Archive for September, 2009

h1

One Wish and Three Fountains

September 20, 2009

 

Fountain, Tucson Botanical Gardens (2007)

Fountain, Villa d'Este, Tivoli (1983)

Fountain Pool, Tucson Botanical Gardens (2007)

h1

A Stray Poem, and Pics from Life with Crazy Rat Terriers

September 12, 2009

Self-Portrait as Stray Dog

I am a mixed breed head like a cinder block
loyal and smart enough to learn
all your tricks

put your collar on
me tether the lead to the clothes line
you have my permission

I snap at the jabbering shadows
of squirrels as they sprint across
power lines phone lines

I dream you back home at dusk
pan of fresh water table scraps smell of your hair
warm length of your sleeping body next to mine

where have you been all day
what fences dug under trashcans toppled
what bitches tracked

tomorrow we stay inside
newspapers down talk radio on
I will show you how good it is

to be a dog

h1

Bath Time (Not).

September 12, 2009

Don't want a bath

h1

That was Good!

September 12, 2009

that was good

h1

I Have Seen the Future, and It has My Chawdie.

September 12, 2009

I have seen the future

h1

Seat of Green Fire

September 8, 2009

seat of green fire

h1

Three Poems on Inspiration (hat-tip to River Poets)

September 7, 2009

Rendezvous with the Muse

No guardian angel, this one, no
hovering over your shoulder with an occasional
white feather floating down
before your eyes, proof
of the wonders of the invisible world.

No, this one is contrary,
more moody than malleable.
She won’t wait for you
on street corners, won’t take your calls.
Won’t meet you for dinner,
even when you offer to pay
using the currency of your devotion.

But she will come to you,
before dawn, to disrobe your dreams.
And sometimes she will sit at your kitchen table
in the pastel morning light, her hands
holding yours, with nothing between you
but flowers.

The Muse is Unaware of Her Power

when she opens her mouth a tongue of wet flame
is all men desire to see
she yawns and stretches like a cat
so men tell her of their flea-infested longing to scratch
the back of her head
if she is single
they want to slip a ring on her finger
if she is married
they want to slip it off
either way jewelry is involved
when she walks across the screen of their fantasies
men close their eyes and levitate out of the theater
when she cuts through a line of impatient admirers
each one desperate for her to palm their poem-note love
she is embarrassed and wonders why
no one ever asks her what it is
she wants

Going to Meet the Monster

pack your cigarettes
a shout of single-malt
and something sheerly black
for her tastes are base
and her days are long though not near
as long as the night of her thighs

pack a pocket with petals of vers4e
bound by feathers and bone
and a length of red yarn
frayed and untwined as she
prefers vestigial to actual
in her objets d’art

be aware be prepared for her name spoken
in the sexualized chug and screak of machines
for her words to vault from the random page
become smoke drifting down your throat
remember all mirrors are the mouth
of her cave