May 12, 2013

once a year, I put her in a poem...

I believe it's Lana Turner in the 1940's, photographer unknown

falling through the Earth to the center of the universe and finding out, it's made of Lana Turner and your imagination of color in a black and white photograph

born in the 1960’s
I fought in the new wave wars
wanting everything to be different
against the grain
but really
who was I kidding
I was and always will be
an old fashioned
whore for comfort
an expert at apathy
a master of classic denial
an artillery gunner
a stunner runner
a clever sever of body warts
I pray to the ramparts
that I may become part bombast
part popular culture
part fitted in
to pre-fabrication
and form
of following
horded knowledge
not remembered

you know how
trends seek
the shine
the lowest
common denominator
what's yours and mine
to see what we can find
everything disguised
as individual decision
kelp sway politics
tattered cloth skin
swimming each sea
with group think
dulling precision
hoping the incisions
slow the salt
trace of life
enough to find
your calendar markings home

I keep writing the same poem
a torque wanted breast heavy brain therapy
I throw myself in the glands
inside the wired push up
under the taut soft fabric sweater

there are things
once you get next to
that never look worse
for the wear
you swear by release
by disregarding
your intake regulation
you will be gentle before squeezing
hoping your nails are trimmed
and tidy as you dig in
glory seeping into
story after story
myths, maypoles and tadpoles
the cattail ponds
with gathered geese looking on
in blind chorus echoes
Rumpelstiltskin, they whisper
Jack and the Beanstalk
the reign of gold
is still in vogue
let's go find that peddler
of beans
we may not
have the cows
but we know
where the milk is


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