| ::09:14:08::
::: For Joe Joyce "Bubbles" :::
(Section 1)
The flash on the bridge blue,
Pop-arc as if she is alive
A welder's torch Rosie.
I am all the way out,
Out of range lines became
Out of nothing,
One
And ground to no halt, no.
Stopped just stopped and
Stopped as the heat settled
In delays upon delays of
SWITCH
Oh Switch, dispatch us!
Please, by the second,
This shrewd time at 59th was it?
I stopped inside, leapt-up-and out,
Taking the steps two-at-a-time
To find the sky had wept without me.
Breathe dear airé, al ~ libre, hold my hand,
After the rain,
Near the silence of the strange,
Quiet smell of knowing lovers
At the end of the R.
Of brown leaves in July
An early Autumn smell of brown
At the near end of my nose
Could be pumpkin apple cinnamon pie
With Quiet James and Mira
Like churches sleeping in their laundry
Or the other thought, he left
His cell in the divine presence of St. McDonald's.
Dear James,
The knight of night's before-
The so young Berliners
Could see Die Brücke
From the muffled loudness of the thugs and goons
at the Pour House.
And all this somewhere
Around the Plush Lounge
Of my Velvet Underground heart,
My Beckett way of thinking
Can only see 2.50 beers and pretzel hosts
At J.J. Bubbles,
Rods in plastic bowls that look like
Cheap woven baskets, paper towels
That can't hold my sad, salty
Brawn attitude
Filling my soul with the brown host
The wrong shape for
The wrong Pope of this shore.
Beautifully exhausted by the way of
No one hear hear,
The red and petite polka dot leopard
Leans in her lazy purr
To sleep amongst
The suspended tubas
Of brass bands that will never play,
In the faux-time of a never, never
Dixie Land.
The head of a boar keeps watch,
Its fierce drained
From the slight understandings
Of the ether ghosts,
Of bad television hogzilla dreams.
(Section 2)
My boots of this life
Because they are only
Beating the streets,
Ahead of my head
Without a body collecting
Shine
From the lost ballroom souls
Of the overlook-
The mites and stuff of stares
That create photographs somewhere
In your grandmother's legs
When they stretch in the sun,
With skin that grows
The dark hair of Latin flowers
So different from my Edelweiss.
Frozen in the snow globe
She breaks my grim
By simply scaring herself
In the ladies room mirror-
A world of "...who is she?
Who is she wearing my same...?"
Same dress laughing child
Blot out the stale August sun
Of my Communist grey heart
With your dear happy cats all misfit
Of giggle talk the letting
Of my dream blood willingly
To go crazy drunk kittens
All over the W.C. Fields Avenue of past futures
And I am certain I will
Under the strain of my grey self
Up that hill-
Haul me a train Sisyphus
Not like Stipe, but after the orange crush,
After these storms of this very rain,
These brittle stalks of bones survive!
Riding the subside of stops
That keep trying to grind me,
As the empty loud talk varies,
Of languages pollinating
The bounce of accents,
So please, please
Will you be
My kindergarten?
(Section 3)
Off the skull whale train
Jonah getting closer
To the bones of where he will
Walk or wake?
And what expect?
Of anyone, these Delusion War Days?
Days upon days of wait and walk
Of the mantis
That keeps watch
In the throne of the sunflower;
I do wait out now of other couches,
Keep guard my stone wall blue eyes,
Turn to the sun
As cobalt ceramic plates
And honey bees shatter
The sleeping bowl of milk,
Moon of knowing.
Wake me the moon woke me, "Hello"
The night of strange comforting-
What was it 3 something 353?
Tap my shoulder, gently brush
My forehead to say "wake up,"
Know it will be all right tears,
I will pass my being here
Long the guest room guest
Of my own house
More owner of this silly moon,
These tides my private pyramids
Of my distance and stops
Now and again
While let them, the stars brown out,
Whimper into the silence of new worlds
I will never wake on.
Wake on the new flesh
And walk through my curiosity shop mind
Of 50's cedar,
After the beat streets
Of rain and rainless walks with another moon
Cast away with the scents
Of asking "How much for a pint of knowing?"
Where we could all be there
All tapped out
At the shoulder like Jackson
That determined night
Where you looked "pretty damn good"
Out there
Even when you hit the tree,
Jettisoned fireside
As hard as a language,
Getting more difficult grace
And the accents became more wars
Instead of Autumn ribbons.
In front of The Cedar,
Fireplace long pissed out, extinguished
By simply disappearing
Behind the stool of dark, dark woods
And the stained glass gods
Nailed silent
As prison plywood.
(Section 4)
Flash-
Oh Gordon the way he mused
To hold the bottle,
So modern, so graphic
You design traffic boogie man
Woogie me this new Broadway gone thinking
Like the perfect Manhattan perhaps,
A lemon twist?
Oh Gordon the dumpy shorts? Really?
You could do better sneakers,
So give me a break for observing
The blue arch (arc?) on the bridge
Of your "perhaps" pupils
Of up-to-the-minute being
And telling me: "It feels weird to be 'in' a poem."
Oh Gordon go tango
By your f*cking Rimbaud self
And spit-toon into
Better sounds of the chance, the change, the trek
Of all the tall petty tolls
Of the New Jersey transit...
Oh Gordon make me drunk,
But could you sit
West of my "Le Jean"?
While those around you
Blender into each other
Night shooting like pinball, the dead
At The Kettle of Fish
Through the mirrors
Of Budweiser in reverse,
The unisex bathrooms
And the basement plaid mind.
Let me drink-
I drink the "perhaps"
of Gordon and David, my midland name
Of electric blue arcs,
Of the city of bridges,
connect me as I travel
across
to the new twin brown moon.
Please, hush, shhhh...
Please...
Speak easy as I blow the blue smoke
In front of you.
Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla |
