Thursday, June 16, 2011

poem: yes, that is you

[While on the Massachusetts trip, Tina and I wrote a passel of patina poems (paschal + tina = patina). This is one. The Resident Youth also collaborated on three or four of the poems himself.]


rescue damsels & chew bubble gum

put your blue crew on notice

after the barn wobbles, this is

last call of the wild Kahunas,

drinking Kahlua and coffee in

a sacred ritual that warrants remembering

that the last time you left Cambridge

you were bereft of all

but the beach glass in your Tarantelle,

globs of prissy membranes

membraning your velvet receptacles -

traverse down from the North Shore,

a dip in Spy Pond should

refresh any grumblings,

where the overcast color follows

you into a past life you

once lived, where Armenians

walked up and down Watertown,

hands clasped behind backs,

walking toward a Utopia that

only lives in their mind's eye,

an eye bewitching the eye's tumble through

space, portals the size of Wonderbread

capsizing the half-baked yous into

fully-baked raisinettes & Holy Mutton.

Is this the mourning

coffee that dons your present

tomorrow? No, it smacks of

the true ferocity of Life

that ekes out past any small

identification, any moment

of time, and explodes into

the real yes that is.


you can yes that moment into

rhythm and rhyme and you can
the blue sky across your back
, all
the while backpedaling a metronome

in bubonic flood time, a geriatric

impulse to feed the flame, clasp

your Klimt to a vagabond future

anchored at Good Harbor.

Remnants of poppies live

and bend toward that flying

blue sky, a hue of heart

that melts into coronas, amid

solar flares of

passionate connection,

tender webs that light up

when you blink,

knowing without a doubt that

where you are standing

is the vast ineffable place you trace.


Friday, June 03, 2011

poem: your notorious

sexy shoulder dresses in
the back alleys of Yerevan,

3 to 8 bucks apiece, that's

a hunger richly deserved,

80,000 to choose from,

these are your margins

in the jungle:

sexy jingle to match your

notorious bigs,

hammer the fading dreams

while you slip on the rounds,

carouseling the plangent

afterchords you lost,

childhood poverty,

adolescent fatima,

vagrant deserts in a 1000

lifetimes, Yerevan still

questing, still coursing

through your veins,

this single match

that flames, a failure

in no small magnitude:

if only you could see into me

verified longings,

amber swerves round

the corners,

the music withers,

lifting you homeward.