Thursday, June 30, 2016

Some Heirloom Poems

I.
“Empty platitudes, then proof points,”
she emphasized over Duck l’Orange
with Ho Chi Minh hot sauce,
her eyes like the City at the breaking of darkness,
Armani suit spread open to silk breasts, er, blouse,
a revved red Piper Cub on the roof to take her to Taos.

II.
Truth or D'airstream, New Mexico,
where the sunset tumbleweeds
rattle in army base razor wire
like a disgraced game show host
still reading his cue cards
in the twilight zone.

III.
The endless path
Barefoot to the sun
Ends at sky's enigma grey
And the sea womb.

IV.
The hand drew the gulls across the sky
In lines that were barely perceptible
Before sky and my mind, united, parted.

V.
"I was famous in a previous lifetime,"
said the Panhandler, "obviously
I fucked that one up badly;
I mean half of your celebrities
don't even exist."

VI.
The saddest people
Sleep in the dust
Of the lie-berry.

VII.
My bible is better than your bible.

VIII.
The holes
In the leaves
Are alive.

IX.
Cliff spurge and orange pencil plant
in a succulent urn;
assymetrical necklines
in the Chinese Islamic restaurant;
mesquite bean music
at Cafe de los Muertos;
magnesium bodywash with Bulgarian lavender,
veganic cacao, organic banana flour
in the carpool wind tunnel lane;
the bloom is on the mustard
at a party in the PO the crows approved;
but its the powdered donuts
at Scylla and Charybdis
that reduce me
like a street person
to squirrel
muttering indecipherable glyphs.

X.
You can't see the water
Pour over the rocks
Until you remember
The water is a door
And the rock is all you are
And everything must go
Says your soul.

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