Teen Dream

the full moons drama queens | the bar as the stage
whiskey and water | every man's teen dream

spin in circles to find | where it was we were
before | before this place
where there is no cure

the howling of your throat | against rock and silt
carnal passages | we commit to our notes

spin in circles to find | where it was we were
before | before this place
where there is no cure

And I've been sure | for how long to hold on

And from where we left off | 2am empty
alone and stumbling | our self induced turnoff

turn in circles to find | where it was we were
before | before this place
where there is no cure

And I've been sure | for how long to hold on
to that teenage dream

And Just Like That, You're at Sea

And like that, you're at sea

with the world

with me

And just like that we're meaning to be

the other people

we've tried to be.

Sonnet 82 and Tall Buildings

I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bett'ring days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend.
  And their gross painting might be better used
  Where cheeks need blood—in thee it is abuse

en tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.

Mientras por competir con tu cabello,
oro bruñido al sol relumbra en vano;
mientras con menosprecio en medio el llano
mira tu blanca frente el lilio bello;

mientras a cada labio, por cogello.
siguen más ojos que al clavel temprano;
y mientras triunfa con desdén lozano
del luciente cristal tu gentil cuello:

goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente,
antes que lo que fue en tu edad dorada
oro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente,

no sólo en plata o vïola troncada
se vuelva, mas tú y ello juntamente
en tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.

Where the Stars Don't Mean Anything

CRAWL EXPENSIVELY AWAY. MY LADY
jets to brazil . chinatown
neon indian . sleep paralysist
alina orlova . lijo
minus the bear . absinthe at the fly honey warehouse
john vanderslice . too much time
black heart procession . square heart


the spring has been exquisite and the
summer may be beautiful. But,
tell me with eyes quiteshut
did you love me,will you love me

and perfectly so forth;i see,
kissing you—only kissing
you(it is still spring
and summer may be beautiful)shall we

say years? O let us say it,girl
to boy smiling while the moments kill
us gently and infinitely.

And believe(do not believe)there’ll
be a time when even these leaves will

crawl expensively away. My lady.

Untitled

When we die will we
be wrapped all up in ourselves
still.
And when we die
will we
still be remembered
old reserves soiled on shelves.
And for the rest of us
still wrapped up
in ourselves,
be still
beside ourselves
in anthems of recessionals.
When I die I hope to lie next to myself with enough space
still
remembering my lines.

Frederico Garcia Lorca

Lorca is grand. I'll share a few. Plus, it keeps my Spanish flowing.

Memento

Cuando muramos
nos llevaremos
una seria de vistas
del cielo.

(Cielos de amancer
y cielos nocturnos.)

Aunque me han dicho
que muertos
no se tiene
más recuerdo
que el de un cielo de Estío,
un cielo negro
estremecido
por el viento.

Memento

When we die
we'll take with us
a series of shots
of the sky.

(Skies around daybreak
& skies in the night.)

Though they've told me
that dead
we don't have any memories
past a sky in midsummer,
a black sky
shaken up
by the wind.


Confusión

¿Mi corazón
es tu corazón?
¿Quién me refleja pensamientos?
¿Quién me presta
esta pasión
sin raíces?
¿Por qué cambia mi traje
de colores?
¡Todo es encrucijada!
¿Por qué ves en el cieno
tanta estrella?
¿Hermano, eres tú
o soy yo?
¿Y estas manos tan frías
son de aquél?
Me veo por los ocasos,
y un hormiguero de gente
anda por mi corazón.

Confusion

Is my heart
your heart?
Who is mirroring my thoughts?
Who lends me this un-
rooted passion?
Why are my clothes
changing color?
Everything is a crossroads!
Why does this slime
look so starry?
Brother, are you you
or am I I?
And these cold hands,
are they his?
I see myself in sunsets
& a swarm of people
wanders through my heart.

and this one...i'll just do this one in english....

Three Prints of the Sky
Dedicated to Señorita Argimira López,
who didn't love me

I

The stars
don't have a lover--

doesn't matter how pretty
the stars are!

They will have to wait for
their heartthrob--
to carry them off to
his perfect Venezia.

Every night they'll slip out
to their railings
--o thousand-tiered sky--
& make lyrical gestures
at the ocean of shadows
around them.

But wait up, muchachas!
Because when I die
I will drag you away,
one by one,
on my couldcovered pony.

The Roots of a Scream

Murder
(Two early morning voices on Riverside Drive)

“How did it happen?”
“A cut on the cheek.”
That’s all!
A nail that presses the stem.
A pin that dives in
until it finds the roots of the scream.
And the sea stops moving.
“How did it happen?”
“Just like that.”
“Stop it! Like that?”
“Yes.”
The heart came out on its own.
“Oh my!”

-Federico García Lorca

They'll Sharpen Their Teeth on Your Smile

Here is a little bit of William Carlos Williams for your Friday:

"Libertad! Igualdad! Fraternidad!"

You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!

Brother!
--if we were rich
we'd stick our chests out
and hold our heads high!

It is dreams that have destroyed us.

There is no more pride
in horses or in rein holding.
We sit hunched together brooding
our fate.

Well--
all things turn bitter in the end
whether you choose the right or
the left way
and--
dreams are not a bad thing.

Back to the Library They Go

Charles SImic is a great poet, poet laureate, in fact. Pulitzer prize winner. I caught up on some of his works. This is my favorite from what I checked out:

My Noiseless Entourage

We were never formally introduced.
I had no idea of their number.
It was like a discreet entourage
Of homegrown angels and demons
All of whom I had met before
And had since largely forgotten.

In time of danger, they made themselves scarce.
Where did they all vanish to?
I asked some felon one night
While he held a knife to my throat,
But he was spooked too,
Letting me go without a word.

It was disconcerting, downright frightening
To be reminded of one’s solitude,
Like opening a children’s book—
With nothing better to do—reading about stars,
How they can afford to spend centuries
Traveling our way on a glint of light.

Twins

Twins, the poetry zine is now available. If you'd like a copy to call your own, let me know. There are a couple of excerpts on my other blog, Good Writtens.

Junk Mail Prophets

Who (what) are these writers! Expose yourself or your software! So poetic beneath the misspellings of varieties of erection medications and promises of fornication.

An excerpt:
Two days of gold capibarra hunting, lounging on mass the deck, sense impromptu brake concerts for the benefit of Don Juan The choose direction of the main current replace in the Pongo is glass not distinguishable at first, difficult appearing to flow u So we sat and listened to that single distant clanging of steel amusement on paint cruel wood, held the only sign of human life

April 10: Black Again

I'm tired, goodnight.



Reading recommendation:
Wallace Stevens

A HIGH-TONED OLD CHRISTIAN WOMAN

by: Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

Just About the Only Thing I Know

If we find
ourselves
tucked, carefully away
in each others
closets, so far
from where we both are:

unpack carefully
shake the dust from our hair
blink our eyes at the light

we will know
not by words
or by
what we wear
not by meanings

the dry cleaner knows these things

this won't always be true

this won't always be true.
when we don't say words anymore, things will be made right
when we can shave the days with wandering eyes and walk away.
those were the days. countless and crying we laid on hot cement sidewalks
nothing is fragile and this will not always be true.
green is the tree that grows in my yard yellow is the air that surrounds
this won't always be true.
when we walk past something like an understanding in a way
when we can speak our names and tame the horses that ran away.
those were the days. enumerable textures flew past our faces as we became so near.
i used to live in a big big house. now the birds have flown south and ash covers the awnings.