Poem of the Week
A Drink, A Decision.
It's awful.
You sitting across from me
with your eyes
that are a mattress and
your arms a plaything.
You twirl my brain
like pizza dough
until I feel as though I'm in your lap,
wide awake,
a moon.
It's awful,
you shark.
Your legs so close to mine
like blades of grass,
like carpool people.
You hold that beer bottle
with artist's fingers
and the lithe of dancers and
until I feel your grip,
your hands open on me...
Sleep with me tonight.
Speak the words of prostitutes,
of witches.
I'm still wide awake.
A fountain.
- Tuesday, September 23, 2003 English Secrets
I didn't realize that I was asleep
Until the plane shifted so
Closely to the grey clouds that
Surrounded Gatwick Aeroport
That I thought I was dodging Heaven.
I had to reopen my eyes twice
And squint through a rain cloud
To understand that this island
Called England was below me.
So what now?
Victoria Line to a Royal House
And your backpack
Strapped to you like some
Hunchback and me with a magic box
Snapping a memory of you in
Digital space before hundreds of years
Of history.
Where were those ravens
And Fairy-tale boys
Who kept the line together and
Cannons that shot blanks
In the name of freedom?
Every pub beckoned like a prostitute
And every scooter sang quietly
Whether looking right or left,
I always turn the wrong direction.
I tourist map only had
So many lines to follow.
I'm thinking of you now
Under Marquee lights that
Summon us from afar-
Lights like marionettes
Dangling from heavenly strings
That display just what I need to see...
And somehow I end up
An hour away in short grass
And tourists walking in circles
Around what makes up the
Larger sum of what you've become-
One monument on top of another-
And another-
Until the last circle surrounds you
And suffocates the true intent
Of the settlement that was to become
England.
I take a final sip from a pint
And capture motion in a still-frame-
You blurred in a future memory
For us to share in Luton-
While they all sleep,
You and I finalize in detail
All the dreams of Edinburgh
And Houston around sleeping dogs
And those who drink enough
To miss the smile
That would be me telling you
That the timing is all wrong.
When the plane left the tarmac
I was already asleep
- Wednesday, September 10, 2003 poem of the week archives