Squash-colored leaves parachute
over the Highlands bridge
with directionless joy.
Beady headlights scramble
the road below unknowing,
pulling to both poles at once
like some schizophrenic river.
I know we are undone.
Complacent, splayed.
A bit of breeze might freeze you,
nick your kevlar chest
with my pear-shaped prayer,
my shrapnel syllables
a wound to the hollow tomb
of safety pin skin.
Good posture does not make you good.
You blew like true the little ledge
you were tonguedumb stalking,
hairy Heathcliff on the moors
sans passion sans pride sans whatever
simmers the cinder in my gut,
knew you would tidelike keep
retreating to and from the umbrella
stuck in the sand on the shore.
Aviatophobia in an awkward grasp
(murky heat from musty core),
despite your assiduous calculations
of feet per second and landing gear.
Epiphanies of falling, not a
misplaced embrace of wings.
Gratia plena and onion rings.
I favor this escape,
pick brown stalks and green tomatoes,
dump bits of tired earth
and eggshells already broken,
and one more call at midnight,
into the heap to sleep
and dream of spring.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
THE "S" IS FOR SALMONELLA
for Barbara S.
Our hostess does not wish to kill,
but the shrimp puffs have an axe to grind.
She served them up. We ate our fill.
Our hostess does not wish to kill.
But the heat of day and lack of dill
have turned the shellfish most unkind.
Our hostess does not wish to kill,
but the shrimp puffs have an axe to grind.
JD Frey – October 31, 2007
Our hostess does not wish to kill,
but the shrimp puffs have an axe to grind.
She served them up. We ate our fill.
Our hostess does not wish to kill.
But the heat of day and lack of dill
have turned the shellfish most unkind.
Our hostess does not wish to kill,
but the shrimp puffs have an axe to grind.
JD Frey – October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Grandma Bird
I’ll call her found art
This robin spent most of two summers
In our small back yard
Feathers salt and pepper gray
Mottled pale orange in front
Not much spring to her hops her chirp crackly
She died hidden
Under garden foliage mid-summer.
Now she is a papier-mâché likeness
Of the bird that felt at home here. She is buried
right there to feed next year’s tomatoes.
The world has a lot of work to do it seems
To feed the dollar machine change the water the air
Speed up time until it is almost gone.
Another robin is back there now
Measuring the room.
This robin spent most of two summers
In our small back yard
Feathers salt and pepper gray
Mottled pale orange in front
Not much spring to her hops her chirp crackly
She died hidden
Under garden foliage mid-summer.
Now she is a papier-mâché likeness
Of the bird that felt at home here. She is buried
right there to feed next year’s tomatoes.
The world has a lot of work to do it seems
To feed the dollar machine change the water the air
Speed up time until it is almost gone.
Another robin is back there now
Measuring the room.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
FOR A.R.F.
"I will take the end of a thought in my hand and walk back and forth."—Sherwood Anderson
before all the air disappears from the room,
give us a simple holy moment to grieve.
Give us a chance to write a damn poem.
They who have known you are many and spread.
Change comes to most from a distance.
So before we announce you're officially dead,
give us time to explain your existence.
Tomorrow like all days will show up for breakfast.
Quite possibly you won't be there.
So we wish to collect on this hasty checklist:
your eyes, your philosophy, your hair.
Pacing around with these words in my hands,
while, Mother, you leave us for unwritten lands.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No Return
Wonder why the universe is here
almost every day there comes a time
blank face enrapt within empty stare
while some part of brain seeks rhymes
searches unanswerable questions
to muddle, let mind swim with the sublime
and absurd. There is freedom in the notion
that this body’s not the real me—
a vehicle rather, to constrain the soul from
its fall, an acorn from a old oak tree,
disperses waves within a puddle
only there as long as seen.
And which are we, there’s the trouble,
are we ripples or their cause?
I fall asleep when questions are this subtle,
wake to a world as full of flowers and flaws
as the one just dreamt, where
our own awareness makes the universe ours.
almost every day there comes a time
blank face enrapt within empty stare
while some part of brain seeks rhymes
searches unanswerable questions
to muddle, let mind swim with the sublime
and absurd. There is freedom in the notion
that this body’s not the real me—
a vehicle rather, to constrain the soul from
its fall, an acorn from a old oak tree,
disperses waves within a puddle
only there as long as seen.
And which are we, there’s the trouble,
are we ripples or their cause?
I fall asleep when questions are this subtle,
wake to a world as full of flowers and flaws
as the one just dreamt, where
our own awareness makes the universe ours.
Third Floor Walk-up (Ekphrasis after Stiegliz)
I
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
What will another night in the cold city bring?
The sheets are stiff as boards, been out there a long time.
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
The sky grows darker and she’s looking for a sign,
her Heinz walks up the alley and begins to sing
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
What will another night in this cold city bring?
II
She loves sea mist and fog, loves to stare out the back window over the sink at pigeons on the line. She loves the first night snow. Her boys will be home soon from school, Heinz a little later from the plant with that strange smell on him of metal and flowers and most of his pay. It is time to start the onions.
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
What will another night in the cold city bring?
The sheets are stiff as boards, been out there a long time.
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
The sky grows darker and she’s looking for a sign,
her Heinz walks up the alley and begins to sing
Mrs. Meuller’s bed linens frozen on the line.
What will another night in this cold city bring?
II
She loves sea mist and fog, loves to stare out the back window over the sink at pigeons on the line. She loves the first night snow. Her boys will be home soon from school, Heinz a little later from the plant with that strange smell on him of metal and flowers and most of his pay. It is time to start the onions.
Rearview (ekphrasis)
The pope doesn't approve of my green hemp dress
or the way it sags between my shoulder blades.
Even his picture, busy and smiling on the balcony
with the usual entourage of fluttering cardinals
has a weather-worn sheen, tired of its misplaced
place in the fair-skinned air of Saint Malo's,
the dated hair, the fuzzy image safely framed.
I catch the whisper of misplaced stones,
gather my stilted breath from the rafters,
stuck like an axe in rotting wood.
The swallows follow overhead, sullen shadows
in a misplaced v, oddly obedient, free.
Sunset descends. It is too cold here, too small,
too much laminate on wooden Simon and Pieta.
At the mountainous altar of his own church,
he waits outside, these predictable afternoon storms
unknowable, plain, wipes my face with a nubbled
grey sleeve, mannequin to my pandering,
sinner and savior in the gathering rain.
or the way it sags between my shoulder blades.
Even his picture, busy and smiling on the balcony
with the usual entourage of fluttering cardinals
has a weather-worn sheen, tired of its misplaced
place in the fair-skinned air of Saint Malo's,
the dated hair, the fuzzy image safely framed.
I catch the whisper of misplaced stones,
gather my stilted breath from the rafters,
stuck like an axe in rotting wood.
The swallows follow overhead, sullen shadows
in a misplaced v, oddly obedient, free.
Sunset descends. It is too cold here, too small,
too much laminate on wooden Simon and Pieta.
At the mountainous altar of his own church,
he waits outside, these predictable afternoon storms
unknowable, plain, wipes my face with a nubbled
grey sleeve, mannequin to my pandering,
sinner and savior in the gathering rain.
Redress
(From the Floral Radiographs of Steven N. Meyers:
Amaryllis, Mountain Fire Pieris, Fern Forest, Rose Petals, Dogwood Blossoms, Four Callas, Foxglove Ballet, Columbine #2)
“Flesh, our one possession, the heart is its own redress.”
-Matthew Copperman
One day a doctor peers at x-rays
and sees what she knows:
spalled bones,
mass on a skull,
small spills of cells.
At night she dreams
these things change,
that in the morning
she brings
a patient in a milkblue gown
news that all is well;
everything is just a flower
rendered transparent.
Her hand covers the patient’s hand
and together they look at
radiographed rose petals,
wavy bivalves floating
on an invisible watercourse;
engrailed bracts
in a spring cold snap;
serried bells;
the throat of an amaryllis
in which bursts a resurrection;
mountain fire’s plain pearls;
bracken.
Someone down the long hall
calls out “butcherbird, butcherbird,”
as if in warning,
but the patient is already
beginning the lonely, arid walk
toward heaths,
all their color burning
beneath her skin.
-Barbara Sorensen
Amaryllis, Mountain Fire Pieris, Fern Forest, Rose Petals, Dogwood Blossoms, Four Callas, Foxglove Ballet, Columbine #2)
“Flesh, our one possession, the heart is its own redress.”
-Matthew Copperman
One day a doctor peers at x-rays
and sees what she knows:
spalled bones,
mass on a skull,
small spills of cells.
At night she dreams
these things change,
that in the morning
she brings
a patient in a milkblue gown
news that all is well;
everything is just a flower
rendered transparent.
Her hand covers the patient’s hand
and together they look at
radiographed rose petals,
wavy bivalves floating
on an invisible watercourse;
engrailed bracts
in a spring cold snap;
serried bells;
the throat of an amaryllis
in which bursts a resurrection;
mountain fire’s plain pearls;
bracken.
Someone down the long hall
calls out “butcherbird, butcherbird,”
as if in warning,
but the patient is already
beginning the lonely, arid walk
toward heaths,
all their color burning
beneath her skin.
-Barbara Sorensen
Freewrite
Prompt: "Another dozen or so new laid eggs from any one of which I might yet poke my little beak"
laced, diseased, the eggs's pulp tumbles into bowls blue and white. we know they harbor the froth and grind of all that's healthy, all that's not. we wonder if we will know what first will signal the precipice of sickness, perhaps the shadow of a small boy with salmonella, perhaps the beginning signs of schizophrenia in its curled infant stage of paper-slicing, skin-piercing, hallucinatory, new-laid dreams, and the boy, his little beak of eyes sees all, and yet he remains still, refusing to believe anything could be so fantastic from an egg, an egg, any one of which could be birthing the very first Easter he comes alive.
laced, diseased, the eggs's pulp tumbles into bowls blue and white. we know they harbor the froth and grind of all that's healthy, all that's not. we wonder if we will know what first will signal the precipice of sickness, perhaps the shadow of a small boy with salmonella, perhaps the beginning signs of schizophrenia in its curled infant stage of paper-slicing, skin-piercing, hallucinatory, new-laid dreams, and the boy, his little beak of eyes sees all, and yet he remains still, refusing to believe anything could be so fantastic from an egg, an egg, any one of which could be birthing the very first Easter he comes alive.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Awful Ready (Already Fall)
AWFUL READY (ALREADY FALL)
And, like the changing trees, we're dignified
With radiance. We don't acknowledge our unease
About the want that closes winter in parentheses.
We participate instead in a sarabande,
Glad to slow our tempo in a dance
We've memorized, but cannot understand.
This is the way of all things. Choice and chance
Step and turn in sentience, while the globe
Whirls like a dervish in trance.
In belief, or suspended disbelief, we probe
For purpose. How unlikely we exist!
Here it is, already fall. The sunlight's strobe
through yellow, gold, green, red, and amethyst
leaves the path we thought we knew ablaze.
The whole world is an amorist.
For a season we resist our sad malaise
Of too much, too much information,
Acquiesce to this astonishment, and praise.
And, like the changing trees, we're dignified
With radiance. We don't acknowledge our unease
About the want that closes winter in parentheses.
We participate instead in a sarabande,
Glad to slow our tempo in a dance
We've memorized, but cannot understand.
This is the way of all things. Choice and chance
Step and turn in sentience, while the globe
Whirls like a dervish in trance.
In belief, or suspended disbelief, we probe
For purpose. How unlikely we exist!
Here it is, already fall. The sunlight's strobe
through yellow, gold, green, red, and amethyst
leaves the path we thought we knew ablaze.
The whole world is an amorist.
For a season we resist our sad malaise
Of too much, too much information,
Acquiesce to this astonishment, and praise.
Solitude
I cried for it at midnight
just to be done with it,
enough is enough, after all.
I tried to cry for it at six
but the sun was just setting behind old steel mills, the sky
resplendent in red-ochre and deep violet,
my eyes in tears from sulphurous air.
I nearly cried at noon, when the sun
made a brief appearance, illuminated gray hills and houses,
then disappeared behind the gray banks
as though frightened by what it saw.
At misty dawn I began to cry
for another lost night, my mind lost
in labyrinths of doubt and desire.
Then the lightened sky called
to me, insisted that this was the very day,
the fine moment of now
from which I might transform
all of reality, meet the people I am meant to know,
find the perfect spot to sit and sip potent liquids
ponder sun and sky and self until they swirl
in a favored dance that will end at midnight.
just to be done with it,
enough is enough, after all.
I tried to cry for it at six
but the sun was just setting behind old steel mills, the sky
resplendent in red-ochre and deep violet,
my eyes in tears from sulphurous air.
I nearly cried at noon, when the sun
made a brief appearance, illuminated gray hills and houses,
then disappeared behind the gray banks
as though frightened by what it saw.
At misty dawn I began to cry
for another lost night, my mind lost
in labyrinths of doubt and desire.
Then the lightened sky called
to me, insisted that this was the very day,
the fine moment of now
from which I might transform
all of reality, meet the people I am meant to know,
find the perfect spot to sit and sip potent liquids
ponder sun and sky and self until they swirl
in a favored dance that will end at midnight.
Occlusion
of all the cities I’ve visited in dreams
in this world. A map worth living in,
in just such a way, gray-black, gold-blue
that spread, flayed out like dissections
to be learned from. Here is the heart,
beating—clogged; here are the airways,
the bloodways, the intake and output,
this taxonomist’s wetdream,
thrill of gush and flow and now,
times like now, choked, stopped up
the gash bled dry, all movement
halted
to this frozen frame, all fixed all empty
all flat but for that red light
of eye seeing, that glow of dreaming life
hid beneath, behind, o this halo
Theory of Convergence (terza rima)
Theory of Convergence
after Kenneth Patchen
after Kenneth Patchen
In the footsteps of broken night,
convivial discordance.
Touch a lamppost’s slender height,
touch an arm. Ever since
the walls came crumbling down
and blustered our allegiance
we push that rubble all around.
We build them for each other.
The boiling point of calming down
grows in tornado weather,
scatters our loose vertebrae
in a poorly rendered blender.
We make a fairly rare sorbet,
activist and anarchist
meeting Monday’s breaking day.
Gathered in a loose kiss
the pines in time will soon forget,
I am bothered by our brokenness.
Wrench the punctum’s pirouette
from all observing eyes.
Watch, the streets are getting wet.
With a stomach’s slow surprise,
I drink the gibberish of glib,
leapfrog the sullen compromise,
and with an awkward mock ad lib,
we fly.
In a Murderous Time (Villanelle)
The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking.
I work hard to understand
the whole idea of war--peace through death; how's that going?
Morning news shows the Ship of State sinking;
adds a fresh news bite from the Captain.
The American heart breaks and lives by breaking.
Sometimes, I think this President is joking
when he trots out his latest plans.
We're kickin; ass, he says; we're winning.
Sometimes, I think this President is dreaming
or just phoning it in from Texas ranch land.
The world's heart breaks and lives by breaking.
Sometimes, I wonder what he's smoking
as he takes another bold stand.
Peace through torture--how's that working?
The war drags on and the world is watching.
I work hard to comprehend
how the heart breaks and keeps on breaking.
Peace through fear; how's that working out?
I work hard to understand
the whole idea of war--peace through death; how's that going?
Morning news shows the Ship of State sinking;
adds a fresh news bite from the Captain.
The American heart breaks and lives by breaking.
Sometimes, I think this President is joking
when he trots out his latest plans.
We're kickin; ass, he says; we're winning.
Sometimes, I think this President is dreaming
or just phoning it in from Texas ranch land.
The world's heart breaks and lives by breaking.
Sometimes, I wonder what he's smoking
as he takes another bold stand.
Peace through torture--how's that working?
The war drags on and the world is watching.
I work hard to comprehend
how the heart breaks and keeps on breaking.
Peace through fear; how's that working out?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
World View
The World *, ** ,*** ,**** ,*****
It is real or it is not.
It was created,
or spontaneously began,
or was always here,
or something else.
Planned or random,
probably both.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
* Rated CG 13. Anyone over the age of thirteen must be accompanied by a child to be admitted. Child Guidance is suggested throughout due to absurd juxtapositions, graphic violence, some sexual content (language, brief and prolonged nudity, sexual situations and widespread preoccupation with sex.)
** Contains one or more of the following: wheat, peanuts, chicken parts, dairy products, bits of hooves, ashes, dust, sausages, aspirin, lofty mountains, searing desserts, leafy glades, soul wrenching slums, fabulous villas, boring suburbs, electronic gadgets, god-awful weapons, intractable diseases, lots of plants and animals, salt water, time, space, other stuff and death.
*** May cause headaches, constipation, deep blue depression, dry mouth, sweaty palms, constant fidgeting, dropsy, ague, croup, fantods, shortness of breath, shortness, coated tongue, hemorrhoids, enlarged prostate, plantar fasciitis, colds and flu, and/or drowsiness.
**** Do not drive or operate heavy machines while reading. Do not use in the shower or tub. Objects in mirror are not what they seem. Safe for septic systems and pets. Should the universe suddenly collapse to singularity, continue reading on the other side.
***** Slow down. Look around you. Listen carefully. Taste your tongue. Smell the nearest flower. Feel good.
It is real or it is not.
It was created,
or spontaneously began,
or was always here,
or something else.
Planned or random,
probably both.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
* Rated CG 13. Anyone over the age of thirteen must be accompanied by a child to be admitted. Child Guidance is suggested throughout due to absurd juxtapositions, graphic violence, some sexual content (language, brief and prolonged nudity, sexual situations and widespread preoccupation with sex.)
** Contains one or more of the following: wheat, peanuts, chicken parts, dairy products, bits of hooves, ashes, dust, sausages, aspirin, lofty mountains, searing desserts, leafy glades, soul wrenching slums, fabulous villas, boring suburbs, electronic gadgets, god-awful weapons, intractable diseases, lots of plants and animals, salt water, time, space, other stuff and death.
*** May cause headaches, constipation, deep blue depression, dry mouth, sweaty palms, constant fidgeting, dropsy, ague, croup, fantods, shortness of breath, shortness, coated tongue, hemorrhoids, enlarged prostate, plantar fasciitis, colds and flu, and/or drowsiness.
**** Do not drive or operate heavy machines while reading. Do not use in the shower or tub. Objects in mirror are not what they seem. Safe for septic systems and pets. Should the universe suddenly collapse to singularity, continue reading on the other side.
***** Slow down. Look around you. Listen carefully. Taste your tongue. Smell the nearest flower. Feel good.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
As Sweet
It is analysis at last
that kills us. Our wish
to tear everything to pieces
in the mistaken belief
that we will understand
in parts that which has eluded us
whole. This last rose is not red, is not
even a rose. My eyes and nose
are joined with flower
in mutual dance of beauty,
neither is without the other.
My words are red, I am at one
with a slim silver electric box
and a cool autumn breeze on bare feet.
that kills us. Our wish
to tear everything to pieces
in the mistaken belief
that we will understand
in parts that which has eluded us
whole. This last rose is not red, is not
even a rose. My eyes and nose
are joined with flower
in mutual dance of beauty,
neither is without the other.
My words are red, I am at one
with a slim silver electric box
and a cool autumn breeze on bare feet.
Cloud/Sea Freewrite
I am drinking a cloud
or the sound of the sea, endlessly
repeating, but what is
a dream, are there sounds in it?
Is, perhaps, the endless repetition
the thing? Earth, rotates, revolves, endlessly
almost, and we short-timers will never know...
Our big home, this spiral arm
circling a center of an ordinary galaxy
amidst a cluster of galaxies, moving
gently, at great speed
in an ever widening arc
a cosmic helix,
the coded reality
of the one who knows
whether and why we ought to care.
Who is this cloud dreamer
awash in inner oceans
his own DNA?
Buffeted by waves
of chance,
chemistry and spark
stray neutrinos force muons
from quarks that at last
are not there
endlessly rotating
in a universe of silence.
or the sound of the sea, endlessly
repeating, but what is
a dream, are there sounds in it?
Is, perhaps, the endless repetition
the thing? Earth, rotates, revolves, endlessly
almost, and we short-timers will never know...
Our big home, this spiral arm
circling a center of an ordinary galaxy
amidst a cluster of galaxies, moving
gently, at great speed
in an ever widening arc
a cosmic helix,
the coded reality
of the one who knows
whether and why we ought to care.
Who is this cloud dreamer
awash in inner oceans
his own DNA?
Buffeted by waves
of chance,
chemistry and spark
stray neutrinos force muons
from quarks that at last
are not there
endlessly rotating
in a universe of silence.
Drinking a Cloud/Sound of the Sea (freewrite)
Oolong
I am carrying the thud in my solar plexus
(like an unopened package of Oreos)
of a voice, of the sound of a voice
clipping out of view.
I am a little teapot,
I am peas porridge in the pot,
I am the cat inside the hat
and all its referential signifiers.
I am peeled like a grape
though this endless escape
back to the safe soft skin.
I am picking the piece
of a cultural consciousness
between the toothpick and my teeth,
I am hogtied, hornswaggled,
desperately indefinite,
tethered to the infinite,
pawing at the catnip,
wondering where my claws went,
begging for omnipotence
so I can be all things for you:
one, two, three, achoo.
I am gargling my breakfast,
I am stuck in last week’s mess,
I am paralyzed by possibility
that this is
or this is not.
I am ringing the phone to call you,
counting sidewalk squares,
and neon open signs, endless dotted lines,
desperately hoping you won’t answer,
mouth a nest of noise and blur.
I am the power of this thought.
I’m rooted to this spot.
Flip my mind like tiddlywinks.
and pour me out.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Sexual Limerick! (an assignment, sheesh)
My leg on your lap earns a hot rise
You squirm; your eyes dart to your trapped thighs.
You casually shift,
But I know that you're stiff
And I let my leg lay where the heat lies.
You squirm; your eyes dart to your trapped thighs.
You casually shift,
But I know that you're stiff
And I let my leg lay where the heat lies.
Drinking a Cloud / Sound of Sea Freewrite
I am drinking a cloud
Or the sound of the sea
I am drinking a drum
I am thumping impossible
Bear down on plausible
Water from chocolate or
Cheese from a stone -
I'm clamping the clone of this thought.
When the tide pulls out it trips
And gurgles, humiliated and raw.
If I stare it will continue to shudder,
Drawing itself to safety,
And sometime before dawn it will slink in,
Sure as guilt.
I can't watch that long:
I won't be waiting.
I'll be off tearing fingernails
And wringing necks,
Craning toward a cloud,
Opening my throat.
Don't you want to climb,
Say farewell to the shore?
I forget myself -
That sad chill that cliff-dwells
That bears down
That sea-binds,
Hangs tight and holds on.
That drawstring that gathers,
That water that gurgles,
Those oysters that clatter,
Those waves, and the tide
Has come in.
Or the sound of the sea
I am drinking a drum
I am thumping impossible
Bear down on plausible
Water from chocolate or
Cheese from a stone -
I'm clamping the clone of this thought.
When the tide pulls out it trips
And gurgles, humiliated and raw.
If I stare it will continue to shudder,
Drawing itself to safety,
And sometime before dawn it will slink in,
Sure as guilt.
I can't watch that long:
I won't be waiting.
I'll be off tearing fingernails
And wringing necks,
Craning toward a cloud,
Opening my throat.
Don't you want to climb,
Say farewell to the shore?
I forget myself -
That sad chill that cliff-dwells
That bears down
That sea-binds,
Hangs tight and holds on.
That drawstring that gathers,
That water that gurgles,
Those oysters that clatter,
Those waves, and the tide
Has come in.
No Less Effort (a villanelle)
Effort wears a costly dress
I hate the volume of my hair
I fear that you will love me less
I keep competing with my mess
And damaging the calming air
Effort wears a costly dress
A sentence starts with "I confess"
And, rapid, winds its way from there
I fear that you will love me less
So there I purposefully press
Until you grant an ill-masked glare
Effort wears a costly dress
With conflict I've had great success
I've earned division of this pair
I fear that you will love me less
There's terror there beyond the rest
And with the best I can't compare.
Effort wears a costly dress:
I fear that you will love me less.
I hate the volume of my hair
I fear that you will love me less
I keep competing with my mess
And damaging the calming air
Effort wears a costly dress
A sentence starts with "I confess"
And, rapid, winds its way from there
I fear that you will love me less
So there I purposefully press
Until you grant an ill-masked glare
Effort wears a costly dress
With conflict I've had great success
I've earned division of this pair
I fear that you will love me less
There's terror there beyond the rest
And with the best I can't compare.
Effort wears a costly dress:
I fear that you will love me less.
Why aren't poets more sexy than gym socks?
WHY AREN'T POETS MORE SEXY THAN GYM SOCKS?
Why aren't poets more virtuous than grocers,
more noble than monks, duller than wonks?
Why aren't poets braver than a breadbox, happier
than bullets, double-jointed, left-footed, trim, rich
and shrink-wrapped? Why aren't poets more agile
than yogis, able to dodge iambs at a single bound?
Why aren't poets more perky than pirates,
more wooden than wax, more free of syntax?
Why, oh why, aren't poets tall dark and pensive,
shy but expensive. Why aren't poets
the best looking people in the room?
Why aren't poets more virtuous than grocers,
more noble than monks, duller than wonks?
Why aren't poets braver than a breadbox, happier
than bullets, double-jointed, left-footed, trim, rich
and shrink-wrapped? Why aren't poets more agile
than yogis, able to dodge iambs at a single bound?
Why aren't poets more perky than pirates,
more wooden than wax, more free of syntax?
Why, oh why, aren't poets tall dark and pensive,
shy but expensive. Why aren't poets
the best looking people in the room?
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