Charles Darwin
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
of photosynthesis.
Blind Cafe
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.
garcon's voice
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.
madame's voice
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
City
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;
shimmering, rippling,
cool blue. No
swaying
palms—sentimental. No
green weed of forests.
Bachelors
Key from their cars to
apartments,
Some beaming
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
store, shop.
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.
The occasion
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.
Am
My proteinated muscles
bring a smirk to my face,
at the wonder of my
blood’s fight
its flight.
The blood, suctioed
through endless tubules
from heart to head;
The heart desires.
A need brings
that head
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.
Single
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.
The Hands
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.