|
the lullaby of broadway
(for mia zapata)
was her siren's
song cradled in
the rain by sweet
nothings reversed found
on the b side of
capitol hill deserted
just before the dawning
of street lights moan
they are the grateful
dead long thought
forgotten
yet my soles have
never touched the bottom
of the ocean or
the depths of undesirable
solitude found in corduroy
pockets in some alley
off puget sound sending
shock waves they've barely
felt the tip of
the iceberg sinking
in
my fingers ran a marathon
(12/14/04)
up and down your
neck at sundown
dancing a noir calypso
on fat tuesday they claimed
it was a birthday for sacred
rites of passage burning a
fat columbian cigar into
your arm for good luck
guessing that at an
early age you'd started
wearing your heart on
your
sleeve
in the next room
i was singin' somehow
we all got burnt
dreams placed in a
blackhole throwing
tattoed stolen kisses
up against the sun
playing spin the bottle
our calamity was the
white space they'd fogotten to
lay claim to canvas
bob ross would never
dare attach a solid
landscape overcome with
hard to imagine
lucidity
up and down
back and forth
every time we forget
it's simply a gamble
we all lose
something
our shoes scraped the pavement
notches on a etheral
bedpost used for counting
sheep my biological grandmother
never saw that car
comin' my mom is
still playing hopscotch heaven
on the piano counting
backwards to remember the
steps i had given
you my word some
monkey in a barrel
to hold as true
sweet nothings kept the
value of promise cradled
in whispers sung as
notes in broken english
we'd found turning a
deaf ear into holy
communion
i don't mind listening to the radio
at 4am
for a hint
of the spirit in the sky
finger banging
a joint sweet and lowdown
vibing to wallace berman
i dig daddy inflating his lips
to feel more like mick jagger
head in the clouds
bouncing off the walls
she said you're so vain
you probably think
this song is about you
but trust me
i know your tune
forget what that snakecharmer
often said cuz love poems
aren't really about zen
that shit's all
in your
head
~fall 2004~
poem for tess:
not being a holy man myself...
(with love to scott and s.a. 11/25/04)
lately i've been dreaming
in yodels where john williams is
scoring my thoughts as i walk the
streets at 3:38 a.m. acting as
god's beatbox cuz that heavenly cat
didn't see "crush groove" we all have
stories i whisper the oral tradition
i'm dealing with is about more than
the history of the blowjob
that's why we've kept walking
held the beat to cradle lazarus's
image in that white shroud stolen by ginsberg
to be painted by norman rockwell in protest
of our mind's
war
yeah we all have stories i say
tell me something i don't know my great
grandfather raped the soil to leave his seed
only to end up a lonely drunk like
the fat girl who eats paste in the
bathroom at some high school dance
to feel the boogie up close and personal
yeah yeah yeah that's about right
and after s.a. talked about his son
having the flu i saw a ghost
that looked like the outline of my unborn daughter
motioning me through waves of traffic
i swear roy orbison's melody had to grasp my
hands
to hold back the tears with their crucifix
and i stayed up thinking about how scott did his
beautiful son thing and has every
right to feel like a better
person than i'll ever be cuz not everyone
can walk on water without first
remembering how to breathe
and that's god's honest
truth
John Dorsey © 2004
|
