chiral

chiral
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(03/08/09 20:02:12)

ezOP

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why do you write about me
like cannons blasting or resistance
with a stuffed belt. it's not that we don't know
each other, intimately after all
this time, it's thru the mirror, into the inside
where amour damages most.
he grabbed her cigarettes and tore them
in half. she admired the passion.


why do you write about me as if i were
a subliminal holistic bottle of essence?
swains offer broken hollly sprigs
in spring, after easter, when heads batter
against portals, waking from hibernation
and the bitter taste of winter.
a fair of walking proportions, a pre enginized engine
a reproduction of simpler times.


whence walks the wench in this charade?
is she a soldier too?


why do you write about me as if i were a soldier--
and if u were added, we have soul die r.
you don't like the implications of that.
this is why you're my favorite guy.


and if you write about me
does that mean you love me or are you stealing
my stories, are you taking my flesh? soul eater
because you have none of your own?



there is a lot i would excuse myself for
but the worst is being an invalid friend.
still, i would excuse myself. i write you
in metaphor and dance, i read you
into my romance while you're making a poem
of show, how you pull me into where
you were, distancing what i went thru
as if you were the choreographer's muse.
just a show, just a metaphor from pain.












*()(&




on the other flavor flave.


some times a u is exactly the right thing.
you're exasperated with the way the burn out
keeps spilling holes into ego. so you put it in perspective.

yeah, you do. jimmy, jimmy. your chiseled abs
sprawled across the grotto floor, the ghetto wall, the gradient screen.
there was no geometry to inhabit, the s & m fell like irony
from your gut. take the mortgage and the job and the child
and the immortal words of shakespeare into a blank room
and fill out this form. yeah sure. check do over.
















780987&(&*



now, are you doing over? the subtle twist of reality
finally getting thru to you? yeah. read cioran this morning?
the dyspeptic romanian could not let a happy thought
spoil his post coital cocktail. he finished rubbing
his navel and sighed. another day, endured.


i think he secretly laughed. he lived to be eighty or something.
that's like 169 in writer years.


























*)(&&





actually i like sundays. sometimes i get a call
i really want and sometimes i get emergency calls
but mostly i just kinda look around the web
read salon, the news of the coming armeggedon. we're
pretty much all gonna die, lenny. scope out the fishing
see what might materialise out of the blue. some times
things look hopeful, a cleansing breeze coming out of the north
bringing rain and rebirth to parched out florida.

sometimes there's tornadoes ripping across the landscape
and i think how one family's horror is a spin away
from mine. i don't want to be fatigued about it.
i want to open the doors and load a bed on a truck
or send some blankets and sheets over to selma and the kids.
we have some cans in the pantry too. see if they need
to spend the night. we have room.
















*)&



dunno why i call it chiral.
doesn't even appear symmetrical.
i disappoint the reader-- myself.