little monster
I.
powerline
dips
in sync
with the rural knocks
of a Greyhound
bus
and a smalltown
romance
slowly swaps rank
with a
cartoon bear
and PS2
too much
too far away
maybe
or the notion
that I wasn't going
to be in the same
place I had always
been
or maybe the fear
of a slippery
deception
absconding with
the gratuitous
weekends
of a guilty
dad
who knows
there was just me
returning
to where the worm dieth
I nod off
losing sight
of the
connecting
lines
II.
and I dreamt of
Celeste again
scaled a
forbidden arc
in an opalescent choir
of shooting stars
and planetary wine
a unison
borne
and a cosmos
rumored sotto voce
and I awoke
in
another dream
in clouds of pink daisies
chased by dragons
Orks
Eldars and such
and a
wormhole
spat me out
onto wasted plains
of
other bones
to pick
and I woke
again
my stop
III.
back home
a phone rings
socks stink
and
he needs
new shoes
she says
the podiatrist says
the lawyer says
the judge says
and
everybody says
and a mortgage grows legs
with KD in the cupboard
busting cryptic mags
Mario sounded like
an anthem
but it was ok
and never second best
he laughed too hard
when I talked
like
Donald Duck
- Bernard Alain
(added 10.17.08)
volte-face
I.
I was a virtuoso
sliding on the
Savarez winds
of an ebony
neck
a ladder
of nickel rungs
where every stop
hung
and
I quiesced with Satie
erupted in passionate
cadenzas of Manitas de Plata
cambered to the tremolo
of anonymous
romantics
bliss was oneness
and if a bank balance
was any proof
nothing else mattered
II.
and then
of course
the self-made
longhair
regarded
himself as
a classical
pundit
'my eye'
I thought
not a sacrament unbroken
there was
something in
those telltale squeaks
and percussive flaws
that burned
a bandwagon
with the
passion of
a gypsy
not
food for
the ivy league
but
certainly
infectious
III.
my axe
hangs on a wall
thoughts
are words
somewhere
in a
slow exchange
I have become
'that guy'
much like Hipponax
a little less popular
in Attica
- Bernard Alain
(added 10.17.08)
where pigeons fly
my name greets me
at a borrowed desk
cracking granite
holding up my pen
where
silence
ticks
like
an
angsty
punchclock
I'm not really here
and never will be
not an ounce of wisdom
in these four walls
for all thinking was done
in washroom stalls
my last known memo
're: hold all calls'
I'm not really here
and never will be
I surf on a board
of virtual tact
sending me emails
as a 'matter of fact'
I exchange great platitudes
with form letter class
you see I'm not really here
I am outside my window
where pigeons fly
- Bernard Alain
(added 10.17.08) |
