Best Blondes Poems
i’ve been compared my whole life
to girls who look prettier
girls who dress nicer
girls who have tanner skin
blonde girls.
blondes are the prettiest
blondes dress the nicest
blondes have the tannest skin
it’s always been a blonde.
every time i’ve been replaced
been told i’m not enough
enough is a blonde.
i’m not stupid
i know enough
to see the pattern
to hear the silence
to feel the sting
before it’s said aloud.
they don’t have to say it—
i see it
i’ve learned how
to fit into “almost”
to swallow the envy like medicine
to smile through the sting of never being chosen
but i’m not going to be
someones maybe
someones safety net
someones placeholder
i am flesh
i am volume
i am more than blonde.
Her fun house fingertips tracing dews drenched, fruitions lips...
Felicities ferris wheel; twined, their voluptuous femme fixations
Sixty-nine pink balloons eroticas poesy, carnival caravan of love.
And blondes whistle (mightily)
Groove and rhythm supplied
By their accidental guardians
Feigning lock-down on these
Rancid, insipid rugged shores
It's what's expected
The triumphant stasis
The settling down of
Benign expectations
Mixed coarsely with the
Vinegar-garnished
Toxic waves disguised as hope
Fame and glamor
The settling in of those
Who (plead) their mere existence
Laconic persistence
To roam and dare
And acquiesce to forms
Much disparate from themselves
Where and who were they
Before the fall
Their (coerced) lament
Wrapped and pressed
By an indignant Creator
Lie your amble shamble
Down square
With the cracks which
Suckle the (greasy) heat
No scars to spare
Envelopes with deranged matriculation
Puncture the remaining pores
Now everyone, even them
Can wade (deep) into December
Without barometric shift
Gastronomic rift
Or the means to remind yourself
Where the days have hidden
Somewhere plain yet hard to find
Wake me once if your pleasure
Grinds the senses weakly
Wake me twice if all's redeemed
The pageant gone
And once again the blondes
Tune their vacant chords
Hustling into naked ensembles
Flush with gravitas
Conduct the many
Swollen from the vagaries
Of plucking
One too many strings.
(9/6/06)
Bouncing blond ringlets
To generations bestowed
From my childhood head.
I shall not envy the upstart's polished gait,
Or wish myself as old knights in diamonds
Hued to bamboozle familiar souls and eye,
Flattered by aping pals and ersatz blondes.
For swanky gait soon in quiet slumbers lies
In darkest gloom beyond men's urging eyes;
Where kowtowing lip trills no ego-oiling tune
To laud vain legs that all wise sense impugn.
Since old knights and their fabled crystals fall
Into gloomy abysms past all plagiarized cheer,
And their wide glows sheer shifting dreams be;
Which deft poet thereon docks his sailing soul?
As for manipulable eyes and souls of fan-stars,
And idol blondes cued to flatter clumsy knights;
Are not both simple wit and truth strictly averse
To all such visionless ego-trip and short-sights?
Give upstart parvenus and 'knights' whole pomp,
I'll claim the simple logic they so mulishly tromp!
Is there nothing brighter than a blonde
when wisps of hair glow gold.
When nothing warmer than their skin
will make you long to hold.
A look to stun your consciousness
that beauty seems as love.
This stranger for a moment more
could be worth dreaming of.
I know it must be summer time
Because of all the blondes I see
They seem to be just everywhere
When yesterday they were not there
Some how just like convertibles
Only in summer are they around
Now I see them everywhere
In every color there is to see
Blues and greens and always reds
All the tints of blond there can be
If you strain your ears
you could hear daycare man’s
blond-haired pig-tailed little
girl shattering her xylophone.
How straitlaced can a place
of rainbows and sugar highs
be, you remember asking
before you took the job.
You can’t take it, the
little girl always bothers
your lunchtime, hearing her
playacting rottenly.
Pink-eyed, you look
nothing like your parents,
you told her; she ripped
her hair out and cried.
The background soothes
the mind, he told you,
but it tasted like being
seasick and fuzzy.
Every channel in the TV
had that flower child boasting
bed sheets as skin; it had no
eyes, yet it was so po-faced.
It would always hitch at the
end, burning the VHS tape; the
girl would stare at the stained wall
for two minutes, hearing it crackle.
You turn on your present TV,
no more shifts, and you see
daycare man branded as a
blondes kidnapper.