Never Had a Date With a Beautiful Girl
The leaves, the painted emerald lawns
the piercing topiary creations of
summer solitude push at him.
Deciduous and deep rich luscious
They attack with a need for sunlight
His eyes remain sharp with a button slit eyed glare.
So he hides, to watch the man and woman at a picnic, maybe
or a backyard 6 p.m. barbecue they enjoy on the grass.
Only the poison of lime or fertilizer could inspire these, he conspires to himself,
freshly mowed and trimmed by affection and love.
Camouflaged in nature's stabbing leafy riches:
want, heat, in that steaming,
button-squinted eavesdropping from the bushes;
there he swells, green and resonate;
He rings out wishes for Catestrophism,
even for Natural Selection to banish forever
this sight of them, together
and the flawlessly crafted lawns they lie on
and the backyard trees and love's inevitable cycle
Monsieur's voice smiles for salad, and its desires are fulfilled
though the fingered crumbling of feta
with the tense hammering of tomato
by the pale slicing of pita
And the ovens scowl with steam,
And the soft-skinned voices stare at one another,
And the hardwood shares a sharp and squealing glance with a chairleg,
And the teaspoons wave with a dainty clang.
fights the rise of responsibility, and its desires succumb to will
against the red of customers' requests
behind the frightened face of foaming milk
in the abhorrence of american english
And it does not see the
watching whirr of the fan,
Or the warm visage of the sinks' running water,
Or the wave of the wind's whistle outside the doorbell,
Or the wild curves of the woman's tone while the scribbling takes her order.
glows beautiful in gratitude, as its desires are refilled
through the silence of sublimated syllables
over the languid lilt of merci
pendant the devilish clinking of demi-tasse.
And one cannot imagine an
emptiness ever arriving.
And the sultry scatterings of voice sweep away seclusion.
And the percolator greets with a boiling grin.
And the pitch of food against fork is delicious.
Sunset in the
It is never
(my room faces east)
Cooled by the green weed of forests, nor
Deadened in brown of tree-
Trunks. Far from volleyball,
those couples beach blanketed
Reclined on a Caribbean holiday;
cool blue. No
swaying palms—sentimental. No
green weed of forests. Bachelors
Key from their cars to apartments,
many indifferent. Warmth,
Embraced by the red of brick, enlivened,
Broad brownstone: Tan, orange, white
Glinting on the polished hoods
of overtime commuters.
Windows watching the change clearly, curtains
Pushed open. Few window-silled
flowerboxes; no pies.
Working mothers glad to catch a glimpse,
swinging by the convenience store, or
Grocery store, corner store, shoe, liquor
store, clothing, record, hardware
Fathers jogging through red rays to the
playground, the baby-sitter’s, on time to round up
the little ones.
Teens blind, otherwise occupied.
My room faces east, I am
not displeased, able to see the end-
stopped light on iron pipe chimneys, fire escapes
Brightened steam, exhaust
low distant cumulonimbus, cigarettes.
al blinding reflection on a many
storied glass-lined skyscraper.
The horizon rises completely, and I
finish dinner just like many others, savoring dessert.
Ignoring street lamps, headlights, postcards. Outside, trouble begins.
My proteinated muscles bring a smirk to my face,
at the wonder of my blood’s fight
The blood, suctioed through endless tubules
from heart to head;
The heart desires.
A need brings
to allowance my heart.
That pump it serves
it suctionates red to this,
Mine mind, who acts:
it performances to keep want in check.
Once the heart sends its cells
once it messages that soup of a brain,
reason may abilitate the action,
action desired by my heart.
Here, a body has been relaxed:
its head permissions the heart’s affection
for beauty elsewhere perceived.
It is Saturday evening. On a cold asphalt street a
smirking man offers me a flowered paper
with clean, polished hands.
His yellow gray hair is rumpled
The locks struggle to hide his warm,
dark eye sockets. One quick shave of the head would
reveal those eyes to sit bright, in perfect working order.
It is Saturday evening. From the
cement sidewalk I watch
the beaming man with my devil's scowl. I hope
he will go away, and I tell him so.
the torn paper bits alight on his loafers
the arms of his dead-tan raincoat do not
swing or cross themselves.
the grin of his lips
reveal teeth healthy like those of an
expensive horse or slave
And it is not raining.
My stomach will lunge for him,
my motionless fingers will itch for his neck .
Slow strides lead me away from there.
It is Saturday evening, and my house remains unlit. The carpets
on its floors lay still, a tweedy beige. I never notice that
they are filthy.
A gun always waits in a drawer in the kitchen.
The refrigerator never contains pie or birthday cake.
Young Richard found a value in the move,
That slap his parents placed upon his back.
The slip inside the cloth of this new glove,
He hoped, would give his hands chance to attack.
He sat beside the crack’ling fire and planned--
Oh, if that night had never come to pass
The harsh and stifled whisper of his hand
Would not have brought its blasphemy to Mass.
On Sunday next, the Eucharist did wait;
It never slid between his parted lips,
No part of Christ to silence Richard’s hate
Did he receive. His hands flew from his hips.
And once he felled the cross from holy station,
The act began, before the congregation.
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