Hi. If you happen to be reading ... if not, well it is always good to talk to yourself, I have been writing and posting in my NaPoMo group but haven't had the energy/time to bring them here these last few days. I will though. Eventually.
Well it is National Poetry Month and like last year I have pledged to write a poem a day for the 30 days of April.
I have decided to post them here as well as post them online with the group I'm doing NaPoMo with ---
They aren't polished and some will be very bad. The object of the exercise is to write something everyday -- which for many is standard practice but for me -- not. I write only when the muse strikes and so during April I do everything I can to entice her to me for at least 15 minutes a day. Sometimes she's a real bitch. :)
And so ..
An Elegy for Euphorion, Part 1
Helen couldn't keep the boy
from cutting paper wings, taping them--
crooked and tattered to the back of his Superman t-shirt
or from jumping from the highest rung of the metal slide
in their backyard -- though
she never really tried
lacking herself, a decent sense of sin.
And when the boy found Mallarme and Heinlein
and took his guitar
to the edge of the northern cliff
his nose stuck in pages rattled by grass-spiced wind
his toes dug into the rain softened dirt
pulling the curl drooped on his forehead -- straight to spring --- straight to spring
not even his father
recognized the disease.
II that unnamed girl talks about Euphorion
My mother knew his father
I have heard together
they sang the Song of Solomon.
I met Euphorion after humanities
a copy of Steppenwolf tucked
in the back pocked of his knee-patched Levis
he smelled of good weed and a bit of baby shampoo
his face was
his face was
his face was
a Caravaggio angel
though it is not fashionable
to say that -- here
-- this audience disappointed by cliche
I still have the gold bracelet he took from his jacket
and clasped on my wrist.
"My real name is Mephistopheles, but you can call me baby..."
III. Elegy for Euphorion
His plane touches down
fresh out of the Amazonian
jungle -- alpaca jacket
poison darts -- soft brown hair
resting on his shoulders
Murphy has run out of cigarettes
stops and empties out his pockets
on the top of a metal trash can outside the men's room
sweeps together the pile of lint
cat hair and what's left
of the Nino Korin tobacco -- a few strands stolen from a shaman's bag in Bolivia
His slender fingers peel a rolling paper out of the pack with a familiar
crinkle -- the Fashionable, the vagabonds
don't seem to notice
security cops walk right by
He lights up and leans -- one long leg bent
leather booted foot pressed against the white wall
inhales, smiles --and coughs with the harsh first suck.