How many dress shirts
Do I need to get me though the work week?
And what about shoes? Ties?
I look around my room, and see
Many things I like, and yet
I don’t like what I see.
I guess what I’m really learning
Is how to be me.
There’s boxes full of things I can’t let go
Too much stuff for this space
There’s still something I need
But there isn’t the place.
I’m sorry to ask you to read this
it’s a mantle, in a heap, on the floor
The wild man of the city is a strange beast indeed
Swinging from the bars. Moving amongst the cages.
When he sits in his apartment, his ass stabs down
Through three floors to reach the ground
The ants crawl all over his soul.
Plays hide and seek with the skyscraper obscured sun.
When that guy in 3d didn’t come out
For seventeen days, he could smell why.
He can read the weaving like the tabloid.
When the sweltering summer heat rages
His balls throb along with that beat.
For totems he talks to rat, roach or pidgeon
Poised, posed on the ledge or fire escape
From there, see the park where (as a mockery)
Only assigned trees grow
The splendor of raiment
Traps earthly eyes
A golden snare to derail
And so I pass.
Don’t look too close
At the hands that hold the plate.
Or the apple.
Or the tuck.
Ekphrastic, based on photograph The Cup – Adolf de Meyer (1912) challenge here: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2018/05/camera-flash.html
With a cold beer in cozy, in hand
Headset to drown the sounds
Mask to filter flora’s exuberance
Loud motor clattering blades
Back and forth in straight straight lines
Then recliner, the game, another beer
And a satisfaction of having
Spent the day out with nature
Even this will be a useless act, my last.
They won’t even notice the thump,
Or my blood on the red red rooftops…
TLT Throwback – Year 2: Seventeen
I am homely and mean,
Scrunched up with a pain
That waxes and wanes
But never subsides.
I am hairy where
I ought not to be.
I am surrounded
By flowers and birds
And if all you do is read me,
I am lonely and unseen.
Frieda painted herself, a lot. So the eyes have it. “I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.”. To me she looks better in photographs than her own paintings of herself, as if she wanted to show the pain and weight she had inside. I’ve tried to do that with this…
some autumn trees
push off old leaves
with new buds
covered in thousands
of tiny little fists
they keep their leaves
all winter long.
when you come to
after many months of cold
will you remember
how to let go?