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From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress. This poem took considerable time to write and polish. Not sure if it's done yet. But it needs to come out of the oven now.
Word Fantasy in F Sharp Minor (3 Movements)
(Andante con moto)
Hey man. Take this.
I got it last night,
under a fractured street light,
with shattered pieces of clear glass, scattered
at the nexus of an obscure dark freeway offramp,
way down there in magical San Pedro by the river,
around 2 in the morning with a creeping fog
rolling in like silent smoke monsters wearing a cloud.
You know where, man,
way down by the sea there;
where the juicy fruit gum never comes off
the seagull-splattered sidewalks, next to the shoals;
where the pelicans of the blue exploding expanse,
set before us like an endless slate of black fear,
come to die their slow noble deaths,
in the killing surf of dread and desire.
Hey man, look. Do you see what I see?
“Oh honey please!”
I know now there is a rock n’ roll heaven in the universe,
when I see a surefire dream girl like her,
walking on by with those leering laughing brown legs.
Legs that speak in tongues
the sacred holy epistles and
the mind-numbing sermons
of old men with deep eyes,
sitting under starched mitres
in the shuttered sanctuaries,
holding black thuribles burning
with sweet frankincense,
mere words written and forged
by fingerless prying minds
in cherry-red rooms with no windows
or a flat divan,
and spoken by featherless, lizard-like tongues
belonging to a set of adoring sainted eyes,
now gazing at a dead and bloody Jesus.
(Allegro non troppo)
Hey man, watch this.
“Ah, excuse me young lady.
We met before.
In fact, it was here at this same eatery,
maybe a fortnight ago.
You were sitting by yourself
wearing a blue muumuu,
over by the abalone shells on the far wall,
sipping a white whale”
(with red lips opened, and fastened eyes).
“I cannot resist your nubile charms, miss.”
Every forced giggle,
Every muted laugh,
that leaps from her mouth hole
is another ridiculous attempt
to see the underbelly of quick-moving love,
with all its attendant leanings and compressions.
(Now she is leaning in toward me, up close,
standing on one foot; her breasts saying hello)
“There is nothing on my mind, nothing deserving words, I mean.”
(I figured she was 19 going on a virtuous 23,
with no baggage, secrets or vile addictions).
“Mind if I sit here and
consider the possibilities,
of perhaps, stealing an hour or two,
having a few drinks by the neon bellboy, then later,
lying next to you under the clean white sheets
of your beckoning bed,
rubbing this sweet turtle oil
on your silky smooth virginity?”
(I figured there were ghosts present because no one was talking).
“Perhaps you misunderstand.
I didn’t mean to insinuate…”
(What was I supposed to say to her? Stop with this love-making?)
Stellar days and nights await you, miss,
as all connected sidewalks await the heat,
the midday fry of tar and booty under the all-knowing street lamp;
My sins stare at you like some creep from behind a darkened window.
My past days and nights still breathe and sometimes wheeze,
like ancient tortoises asleep under a shade tree,
(Adagio un poco mosso)
Hey man, listen to this.
“Miss, why are you kneeling there with hands clasped?”
(My Catholic past taught me much about kneeling).
“Then we must pray together, here in this spiritual bay
with all these dead stained saints staring at us,
and light a candle for the redemption of all condemned souls,
and for the remission of a multitude of catholic sins.”
Amidst such holy quietude
in this sealed sanctuary,
with the wind soloing above,
through the choir-sated eaves,
such masterpieces of muted female voices,
waft lazily in the distant shadowed rooms,
inside old creaking houses, ensconced
on Jackson Avenue, and Burnside Boulevard.
I saw you one night in the dim candlelight
through your yawning window,
unbeknownst to you and your audacious shadow,
standing in front of a dazed convex mirror,
flexing in a liquid sweat with melting green wax
running and cascading down fiery runnels, splashing
like birthing rain from the sweat of love’s dabble.
You found measured intrigue, and private pleasure;
I found a new but tilted ground upon which to pivot,
for I saw many shooting stars in the Orion sky that night,
and a passing midnight parade of holy virgins with torches aflame.
(Holy Father above,
I indeed confess this sinful deed, and am beholden).
Outside in the oblivious gardens of eternal noon,
the embarrassed trees continue to look the other way.
Copyright © stark hunter | Year Posted 2019