Matrimonial Site..

>> Friday, October 23, 2009

Unblinking faces, flat and numb, hair well combed, attire clean,
made for special customers , we are not displayed on stalls,
like posters adorning walls, advertising dentists, teachers, elocutionists,
fresh goods, recycled, from all over,
we seem freshly arrived or taken by some privateer.
At times our owners linger on the fringes,
shouting the virtues of their wares
to those who can not read the signs
more often, our posters do the shouting.
‘This elegant face lives a comfortable and gracious life
with their happy and healthy family.’

You’d think our physical descriptions sound like
Sunday customers at your grocer.
some probably are, I am one amongst many,
wherever I am. Getting ready to run.
Sitting on a gilded chair waiting for my bidders,
the icy demeanor not to melt. Through other windows
I can watch the show, shuffling back and forth, patiently,
everyone holding their signs to the windows, for us to see.

Some scurry over me in all fours, they pounce
I promise a list of referrals, photographs, records,
neither of us meaning a word of it.
I love being shocked,
growing wonderfully imperious and offended.
We meet often, exchanging subtle nods of recognition.
They keep fancying me as a runaway. My answers
to their questions are shapeless.
Nouns without verbs.
Lust. Desire. Connection. Weakness.
What I say doesn’t matter. What I don’t, does.

I want a man’s body, a man’s voice in the dark
I can not imagine a life with children,
in a house where I’d live and die, far from home.
I can not imagine building a hearth
that would put a soul in house shared with one
Not now. Not yet. I can imagine no future until I’d rid myself
of the pursuit of the present. I do go on.
There are a few people listening this time.
Its very difficult. You might try it someday.
Believe me, you’d sing a different tune
if you had to risk yourself; as I must.

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An oblique verse

>> Wednesday, October 14, 2009

There were days this year that were nonsensical
listless hours that had nothing to do with you, though
in a strange way had everything to do with you;
days of cerulean tobacco fog and tea,
gossip and light talk, cocktail and bitter men,
gorges of crème caramel under tapered candlesticks
nights I’d clutch a pen and decanter
stirring random ounces of scotch with words
telling myself I’d review my efforts later
for the evidence of each potion on my poetry,
knowing damn well that the quintessential pith of
the exercise was an excuse to get rotten drunk
I began with an account of our longest kiss,
two mugs later squeaking aloud, writing
in a surly scrawl interspersed
on blots of alcohol dripping from gelid lips
suddenly I fancied myself in the pitcher
an addled figure galloping beside cubes and cups
cajoling, conjuring, imploring all that drifted
to carry me along to the future
that would make everything all right,
the future was immense, wise and rosy,
final abide of all who were drifting
so I’d said to myself, skim, skim to be a part of…
the first thing I remember about future is
how cold it was, faces hit by hurricane of letters
past settled on crevices like mounds of debris
the shelves of hereafter obscured by history,
stray moments bleeding onto the hearth,
I wished you were happy; with whatever or whoever
it wasn’t love described in poems, some rapture
wafting into the realms of bliss
was it leading us somewhere I could not go?
I hope you weren’t imagining a future with me
for I had no true vision of that future,
or whether I’d live long enough to have one.

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