right over there...
we are sitting next to the jukebox
right over there..
and
he taunts us
and says
that the more he drinks the more he feels alive.
like a dare
across the table
to us.
i love to stare into his caveman beard
the neon lights flickering
off his whiskers
beer foam at the corners of his mouth
holy prophet madman!
i love to drink shoulder to shoulder with you
and these mad geniuses
vulgar
making love to the dollar wells..
funking the james brown beats
and playing imaginary bass lines
on the sticky table tops..
its in
these times
these men
forget that i have a vagina
and talk to me like a man
respect me
entice me with their gestures
i see my father in them..
the father i was never ment to know..
it's good to rub my knees against them under the table
when the drink has made us
forget out boundries
where the whiskey
on our breath mingles
above our heads
in smoke rings
from our borrowed cigarettes
someday
they will talk about us
the prophets
and mad poets that used to come around
and make a whole lot of life
next to the jukebox
right over there.
- opalina salas
war with them (memories take over)
words are a lost batallion, twisting in a paper bag, forgotton ringlets, couplets and thesis papers.
mandolin harpsichord washboard blues, shiver temptress and promises.
a muse is nothing but a rotton. bone breaks and shredded romance.
somewhere they sit, remember last nights dreams, on the edge of winter all i remember are libraries , their grey thick windowpanes slick with moisture..promises of a free lunch and a nap later frought with memories.
he came rastifari dreams
she came segram seven apologies.
he came stolen crumbling headstones and vampire bites.
she came greenhouse slumber and breasts of clouds.
he came hearsay and long blond contemplation.
she came go go dancer leg sprain.
he came upstairs erogenous zones.
she came aquarium danger games.
he came quite sublimation.
she came rock and roll thighs .
he came a night of falling stars.
she came saxaphone sultry fandome.
he came chairtop recitation.
she came torn tights and leather handbag.
he came eyes closed and murmering.
she came car windows fogged and dreamy.
he came cursing and violent.
she came whimper and heartache.
he came
she came red wine and pink panties.
he came razorblades and merlot.
she came pot smoke and ozzy.
a muse is nothing. a cracked paint chip. a flake of skin.
i withold my happier then. i withhold my desire for rain.
with them.
with a blow to my heart.
i withdraw my troops.
- opalina salas
read my lips for unwritten love letters #49
my lips
feel the draw -ring gravit-
ational pull of a clown girl
frown
upside down swinging doll
of a million pirrouettes
sunshine memories and regular showers of
talking
spirited laughter
and cigarette bitter stings.
twisted lemon sours
alcohol burns and acid words
and once they spill
they all at once pray forgivness
white chapel seance screaming
beg for loving
open petal oozes candy gloss
chocolate
and absinthe
call yr name
vagabond hipster bearded
cunt breath
messiah.
- opalina salas
Jack
because you were a writer,
you posed with a railroad brakesman's rule book
in pocket, couch pillows airing on the fire escape
overlooking clotheslines
three flights up
on a lower east side Manhattan pad,
holding a smoke between the fingers that
pecked away
to the mouth that verbed deep colors
of consonant cues..
because your hand
into fist fits so casually
in Levi's pockets,
you look like a lover i never had,
a lover i long for in the sickly green fadeout
black and white blues,
you were 'indulgent and huge'
tall thick and manly,
American
full-blooded red white and blue,
exhaulting the railroads, negros, migrant workers, junkies,
homosexuals,
handsome girls and pretty boys,
and The Fabulous Beats
i daydream we celebrate birthdays together
smoke mexican grass from your leather pouch
drink wine, eat hash,
wail to Charlie Parker on the on the phonograph
and ! dance barefoot together on dirty wooden floors
i dream i feel my first new york rain
as we walk to the diner together,
like dirty diamonds on our eyelids and lips,
and in the diner we hold hands and
flirt with the waitresses for more cups of
coffee
i hear your voice, Jack
reading my poems aloud
casual, punctuated and musical,
taking drags off cigarettes and telling me,
'i'ts awlright, doll'
and taking my pen you mark out all the
corrections and read and reread again
because you were a writer,
i feel your days of solitude in my head
where you hung like that clothesline
up above Big Sur
and tried to fill the whole that was
inescapable..
but i know..
that the booze stays bitter
and the cigs never satisfy..
and the grass cannot sail us away..
i think..and i think i want to hang with you in
Big Sur..
i want to avoid the outcomes of us
i want to avoid your demise
and someday! mine..
and i hope that mine
will not be so alone
like yours, jack..
because you were a writer
i forgot your birthday again this year
as i fucked my husband on the living room floor
in the Sunday morning blues and greens
with bebop jazz crooning us back to sleep
but somehow..
i know you think
thats
'awlright'
- opalina salas
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