Archive | POETRY RSS feed for this section

Under Raps


It was their first date

. . .

She–dressed to the 9’s,

and he, half that

(and more)

.a solid 8.

to a near 10 skirt & heels

–cosmetics sparingly, but judiciously applied

pinned, plucked,

waxed. . .and shaven

he was the

last

,

too

–all khakis, cologne,

and coordination, besides–

gender appropriate

scents wafting in one another’s wake as they stepped into the evening

. . .

a full moon evening

. . .

(cue Howling Wolf)

w pleasant breeze, and balmy feels, and

–car door, opened without guile—naturally, too,

since Lambro-genies…

(skirt smoothing)

are magically

(not there’s)

and both belting,

and pair smiling,

each heading,

(in roundabout fashion)

to the finest place

. . .

either secretly dreamt of,

but neither dared mention

. . .

it was

. . .

. . .

ideal.

the stuff of which all that endures

is made of

–intimate & private, and

so appropriately appointed that

within minutes of staggered arrival

–things got real.

Really real.

dress-up game over,

apparel exchanged

(by tacit agreement)

4

sweats,

(2 to a leg)

and tease,

(because. . .really)

and comfy bed socks. the better

to slip-slide on floors slick enough on which to dance

–and yeah, linoleum, yet its faux tile pattern

was as Grecian as Grecian could be,

–as Grecian as her erstwhile updo

(and more negotiable, too!)

while make up removal

(and start of belief)

. . .

was less .

Seem-less

. . .

but more!

. . .

he–

(so not hymn)

flopping artlessly yet

elegantly

into repose

to

assess menu options

and

she–prattling on about

her way.

all 24/7/365 of it

–effortlessly concocted a 4 star meal,

(too much whine

precluding that 5th star)

–inflection

falling,

and rising,

and falling again

–precisely attuned to his de rigueur,

and non-committal,

and impeccably timed,

monosyllabic responses

(sounding bored)

she served him topless

(slide-her)

as carbs were so yesterday

and it was

a perfect first date

chez eux

–followed by a still better

second,

when 5 o’clock shadowed

their

winter’s day.

Give Him the Boot

she had a Bluetooth smile

& Apples

in her cheeks–

eyes lensed in photographic memory

& mother-boarding hips,

& we shared so many common programs, besides.

It seemed like a meme.

we handheld for a time…

in those days of chips & Dosses

ah, Y…

the orientation was landscape, &

a macro upgrade seemed certain

a little Log-on cabin in the Webs

with a white picket Firewall,

Sensible thumb drive &

maybe a few links…

but I pushed the wrong buttons

(too much auto-correct!)

and she dumped me,

and sure

I space-barred around a while,

but for the sake of inner PC, I eventually powered down.

Most Likely To. . .


And now,

now you are always in school…

Measured by

believable

pixelated yardsticks

a slice on the bias

that slaps

pictured apples,

orange paintings, and

full-on lemon poetry with umbrella measure

–umbrellas the stoners can’t manage–

since they wear skullcaps,

mirrored sunglasses,

and hang out behind the church getting high…

Skyscraping comparisons are made

— different trains on the same track–

blue-printing incidental white lies

as instant if forced word problem

that chalks up hourly.

like flies on seriously rotted cafeteria food.

(a selection of diamonds, meerkats, and tomatoes)

but really,

how often do those things blend

outside of news streams?

–of Stone Soup?

–of 20 questions?

Highest heels ricochet down interminable halls

> the ones no one wears for long <

echoing with authority

but the cool kids

were never in the building

they went off campus for lunch

and never came back…

Never noticed

your mad moves

–my sick skills–

and

his individuated conformity–

scribbling across yearbooks

(or 50x a day book)

who cares if the picture rubberstamped

(Mr. President, in each instance)

is photo-bombed

its transcendent caption

just the littlest bit obscene…

As long as the vote’s in

for prettiest lies.

It’s Raining Superheroes

She curled up under her cape

–lined in softest fleece

kicking off hooker boots

–that concealed bed soX

& sipped T
 
 
(she’d reconfigured

S into)

scareless of structure

 

figure-hugging bodysuit

exchanged

for sweats made familiar

by repeated wear–

telephone booth emblem

on nearby book the closest of its kind

. . .

whose book?

(a library borrow)

dumb?

(just overdue)

smarter in silence.

 

ruffling dog-ears

so affectionately careful,

she weighed back-burnered options

on all cylinders

–no longer led—

house rattling as the

L train passed overhead

(virtually unnoticed)

she bypassed

(instead of leaping)

the construct

in time

. . .

a bird

–on plane—

to suit her

plan.

No L

Salvaged Mammoths melt

in Stoli rocks,

*frozen *

in Simply Red buckets,

DNA-licious

and Tusk plays in the background, naturally–

–until frosted glasses spill rehydrated

Mastadon,

and who knew to try that?

Who deemed it expedient?

(you might wonder)

but to Hell with inquiring minds.

The quest for a heftier, emotional

stonewall to stockpile elephants resumes.

Since tame pachyderms

in Zoo conditions

live afraid, but still  stampede…

They still fell baby birds…

and Crush irreplaceable Mice.

while Mammoths, on the other hand,

remember.

overall impact.

longer.

Should it matter that critical

genomes have been lost?

Should that factor in?

Splicing spooked elephant genes

with Mastadon ice cubes

> seems iffy <

The irreplaceable

Pocket Pet remains

immorally slain, and can

the Dead transcend the Extinct?

It seems impossible.

But Mice have Electric Tales, now,

and Russians scavenge deeper with ice picks

—so prehistoric order could set in.

 

Borderline Crossing


Flat as the sign of fleeing immigrants

her eyes storm fever yellow

–warning diamonds that

tried to get pregnant in the shower

the whole time–

but the sperm preferred blow up dolls,

and the Ivory soap bubbles were infinitely better looking…

bypassing her Plain-Jane egg

for a daughter who smelled of milk,

who did Calculus in her head,

who pushed pins through

butterflied wounds,

and enjoyed shocking news.

Hoarded like water,

recounted to gratify–

–the newest question:

“Do you know who died today?”

(on a scale of one to ten)

“Because I do…

I know who died today…”

not hearing him

> grab <

for air

extending

electron orbit

into space.

 

 

%d bloggers like this: