Saturday, August 22, 2009

fruit ripens, spoils, bruises

Ah, the end or yet another end or a new start awaiting a new end: what the fuck are we doing?

Sometimes a drawn out detonation of sneering detestation or a gentle abnegation to the fall of love - an attempt to deny that we merely are dirty animals. Attachment, touch, dopamine, soft clouded beds or annoyance, distilled anger, refusal to realize that what was and what is are just that. Evolution, the chimpanzee suffers in captivity, looks off to the side at some estrus strange or the insurance of big spread love, slaps away a mate's tricky branch of olives, perks her nipples or pulls his beard instead. We all make show, insect up the ladder to man. Fruit ripens, spoils, bruises, but jelly is sweet, never goes bad, never fails a biscuit. Crack another seal if the old one loses flavor. We love, mate, stray - every person, every animal, every day.

drg o9 - Back to the stars. I'm no one's fragment.

ode to heartache and searching and heavy shit

Beyond my reach
is the

edge of the sea,

the sandy salted waving
rolling farther than all of the
seasoned women I know
could possibly imagine

and it's not like they haven't gazed!

I can't see that far either.
There's a step, a stone path,
a winding
sidewalk cracked
and chalked over in hearts
and lost games of hopscotch.

There are children filling up green
helmets, babies five years ago,
marching off over those blue waters

and mothers! mothers crying
or flag waving
or both,

but back to me and
my edges, or rather

edge of the sea

and the journey of life
and all that shit -

but I can't see that far
so forget it for tonight.

~ drg o7

to disappear (12/30)

I ring the pillow dry of tears. Snot.
Stars line up and disappear,
line up and stand in line for what?
To disappear.

Yeats is all worn down. The
page where one man loved your
pilgrim soul is all worn down.

drg o9

ode to maple bacon donuts

I'm on the bus
to Portland for donuts,
maple bacon. I'll sit
on the curb in the rain
and flip out, man,
coffee and donut
like absinthe and
I'll write a poem
about a blurry, blurry
night, smear my lipstick,
then sing the national anthem
before cutting off my ear
which I'll post to you,
post to you,
notice I say 'post.'

drg o9