August 8, 2012

The Monarch

Filed under: Poetry — jake @ 4:36 pm

sitting not on some wheat farm
but in the bowels of a city building
shade over the window like a hushed secret in a hospital ward
(something is dying and something else is living
it is not fair to be loud about these things)
sitting not on some wheat field
where trucks take away loads of grain
and birds hunt and the mice run or don’t
I am in a plain room, four walls, or so, ceiling and floor
through which anything might crash as music good or bad
or like the pipes blown when the man wants just
a bit more, just a bit more
the light is a touch yellow and soon it will mix with the moon
the cats here are outdoors and sitting on cars like they own them, lease and all
here the city is covered in a hood of rain pulled tight
the bartenders know the name and what to drink
I am some open-handed client some old person waiting in line
sitting now not on some wheat farm as others may
instead in some small room in the bottom of a city building
wondering when, like the end of violins, the heat will be turned off
or as the timpani drums in an orchestra boom when my eyelids will close
and as I wait I sail words like young men and women running up + down
a stoop a key passed between hands

2 Poems

Filed under: Poetry — jake @ 4:31 pm

I Don’t Know What Love Is

love is a mosquito flying into the
inside windshield over and over
and over again seeing the sky.
love is a hand helping him
out the window.

Proof

have you not been
lately? have you not
captured the robin that screams
goodnight orange?
wonderful the streets
harmonious the absent feet
kill me in your song
please, please

Larry Poppins

Filed under: Poetry — jake @ 4:27 pm

I am not myself today. Larry Poppins knows. He holds the clock above the stove
and will not tell a soul who it is that I am. Larry Poppins has no money. He has no leather
in his shoes
and he coughs every now and then thinking, I think, of tissue paper.
Larry Poppins tells me he had this dream where two young girls brought him to a child’s
bedroom and he spilled water on the floor. One of the girls had acne surrounding her
lips
but otherwise was prettier, Larry Poppins could almost see up her dress and down her
shirt.
The other girl brought her frog in and it sat in the water and when the father came home
with big Einstein shock white hair he sat back and was calm but somehow still
embarrassed Larry in front of his daughters with a rank tone of voice.
Larry Poppins likes his name. And as big white columns come down and blue screeching
birds became beauty Larry Poppins is disgusted-by-his-name.
I have had all these things slip past me like sung words while in bed ripe enough to
swear and curse Larry Poppins and all that he is and all that he isn’t. And all of the
gin drinks and all of the misthinks and all of the trinkets I never got beaten out of.
Larry Poppins tells me to relax, tells me it isn’t time for that.

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