May 10, 2016

and I wrote this for ..................................................................

(an American poet self portrait) 2016
Edward Rinaldi 

this was right size Dorothy Gale 
climb-n-swing heavenly hotel :
a roadside attraction 
where we dug the skies 
with our feet
poking through 
trees again ...

I wore low rise jeans commando style 
kept masturbation at bay most of the day 
so that when I read, standing next to and not behind 
the podium I felt like I looked like Robert Plant 
in the 'song remains the same' 
I could coyly arouse myself 
with each enunciation and elation 
I made attention to space and cadence 
as well as finding what blooms  
in the audience 
I could latch 
a derivative 
of my fantasy onto 
was it you who threw
the zoo of an after poetry party 
because if you do 
I want an invite 
to your fallen star 
cage match, bebe 

have I felt all along 
I need constant 
temporary fixes, yes 
witch itching knock-y 
jabber grabbing pocky 
does a winged monkey 
in a bell hop suit 
dangle its hands 
full of keys
and open palms 
begging for life 
without the "p", 
     yes ... 

and I wrote this for Anaïs Nin 
and I wrote this for the wind 
and I write most things 
for the way 
she carves 
me() w hole ...

my therapy 
when May yields 
to Summer
is to pee 
it suits me 
vent temerity 
billowed humidity 
temples of June 
tornado on the ready 
I call and write 
because I always 
hear words 
when & what 
every scent ... 

what is meant 
between us 
what a poem can 
and cannot say 
should a poet 
decide just to smile 
here at the end 
of things tidy 
and quiet 
at the entrance 
of another 
rabbit hole ... 

what loiters 
in a memory 
of a life 
in poems 
passing on by 
a poet tumbling 
on down again ...


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