Monday, October 29, 2012

Echoes of the Boom: Part IV

Part IV

I waited so long
Before finding
Strength and knowledge,
A perception of the world
Keener than my own

Oh, I had so much to learn;
A lifetime of pent-up
Emotion to give

That I couldn’t see
These rock beliefs
Admitted greater weakness
Than the uncertainty
Of my own younger soul

For rock under stress
Cannot bend
But must break

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


LATE APRIL

It is nearing toward evening,
Almost eight o’clock, yet
There is still enough light
To write by,
While silent shadows melt
From dim corners of
My room,
To blend with the last rays
Of sunset, still bright;
And tonight I am alone
And longing,
In need of not love
(I never asked for that in the
First place) but a common
Bond with the whole of life;
For I am young, and restless,
Yet happy;
I identify with
This hour, this night,
The latent wind that stirs
Among the peace of
Pastel dusk – a wind
As strained and impatient
As I to be freed and gone;
For each, the wind and I, is
An untamed nature; and each is
Confined and bound by the
Limits of time.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


In tired revolt
My mind releases
The demons
Locked
In the pit of my throat
Sage
In a vault
Of sweat-proof depression

And free
They giggle
And swarm
Through my body
Licking my
Mind and driving
Me
Toward madness

My mind
Is under control
Of an ARCH*ARSONIST

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


The bitch in me
Can rise to the challenge
Of the brittle city.
Pride fluffed,
I trail lustiness and
Reckless laughter in my wake.
I wallow in my impregnability

The river frozen beneath
My window
Early in the morning
The calm wind and streets
Are my weakness.
I would skate away on
The sun-glanced river
To a mountain place
And let loose my softness.

Soon.
Before I harden with use.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Three eggs fry and the sink fills with dishes and pans
Swagger eyed, you
Muse into the soap drips,
Whistle
Proverbs through your cigarette

“John and Yoko don’t have a bad life.”

A lip curled,
An eyebrow raised in query,
You play at Renaissance.

I sit at your table
I finger your plastic doilies.
Decadent, I violate your coffee cups
I debauch your Renaissance.
Playing the sun by ear,
My creation is my duplicity.

(You betray yourself, to
Grind out slowly
Your cigarettes at twilight.
A night of you is easy won.)

I may smile, I have
My female secrets.
No one asks of them.
It is my Freedom I assert before you.

(So redefined
With easy mind
I sleep beneath a heavy arm
Thrown carelessly across my neck)

And you with your projects
Your hordes of lost giggling women
Your strength may steer the night
And quake beneath a canny eye

See my eyes, beacons
Extinguished in the brittle morning.
See us
We are sphinxy
With our seamy snares

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Cambridge
Dissipation
Encountered through gin and tonic
Blurring through
My baby pink system

How young you are my dear
Purrs
The personification of lust
Across the table

Paunchy as Ben Franklin
With Harvard trained lids
Half-closed
Skin flushed with Scotch and
Self-satisfaction
Swelled cynical lips over
Irregular teeth

Talk about your orgies on the Cape
Your secretaries from Zak’s

I like you intellectually,
I explained through
My bubble-gum smile

I can’t control my chemistry,
I giggled.
Oh christ get your mind off
Your cunt, he said.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Bopping down the street beside you
I am speechless but respond to
Innate rhythms
My cynicism plays chords of giggles
Lightly, restrained, strumming the surface,

Playing with you and my own predictability

Damn you, I was through with rationalizations
I was launched on waves of wantonness

And now my vanity is piqued
Because you refuse to dissect me.

Idiot,
I am capable
Of devouring you.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


FREUDIAN SLIPS FROM
LEARY SUBCONSCIOUSNESS
SUBLIMATES
MCLUHANESQUE
CONDITIONING.
THOREAU IN VAIN
OOZED THROUGH THE MUD.
DR. SPOCK NEVER
SPOKE OF THAT.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


I’m looking into the
Twilight
Through little-paned criss-crossed
Windows.
Little squares of life show through
Cut
And
Quartered


STAMP OUT PASSION STAMP OUT PASSION STAMP OUT PASSION

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Stunted lioness,
Sooty with smog,
Skulk beneath the melted leaves
A perversity of nature’s dreams haunted autumn nights
The world forgets
And turns to the cock-roached walls
Despising
The community of contribution
The well-fed machine of anonymity
Dawn, and the sun
Backs the urban ground, sends yellow smoke to
The earth to poison the faithless children.
Lioness
Sneaks in the gutters by night
Her salvation her female claw
Parades herself with pride and innocence
In the night that blinds those who would see
We are all incapable of meaning
Screaming relevance
We nurture in sweet searching sacred ghostmen
Unreal without their constant touch
Stunted mating, there is no more mating
Not groaning over sweating bodies
We struggle over words
That betray in the morning
No way for the lioness to transcend herself
No purpose for her fierceness
Her beauty falls flat in the eyes of gutted souls who
Seek only rhythms, who know only rhythms
And only sell words with the lioness blood
Who envy the sensuous ripple of muscles
That breaks in waves of shimmering coat
That is, that is, and has no home to be in


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Crazy crabby corner ladies
People think we’re kind of shocky
We never act like we’re supposed to
But we’re so squeezy and fun to be close to

We don’t need much
Just love and goodies
World-wide adulation
Pretty dresses and such

Happy birthday and hope you get all the above
Especially love
And show ‘em all
That moonbeams are brighter than sunshine
Anytime

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Lizards in the berry patch
In the castle you reside with your sweatshirts

The sun fires up
Our dormant suburban instincts
The cold catering only
To our
Coolness of intellect and our
Grizzly furs
Motorcycles convertibles
Chewing gum ice cream cones
Transistors that spit music
Dependent on the profits of pimple cream
It somehow seems to
Suit the gritty asphalt, the prickly grass
Grossly physical humanity

We are
Boy-men in t-shirts and
Low slung jeans
Walk hands in
Pockets thumbs down All-American
Red-blooded posture, we as girls
Stripping winter-white legs swing
Poses and flash
Bosom

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Morning attacked us
Through the windows
Averted eyes accomplished nothing
A man breathed deeply
Of his Wall Street Journal
Rouge on the cheeks
Of gray flaking ladies
Blazed
In bottled fever

I handed over my broken glasses
With the delicacy I would
Grant to a corpse

“Ah one of life’s minor tragedies”
They said
But there was nothing they could do

The city sows me. But my
Anger is adoctrinaire

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Porpoises dying on sun-bleached sand
Burning in the sun
Lying in gleaming, shuddering rows

I know they are innocent
They sigh they have nothing to say

I am spent I have no more to give

Together we lie in red sunset
Peacefully shriveling
Egos draining from or pores
In tears of sweat

The tide will cover us by twilight
The cool sea will lend us strength
We will feed on protozoa
And silently cohabit

My chosen porpoise and I
Tail stirring the surf to foam
Rising to the stinging air
And spouting

Profanities and mingled regrets
Toward the shore immutable

Empty and achy and sated
I will drift with night currents
Pulled by the moon to the earth’s edge

Plunging endlessly into space
Revolving in the moony blackness
Weaving through the porpoise corpses
And living fire stars

Eternally tasting of salt
My lips
Will be smiling tidbits for the gods

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


The news this morning
Is bland-washed rhetoric
I hurl my mind against
Politics with flippancy
It is such a safe identity
Such a definable passion

We have all become preachers
Our words propaganda

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Goddess of the river
The waterfall roars with your laughter
Bright eyes flash with sunbeams
The waves of your flesh are a somba rhythm. I am your bastard child
Alien explorer from lost jungle homelands
Blue eyed boomerang
Pagan Snow White born to
Voodooize women’s liberation
Bewitch every hamburger in America
Virgin whore mother
My blood pounds magic tales
My heart
My mind produces prehistoric movies
I hear the thunder of creation in passion
Watching the evening news and applying
Million Dollar Red nail polish

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


I walked in
The other day with mold
Hanging from my eyebrows
And the back of my knees –
Green and blue and purple-speckled mold
I felt as if I had come of age –

I certainly felt different
Not guilty or anything, very
Elated and relieved
I told my friends
“Look, I’ve mildewed”
I thought they’d be happy for me –

Funny, most didn’t believe me
Even though I was green to the
Ankle by this time
Or they misconstrued the
Meaning and thought I’d
Contracted a social disease

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


HOW I, IN THE MIDST OF AN ORGY, EMERGED FROM
MY COCOON AND BECAME AT LAST A SOCIAL MOTH:
CONSEQUENTLY A BURDEN AND A TRIAL TO A SAGE.

Venturing from my tower one summer, in a binge
Of curiosity (for I truly loved the earth) I
Bumped into a sage; he stood conversing
On the green and I accosted him
Heartily. “Sage! Sage!” I cried
But he glanced coolly from his heights; for
I was very young and had not learned
The ways of the wise. Sauntering at last
He came, and took me by the hand, he
He wished to talk to me; “Of course,” I said
And smiled but he darkened somewhat.
“You know,” he said “you’ve now come
of an age; a time when you must promise not
to make a move without consulting me.”
“Naturally,” I pouted, “children
Must not play with matches; and
Curiosity killed the cat. What other
Pertinent facts must I know?”
“That’s all for now,” he said, “you may
Continue your cavorting; I will come
For you at the crack of dawn.”
And so he did:

The gathering indeed was unfamiliar;
And trailing my instructor through a crowd
Of strange but arresting beings
I mulled my orders over in my mind;
I was to observe, but could not touch,
An axiom I could not see, but was
Content for follow for the present. For
There was much to observe! An
Entire party of sages, so perceptive
Of life that they did not notice it at all,
A nonchalance which thrilled me;
And I was presented to them,
I saw that I in turn generated interest.
Presently my sage excused himself, for
He had Important Matters to pursue;
“Take care,” he warned his peers, “she
“Does not know our ways,” and he disappeared.
Shy at first to join in the revel
I attempted to talk with those on the fringe;
And found them wise, was as
My sage, but with a difference –
My sage talked down to me as would a
Teacher, molding my potential;
Here I was treated as an equal and soon
I could communicate and gambol with
The best of them. Knowledgeable, these
People were, yet of common roots! For
Hours and hours I reveled with them,
Though occasionally things occurred
Which I did not understand; and I
Was glad to be free of my sage,
For here I was regarded with
An interest and intensity of glance
I had not known before.

My sage eventually did return, but
At a most inopportune moment;
For I was about to learn something
Of life from one of a most
Interesting philosophy. He had asked
Me if I had found answers to
My life. “At times,” I sighed, “but
They are so transient, if only I
Could be amidst such wisdom
That is here.” “Ah, but you are
Wrong,” he said, “such wisdom
Is not found within a collective crowd
But with one of one’s caliber.”
“That is what my sage told me,”
I smiled, “but you see I have
Not acquired it yet.” “I suggest,”
He whispered, “that you sample
Another brand of wisdom.” And just
As I would perhaps have complied,
My sage appeared with a virtual pounce.
“Come,” he said in blackest tones
and dragged me off. “What, are you angry?”
I asked, surprised. “You brought me
Here to learn of life;
And now you will not let me.”
“You do not understand, or know what
You are doing,” he said, you will
Only waste yourself,
And I shall be to blame; I think
I have brought you here prematurely.”
And brooding on this he stared at
The sun; I in the meantime stared at
Him, and ruffled at his words;
For with my new experience, I
Saw him in a different light; and
Thought myself his equal, independent
Of his deigning advice. “Well,”
I Began for lack of better, “You
Needn’t burden yourself with me
More; for I have learned there
Are many who would teach me of the
World,” and would have flounced away,
But strangely seemed to be nailed
To the spot; for there was something
In his weary eyes I had not seen before.
“You stupid girl,” he said and he shook me.
“You see only exteriors, and cannot see
The turbulence beneath the surface.
Painstakingly I did cultivate your mind
And now you would destroy it
All, for momentary pleasures.” And
Tightening his grip he looked
Down wrathfully in my face.

Seeing him thus agitated, I
Tried my best to be penitent;
But only succeeded in giggling.
“Why, if this be baseness,” I laughed,
“I must say it is pleasant;
And do not see why you struggle so
To keep me from it.” “god in hell!”
He cried, “I’ve created a monster;
For all my careful teachings merely
Cloaked a hedonist!” and wringing
His hands he paced up and down,
Avoiding my blatant and hungry glance.
“Perhaps,” I mused, “it is abstinence
In itself which has changed me; for you
Could not bring me to mental
Cognizance and still keep me innocent.”
“Ah,” he despaired, “is this the price
Of short-sightedness? To b pursued
By my own creation?” “Yes,”
I said, “for what I shall
Learn now is far beyond
Your realm of expertise;
But I am determined to have you as well –
The pattern cannot be changed.”
At this he raised an eyebrow and shifted
His glance from the revel back to me.
“If it has taken but the
Conquest of a minor sage
To fill your head with illusions,”
He said, “I have failed
To eradicate your bourgeoisie.
You have self destructive habits – and
Having victored over me it is only a
Matter of time until you, too, must fall.
GO,” he ordered in sudden roughness,
“And see how long you will last
By yourself.” In mind I wavered, but
Stood very still and watched
The expanse of sunrisen sky. “I
Need no one; I am a free being,” I
Whispered, and turned on my heel.
The crowd before me was awesome and
Strange – my limbs felt shrunken and oddly
Weak – his laughter
Loomed loud
And claimed the world.
I ran from him; he was matchless.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Wanting art
And deco-dence

I’m sitting here in this
Hole of an apartment room
Waiting for my hair to grow
My phone to ring
And for the whole goddamn world
To regain its composure.

Call me, call me, call me
I amuse myself
By my romantic depths

I should have grabbed
What I wanted
Before it got buried in all these
Social duties and identities
And finding oneself

Liberated, shit.
My soul trickles from me
Like processed bread crumbs.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


What is it I’ve written in this notebook, all
This half-finished stuff about reality and
Sex and all, but I’m bored with writing, I’ve
Squeezed every last bit of experience out of me
Onto paper bags and letterheads and
Earnest conversations
 With people I’m the
Least bit interested in having a conversation with.

Communication is only reached through a
Mock put-down fight or sometimes by accidental
Mutual crisis, that’s the trouble with people
On my frequency, their egos are too brittle
To risk overpowering –

If there is one thing I cannot take is for
Anyone to see through to my ultimate
Naiveté and mushiness, I can only show this
To someone more stupid, which is something
Of a paradox –

Someday I will have to make a supreme sacrifice
And admit, yeah wow, you’re great and superior
And mold my mind, which is kind of admitting a
Dispensable ego, and isn’t that being a human
Leech? I need to go up to some cloud and ask
For a tablet with my identity on it, and
I’ll hang it in my room and every morning I can

Stand there and say yeah you exist, look,
And walk away confident. Maybe a star map will
Do. Hang it right there, Sharon Bellush, Cancerous
Moon Child. I’ve got to stop hanging on minds
Even less secure than my own, that’s for sure.

** ** ** **

The one anachronous poem from the ‘80s, the Boomers’ thirtysomething years:


TOO YOUNG TO RETIRE 
(1988)

I’m just lying around thinking.
There’s no one I want to call.
Sometimes I just go out cruising
but I don’t see a thing I like at all.
I’ve just got no motivation,
no way to break my fall.

I get so bored with the losers
but man those winners are worse!
I don’t want no disco action
with a gigolo eyeing my purse.
No, now I just want a dark moon rider
without any conversation first.

I don’t like anyone to drive me
like I was a souped up car.
Don’t want anyone to shake me
like a mixer in a cocktail bar.
I want to find a lone ranger
from Atlantis or a two-toned star.

I want an extraterrestrial
with a black leather software machine.
A true desolation row angel
sporting a laser gun, you know what I mean?
I want to turn it on to intense
like the kick of an espresso bean.

You know when I break loose
I leave all the jockeys behind.
I own the speed that I need
but there’s no one I can find.
I’d rather run Kamikaze
than slow down to a low-grade grind.

Anytime I get tied down
it’s never as good as I’d thought.
Now all the Don Juans are faded.
They can’t deliver on the lines I bought.
He looks too young to be jaded
but I know for certain he’s been caught.

I guess the thing that I look for
is the hell and back look in his eyes
the black light aura
from the face that asks no reasons why.
I’ve gotten confused explanations
that make me crazy when I try.

Tonight I’m staring at the ceiling.
There’s no one I want to call.
So I go out driving in my car
but there’s nothing going down at all.
The roadhouse isn’t appealing
and there’s no one at the shopping mall.


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