen goes black. We hear an audio collage of preachers and gun shots for almost 30 seconds.
Friday, March 28, 2008
but Poppa still gon' make love all night long.
the poetry readings and how I met a girl
were intertwined from
the moment another
girl in pink hair told me that I should
stand on a stage and
read all about
my standard variations.
and when we went we went in force.
and everybody knew us.
and we hated everyone.
and we were better than them.
but, please, as
Harold would say,
much love, much
love from the crowd. clap
for a neighbor. Won't you be mine?
Charleston Times 8
the hospital was my funeral home.
I worked the third shift and came out
it was escape, of course,
a means, an end,
movement, taking pictures
of so many others, addled
by the lottery
and dreaming of moving to the country.
well who could want such a thing?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
was a jerk! Ohh, I said it!
Charleston Times 7
the movie theater downtown serving
beer and beef
was easy and eager,
sat next to the banquet hall,
sat next to the seafood restaurant,
sat on the square, off the street,
large and American,
and I folded under folding that damned flag
when it got too windy out.
and I can recall splicing movies
and finding the time
to lust with my
in placement and cutting
to the shreds they came from and finding
the time to stare
down the back alley and imagine
garbage bags bursting in
acclaim of my arrival.
the kitchen was easy;
the fryers were hot;
the food was stiff, oh heat lamp,
I just couldn’t get
a handle of
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Now, come on, you had to know I was going to use that line as a title to a post at least once during this onslaught of youthful memory poems? Right? Right!
when I went down to
and then decided
all that could
he balked and Josh balked too
and I failed
and flopped around in gym shorts
on my parent’s front lawn.
oh doom and destiny
and couldn’t step over ourselves fast enough to
get back downtown
make a life of cheap
apartments and hardwood floors and
late night parties
and girls that were
jealous and poetry readings that
were fast and easy and ridiculed and beloved.
but when I set sail for the new country,
an evening’s party
captured me, and she was there,
and those people were there,
and my brother’s roommate was there
and we all fell into the sea and said it is better
to drown than to wade, better
to drench than to soak.
but when I finally woke up in my parent’s house
for the last time, I knew
of only a girl’s legs and how to smash
a beer bottle over my head.
Several years back I wrote some short film scripts, at least my idea of what short films would be like if I wrote them. This is one of them.
The film begins with rapid jump cuts of passionate lovers having sex. Black screen to lovemaking to black screen to lovemaking, etc. The setting is a simple room.
The room should have muted, dark tones. Maroon sheets, blue walls, purple floors, and so on.
When the woman climaxes a hail of bullets rip the room apart. The Ornette Coleman song “Lonely Woman” plays as the smoke from the gunfire turns into a hazy fog.
Cut to a phone ringing. A young man, in his late 20s, emerges from beneath the sheets of his bed and answers the phone.
He mumbles into the phone. There is no voice on the other line. The man stumbles over to his dresser. He smells his dirty clothes. He picks out the cleanest clothes. The man walks over to the corner of the room. Up against the wall leans a Sax case. He opens the case and picks up his horn. He begins playing quick scale runs.
Next we see a woman is bra and panties standing in front of a full length mirror. She is without expression. She runs her hands over her body. In the bottom of the mirror we see the reflection of a sax on the floor in the background.
Cut to a table. The table is in a dark basement. We hear the sound of what most people would recognize as dripping water. Slowly the camera moves in closer to the table to reveal a deck of cards. On the top of the deck is either a Joker or a King face up. The dripping sound is actually blood hitting the cards. The blood drips from an undisclosed location.
Then we see quick shots of various gangster paraphernalia. Things like tommy guns, cocaine, casinos, waterfront docks, expensive clothing, etc.
Cut to a dark apartment. From the inside the camera is facing the blinds. A shadow of a man is seen in perfect silhouette. He is motionless.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Yeah yeah, I know, such a lame post title. But guess what? I eat lame post titles for breakfast.
I met this first girl full of fun on the boardwalk
because of my friend
Jarod and his lingering need
of some other.
and the next girl was a bookstore queen
who couldn’t be
much more than eighteen.
the third girl was wearing a
and showered easily
in the apartment where we made music.
the next girl, finally, took
off my clothes in her coffee shop and
said that the best part
of poetry is the break.
the girl after that, still that girl, put
my clothes back on
in a different shop and told
me that poetry is
poetry and any other nonsense
is just girls and boys dreaming.
that girl took off her glasses, took off my
hands, said that she
saw the horizon,
took me to the ocean, and made me stand,
facing the wind.
Monday, March 24, 2008
I opted to put two exclamation marks after whammie, not three. I don't know, it just seemed like the moment wanted it, although I know three exclamation points is the traditional way it's done. But don't let it be said that Christopher Savage was ever afraid to defy convention. I bite dogs too, and while I'm wearing a postman's uniform.
Jason said he would never join the armed
but then he went and did it,
said she was waiting for him.
ocean waves, he played
he didn’t dance,
he got drunk and smoked cigars
and shaved his head.
he ate chicken as
plain as can
and hit the gymnasium.
he said, well you know that the marines are just
we get picked up, we roll out,
we dive in,
and we just hope for the best.
I can remember those late nights of pizza and
lazy on your parent’s
hours and slipping down the cords
of endless entertaining
Hey, number three, here it is, wow, cool, go f--- yourself (edit by the blogger team: sorry shitheads, no swearing). Banzai!
oh William, I saw you yesterday
bowtie in the box office
at the theater,
and your mother made you lunch,
sister was away at school,
and the girl of your dreams was hiding behind the concession
and you said so much would
you said, buy a ticket
it’s going to get much better,
but you might
not have as much fun.
you had that jet black hair made of cutting
I had a vest on made
of stampeded carpet.
later, you said slurpies are good for you
and downed a whole bag of popcorn for dinner
and disappeared into
I was drinking coke in a bar named Rachel’s when a long tall Texan with a pig face came up to me. He asked me if the seat next to me was taken…zaroooom, I fly away.
All these women line up t’ mean nothing. A laundry list for the gravestone I call the past. Claire was there. The movie started at 8:00 p.m. Then this dreamed femme hands me a bag of DVDs. Damn, I wonder what this means. In most films flicker ticker tape parade tape my eyes shut before the drive. So are we gonna get together? Far as I can tell we have nothing. An ace and a pair of diamonds. All these kids with kites hold joker’s wild. In the nose of the groom. The garden guardian closes nocturnal Chopin. The piano sits upright and plays itself. It swings with greasy fingers. I got the firewood. Chopping at the bit, he never swung like that before I think to myself.
Horny in his bed is choosing which dream to fall asleep to tonight. Lead Toes is glad to see buxom blondes in the cold weather. Cold and turning colder. In the afternoon soon the fledgling member of the scat pack says Idaho is the pit and the reward.
These over the fog writings are mine for the smoking. Writing by candlelight is the same as riding a book named candlelight. Happiness is the December wind whipping my face. Crisis the Duck asks for soup, but he receives a guitar unstrung. Following my Marilyn Monroe the Hurst of my background ends with curly hair. She sits down to take a test. Get it over with so we can get it on. Hurry up please, its time. Please, friend, hop scotch to Part II. All these countries can kiss my grits.
The Horse Radish is a play about two gentle cowboys. They somehow get stuck in middle America. Drinking coffee will do that to a foolish teen. The poison poised to top the charts in 2034 is Bongo Hamsters. They rock. The real illiterate poet steps to the microphone and reads,
“When the night is a long time coming
and I have weary eyes & bloodshot thoughts
and I know all the lights are off
and I know all the doors are locked
I turn over & think too many coughs
You may ask me about my dreams
but I will tell you only that you play a leading role
and I am a supporting actor
the clock moves through molasses
the moon is in permanent hang
this day is too goddamn long.”
The poet is morbid to the touch. So after many tensions the book really starts. One guy has an eye patch. Cobb Lar stood up. His hands were shaking
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Here is the next poem in the series of Charleston Times. Lovely day, wasn't it?
my friend Jarod picked me
up at three
and we headed away for dinner. downtown.
playing on the streets,
headed for the pier.
but we stopped at the beach on the way home
and each said what
it was we
is what he told me.
I found an old poem of mine on the Intertron today. It must date from the late 90s or sumptin'. I don't even like it that much, but feel a sly link would be fun for those of you reading this B-log.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Yes, I know, I know: the title's a little saccharin, but sue me and shoot me. I wanted to post a poem everyday, and I've decided to put up my cycle on my days in Charleston, SC. The poem cycle is titled Charleston Times. I'll post one a day (maybe two! oh my!) until the series is over (which should last about a week). Also, the "Times" series of poems will show up again when I post Jeff and my new audio poem "Disconnected Times" in the next few days. Wild, man, yeah, dig, and flowers too.
she said that my name was Christopher
on any stage
we said that we deserve so much better
she said that she didn’t exist
and I woke
my parent’s house
in my parent’s neighborhood.
I was back in
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Gotta get gone - the sun is up
I'm thinking of summer rhyme
Look at the clock my friends
It is closing time
People here are dying on the vine
The weather aint bad - I feel fine
Look at the clock my friends
It is closing time
Closing time!!! (scream)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Here are some more poems because the posts have been lacking lately (and by lacking, I mean they aren't coming to your door and kicking your ass). Ugh! Tough poet post!
“She gathered her
fist and threw it
but I absolutely dodged
watched it sail off
and then I laughed
the low weak currents in the stream
up having the most chance to
the course of the mighty river.
from the homes and habitation. away from all the angry
a car hydroplanes over
entire surface of black black
road. into the end
another mechanical beast. there is no roar.
water feels the skid
and the tears on cheeks,
tracing down sacred pathways, comes and goes
the faint light of . the girl and her
mystery don’t discover tonight
the later days of heat and health dry
if the power
the universe was
about autumn trees
then poets would
swift swords to cut
and if the power
everyone would be
Monday, March 17, 2008
Hey, guys, I haven't posted a prose poem in a while, so ba da bing. Happy St. Swithins day by the way.
travel logos 4
If you arrange all your shoes in perfect order, point them north, and casually look at your watch the minute the sun goes down, you’ll know how it feels to be prepared. The warrior outside, roaming hills with the moon as his friend, understands that when he lives, and with his sword and gun, he’ll die a little bit, more and more. This makes him smile and I wish I was there. You wish that you were there too, with me, right now. You would not say to me to take my time. I’d smash a local radio and shout all of the day is gone. You are gone. You would not say to me to love the way of shadows from hollows. You would say go climb into a tank, drive down the main road, and make your mark in explosions. Everyone will have to say your name then. But I don’t want to. Not really, I don’t think.
I was thinking about the end of yet another SXSW here in Austin, TX this morning so I went digging through my poems to find something that would fit with my current mood.
from HIP POSTURING
The belly of the beast
pick it up now
make a call
pretend to fall
down down down
you go to the basement
looking good man
pick up chicks
get yr kicks
like an old timer
yeah real low
how long can one
mouth run on and on
to satisfy the stomach
in the middle of a feast.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I wrote a new poem today inspired by Christopher. I was also thinking of Lenny Bruce for some strange reason. Can words shock anyone anymore? Is that even possible?
5 Short Poems Inspired By Savage’s Reading of Les Murray
The man in the office with the beard
Is young, educated, and satisfyingly un-weird
After 8 months of unemployment – finally…
He doesn't even make 30,000
After 4 years at the university
His BA = BS
I bet he wishes he had a Master's degree
Lubricate yr fingers
Index and middle
Stick them up my
Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
I read the poets of today
Good for her/him
But who reads ‘em
The guy w/the glass eye
Or the girl pale w/sneer
Big Brother speaks down
-Tell me of your dreams
-When I close my eyes all I can see is black
I hate thinking negative
Hate is such an ugly word
Thinking negative thoughts
My positive spirit has been pushed
Off a cliff
By all these awful
Monday, March 10, 2008
Hello fellows, how's the world? Just thought I'd post some new poems I've written. Hope you are all doing well.
she wants sex
in the disco
beside the jukebox
while it is
on a Monday evening
by the rarest of chances
be the river god
with a blue broadsword
glade and grass
their rules for laughter on
when I slip
and toss my briefcase
the cars of the center lane
burst wildly across the emptiness of the downtown
if you want white paper on your
me when it is getting
can just go over the shoulder
have slept with you
over my fingernail I was
so many times oh she dreams
that I am
so many parts of steel flown
in the sky and
You bet the stake crass of mouse. Miles Davis. Drive to the mountain to find the rest of the moment. Out over the ocean one might taste open seasons and oven heat. Awful food for penmanship. Too late for Wednesday. Experi-man with the ocular nerves says no sir for hire.
“Serve up the trout.”
He is on the side of justice so he must be corrupt. With wise skin flakes please my breast and examine me honey. Oops! She was killed by a pack of anti-Famines. This is going nowhere so I ate desert and threw up sunshine. The dentist called and said something about my looks deceiving the tooth. Bother other brothers before noon. This one needs rest. I sleep alone now. Allow me just one more chance to make it right with you. I ride a mail train baby. Get it. Got it. Bought the phone book from Darling ‘cause she drew erotica next to the psychiatrist. She was pleased with grand illusion. It did not bother her that he was missing three eyes. The otter was pleasant. That made up for lost love. The student council stud had quite the exercise video collection at his disposal. He was running for president. He did not win. Too many problems. No way.
“Yes. I sal it wit’ m’ on toe eyes.”
Rhys was the name of the detective who framed Woodstock. Alias from the other side was toe jammed from behind and torn between the good and the bad within all. I tried to escape but my futile attempts were ‘tween tweezer thin slices of mediocre.
“Be not so proud,” said Yonder the elder, “because the young may be foolish with their money, but quick with their guns.” The crowd took three steps back and yes indeed was the response. Heather noticed the microphone was unplugged. We were all amazed. Minutes later the smoke cleared.
All dragons juggle off toward the night. The town was now ready for the festival. The elder ambled to the front of the stage.
“Quiet. Quiet. Please, listen to his pleas. They are really amazing if you don’t forget that they are centuries old.”
Not to be forgotten. The hush of the mostly youthful audience was impressive. They said nothing. No ears were left unopened. Tired eyes assured. Elder looked around for some sign. The yellow light. No, yield. I am ready to speak. Huge air lung filled, I say do unto smothers as do unto you. Laugh. That was untitled. Much more should be said on the subject. I would if I could. Breeze.
Cigarette lighter than fair. In the corner serious thought was being thunk. Shot like junk. No shadows however. That was a close one, ponder. What the hell does he mean? Yeah, the night was off to a great start.
Be proud (can this be happening?).
The pride tag was enlarged to mouse x moose. I could not stand the consequences. Heather could. She was quite the trooper. Lusty appeared again. He was ragged and dirty like the song. Too bad, could have been a nice boy had he only listened to his high school guidance counselor. This was likely an oversight. Buy and sell. Date the waitress. Dancing his jog he told the audience conveyance gathered up our elders. What would he call “cool” things? This was unique in our apartment. We had unsolved mysteries but nothing like The Adventures of Lusty. He was one candid fool. Born and raided, he had been fired months before his long lost weekend.
Dark shades now cross-legged sitting back t’ back with his throat. He told tell of his tales. They were obvious. One time the drinks flowed freely. Any good news was smothered he had toured Southeast Asia. He had sung back up for an entire country. It was nice to hear, but something of an accident. A fool suck as eye.
His raging temper went on through the night. Blank. Bland. Heather lost her nerve and snapped. Bye for now. Sweet candy child. Darling of the mist. What a mess. Lusty will behave himself for only so long. He will not be asked back for any more speaking engagements. Aint it funny how bard games turn into cinema. That is the end.
Dreamed a bank robbery, bust out of jail, love triangle type story with Ida Lupino going by the name of Catherine Wheel. It was strange. I saw an image of a girl I’d seen a few times around campus. She was killing in the name of. I don’t know why she did it, but she did it well. I love to see her walk.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Hey, here's another prose poem I just wrote.
travel logos 87she thinks that now, if ever, would be the perfect time to carve her initials into her hair and walk down the avenue in a lime green dress, touting her new success at initiative and disdain. but she moves onward, past the hair salon, and into the old alley where grime collects in puddles of reflectance. she is beautiful, but not in any way you could tell, and she is young, but again, this is a secret. for her the last resort is to go straight to a coffee shop, down three cups of espresso, and extend the last forty hours of her waking. just once, to reach that level of misunderstood living, that is what she wants. the taxi cab, the old bum besting birds for bread crumbs, the nun in her books and emptiness, the woman, the man in his old beat jeans, the girls on the corner, watching strangers bounce from cutlery shops, and the jazz man trumping his best solo with a silent rest and lean. the girl is the girl that can become a woman of love, she is exactly that kind, but she has to know it first.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Hey guys, after reading Jeff's Sagittarian Conflict poem, I decided I'd share a paragraph from my novel that stresses the main character's early romance to a wife of his, or at least, his reflection on the subject. Just some quick things to know for this part of my novel: the main character is immortal, he's on a road trip, he's a novelist (and remember, this is just a smaller story in the larger scope of the novel! wheeeee!!!). Hope you guys like.
His whole life had been pointed to this moment, directed, and whipped, beaten and loosened. The immortal could feel wild lifetimes converging in his veins, a wife roaring, a novelist scrawling. He could see Eloise, his love, sitting high in a castle of theses and red capped pens. He thought about her and motored. Sometimes it was easy to dream her into existence, thinking about plastic and paper clips, flesh and fingernails. Sometimes it was too easy to love her. He revved the engine; the distant halo of the city dwindled behind. The immortal shook himself; but she is noble too, he whispered, and spelled the word Eloise in his mind. She had a strong sense for fiction, fancying all elements of Shakespeare and Salinger. She sparkled like a drum more often than not, and her rhythm was a river, and the immortal was a leaf. He kicked the acceleration harder, upped the rev, and faded faded. He wanted to be with her now, despite himself, despite her university schedule. He wanted to be near; he thought about their origin. He was a sailor, she was a student, he took her fishing, she wrote him poetry. They fell in love in bungalows and libraries. He had written a novel about it once; an empty house passed by. He didn’t think much of the novel, but he wanted to believe in it. It was one of the first things he had written, and even now it sat dense somewhere in a cellar, collecting dust for no one. And this cross country trip too, he thought, was made for believing. It was a snake, a dragon with many heads, and he wanted to be a knight, spinning wheels and all. He wanted to carve his initials in every tree he saw on his way west to the great desert. Here stood an immortal man, soul and all, he imagined, a large knife, a cut-away desert setting, cacti and lizards. All on the way home, and take your time too, he reminded himself; he didn’t want to get there before he got there. He had to make sure that his bike was beautiful and smooth, and that it ate the road, and that when he stopped, there would be a red landscape with a single tree and a beautiful young thing and a wicked creek. The immortal had to have his fun, it was essential.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
During the typing of SC I wrote a longish poem titled "Sagittarian Conflict" that was more or less a poetic version of that crazy word play novella of the same name. Since I have so many loyal readers, I thought I would post the poem here as well for comparison.
A translucent phone at the bottom of a chlorine hole -
it rings exactly three times - Claire is frightened of the marching cats -
outside the tax office coffee brews -
Famine puts newspapers in an open four-door
(he knows not what model or make of automobile) -
Claire knows more about cars then he does -
on his right is a painting of a tree trunk -
he smoothly twists the cap off his bottle of gasoline and drinks -
the portable typewriter runs a marathon in the time it takes him to say -
I want you
The night before departure -
the winter of her motions -
Claire stood, a stone in the tower of Babel -
like ice, melodies and pelvic rhythms hung frozen -
Famine was a drag on Claire -
He watched the crowd turn into wallpaper - snarling and sulking -
the ring master’s whip cracked -
Claire was trapped inside a magazine exploitation gun
color of a college party movie - the sight of her playing the game killed
Famine’s angel wing visions of lovely Claire -
On display the summertime boy and twisted kite girl -
clouds below the grass wet - a smell of coming thunderstorms -
His eyes shift into hers - will they speak? - the canyon divides further -
1982 the year of west coast kicks and screams -
baby born July &... -
Famine as Pacific Ocean military -
conceived in Philippines - opens his eyes on San Diego -
His love of music and art came out of nowhere when he was young -
his parents were not particularly “arty” -
father was a marine too good hearted for the bullshit
he put up with inside the walls of honor and discipline -
mother had several talents though creativity was not one -
she was a perfect copy - early in her life she worked as a painter of custom needlepoint canvases - she would take a picture and paint it for sale in a small shop in Whittier, California -
...& November - Claire as Los Angles - breathes -
Fall turns Winter, the Nevada desert brown -
blue eyes near to remind the neon people of beautiful waters -
w/family complete - time to pack thoughts into bags and leave -
landing on Quaker land - Penn.- the new home that Claire will cry for -
Several more states to conquer before landing near Famine -
Famine thought on the coming summer ....
brother has a job -
Dad supports the family -
Mom is the foundation -
brother is a genius -
Famine is the leader w/observational catalytic presence -
From bend of bay to shit of sit - our beloved parade -
Famine fakes a knowledge of fine wine -
and expensive fibers firm and lustrous -
Claire the kite flesh flies higher and above the boy -
his humor is hyena soup -
As lightning tears apart the most fragile part of sky -
as Famine becomes the trapeze artist -
words beseech his oral cavity -
fare thee well lost ocean eyes -
Holding his breath he promises to laugh again -
then the phone rings - aural assault -
he rubs his sleep ovals - language leaves the scene -
Claire transformed apples into philosophers -
Famine read the type written pages with enthusiasm -
she wrote her stories so easily - he exploded turning green -
the pulse of midnight broke his concentration -
little hand - big hand - short and sweet -
Famine was the exposition - regain control of the ship -
point the stern and pantomime the bow - arrow through the heart -
like an old cowboy -
He wrote the name of the Madonna backwards -
held it up to the mirror - Claire drew a picture on a napkin -
for he is a sailor and she is a star -
...and you can carry the elephant while I carry the foam -
Claire always asked Famine the same question - why? -
he fell asleep talking - they were seated at an all-night diner -
the grunting waitress who carried pancakes like they were waffles -
He saw the peeling band aids - shooting up syrup -
the morning always smelled and tasted strange -
Set the sails. We’re leaving port - Famine drifted back to his country -
the skylark, the poet, and the pauper visited Famine -
Hook up the computer to the main source connector in the coconut tree -
proud flag wavers - automobile accident and a fractured wrist -
broken hearted too – Famine thinks of Claire –
The world of love to be conquered -
through the embers of the last morning rise -
hours of 36 passed effortlessly away -
no meals were to be missed -
wine of kisses drunk -
petals of pink cover the floor -
The walls were flaking -
no teenage rock n roll posters
to cover the stains -
just plain off white dirty staring at him -
Famine’s sheets were not tucked -
they were semen spotted -
the radio, the last piece of technology in the room, was still on -
stuck between frequencies -
not quite Mozart -
not quite the Lovin’ Spoonful -
not quite talk - mostly hiss -
the shifting back and forth was somewhat pleasant -
his mind was a spin cycle -
the voice on the radio, “...distance...precious jewels...
keep up the good work senator...homicide...” - the orchestra swelled -
*Beep*- it was not even 9 am -
the clouds were still covering the sun -
the sin - the light -
the previous day had been long but this was ridiculous -
Famine’s clock radio had been on for 28 hours straight -
he didn’t care - he just wanted to stay in bed until 11:30 -
until it was time to leave -
Famine shifted his weight -
the bed springs creaked -
finally, something was happening -
he was preoccupied with his thoughts -
his ruminations on the previous months incarceration -
going over the details and dreams -
through the static Marvin Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On was playing -
Famine thought, good question - still, he remembers how he spent his nights -
They would walk around
the campus talking -
the movement and conversation
only occasionally slowing -
they would take a seat on a bench at midnight or rest at a bus stop ‘til 2:30 am -
the wind would muss their hair and as vain creatures -
especially Famine - (He needed a mirror every minute of every day) -
Famine loved to inspect his appearance -
they would joke about details hidden ‘tween the lines of day -
they would talk playful in foreign accents -
Claire had mocking tongue -
inspired by her surroundings the quick witted
Claire would evolve the art of speech with Famine as partner in crime -
“Oh bus-o driver, stop de bus-o an’ cum back ‘ere. I want you t’ put a token in my slot.” Claire was so very funny - then it would be Famine’s turn -
“Mary suddenly grabbed hold of the stick shift and gave a mighty tug.”-
She screamed, “Green Light! Go! Go!” Claire giggled, “Faster bus-o driver!” -
a flash of her flirting and Famine was gone -
her ocean eyes would reflect street lights and moon glows -
whatever was around - her eyes lit up the event -
“Bus-o driver you make me hawt!” -
Claire would put special emphasis on the word “hot”-
sexual metaphors peppered their talks - the hornier Famine became -
back in his room hours later and masturbating -
She was the love of his twenty years -
the nights they spent walking were the best nights -
the reward for years of ... -
some people were out drinking or drugging - all valid -
but give Famine a way to overdose on Claire Kaufman -
He could die no other way - her lovely womanhood and intellect -
genius made his dick unbreakable - Claire and Famine were walking their last walk -
the night before school let out for the summer -
separated by hundreds of miles -
still computer & phone connections
but physical sight would be banished for most of their months apart -
maybe the chance of a get together but not regularly
and Famine certainly craved her closeness -
around the old University - their comfort walk -
Famine tasted the air and felt his words -
as they were pushed out of his mouth by fate’s fingers -
Claire brought out his happy -
he laughed and laughed and laughed some more with her -
Claire was his best audience and Famine was her best audience -
they passed various tan brick institution architecture cubes
on display as educational facilities - he longed for control of time -
he looked up at the clock tower - it was penetrating a single cloud -
he imagined himself swinging from the hour hand -
“Give me more time, dammit. I need more time!”
Claire laughed and laughed - he loved her melodies -
they stopped outside a maze like complex -
tucked away in a corner under a single light outdoors
between the walls - a saxophone player -
practicing his lonely songs - of course they made fun of him -
“Dumb shit, doesn’t he know it is time for bed?
Stupid sax on the beach motherfucker.”-
making obscene gestures with their hands -
but the music sax man played - a slow romantic ballad -
the horn’s cries echoed off her empty -
a desolate slumber hours soundtrack -
ringing brightly the high notes - gently oozing the low -
Famine looked into Claire’s eyes and saw a deep solar system -
a galaxy he wished to travel -
but she was young, innocent, and independent -
a virgin of soft white - no brute could tarnish her star -
he, for the first time, understood the cliche “lost in your eyes” -
romantic fantasies pulsated through his limbs -
his loins throbbed with procreation -
his engine was hot and stiff -
Famine could not speak -
language could only take him so far -
the imperfection of words revealed -
he had had moments in the past
with difficulty saying the important phrases and this time was no different -
“It is our last chance for a slow dance,”
Claire said - his hand in hers - his arm around her waste -
he pulled in close to her - and cheek to cheek they began to sway -
slow motion turnings - the moon was a mirror ball -
poor sax man - he had to keep playing until their dance ceased to be -
imagine two young kids on a sidewalk outside a university
in the freshest hours of day holding each other
for the last time (for a long time anyway) -
moving like melancholy waves to the tune of “love”-
the warm human touch - Famine was trying to melt into Claire’s rhythms -
briefly she pulled back - examining his face in the picture frame of morning -
no words were spoken - their feet weightless -
their motions together with cupid sax man - honorable sax man -
music disappeared into the sun’s heroic rise.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Hey, it's been a while (a week!) since I've posted some poems, so shazam, here you go. The first two are a brand new world exclusive, and the last is an old world exclusive. Praise Jesus and praise the old ass kicking Jehovah (but in the Latin alphabet, Jehovah begins with an I).
some drums for the weekend
you met your lover
inside of turtle shells
some say she is lost
but I want Sundays
to be my
so bang away on the walls
so silver and useless
print me my name backwards
across a snowy
we can bury our mother
the weight of her
and rings of ivy led low
on a white
I miss the nighttime
I was the monster
I preyed on the whole
but a good one
a kind one.
all the people I’d meet
all the displaced personalities
the hungry loves
I didn’t know them any
in the night I was hidden
the moon was my queen