Then Terry died
March 24, 2013
I was almost a beat poet. Liked the whole idea of sitting around and listening to the chatter of voices. the patter of spoons in coffee cups. the bongos. and the almost endless and vaguely mystical poetry that filled the air. like sweat in a locker room. but then Terry died. Though I wouldn’t find out for twenty years. And rising up to read I realized that I was afraid of heights. And immediately began falling.
The poem here is from a book called The Baltimore Catechism. The book is free but if you hurry you can get it for half price.
DIARY OF A WHITE VIRGIN
through the cracks in th
e wall i can hear the small talk rambling
on in the hall;
shelley looked so frightful
when her bronze boy lover left.
he left slamming the front door
but the house was mute and deaf.
i was smoking a cigarette
that put me on a wing – torn curtains drool upon the
an old oak drooping bent
over a hollow like’\
an old man begging for care and
why he’s there.
i tried to sketch your portrait
but you stole my rock.
a roman circus passes my way
eight days after friday;
soar to flame
so i go dreaming down the street
the grass is smoke
upon the factory’s heat.
all the walls flee
you’re not impressed by their rout.
breeze caresses the flame.
rubber careemed off the street
black shivering beds
sighing with the roll and scortch
magic dawn flushes,
the fury of the night stalls.
laces of my boots cry
that its someone to pray to.
toothless sun laughing at me.
walls are closing floor rising up.
i want to go up and touch your face.
dust drained from his skull.
the caution signs r blind
perfume swallows the air.
TIMBRE yells the vet
before he mends the old hookers
falling crotch. lovers separate
& crawl into marble rabbit holes.
i saw the hardwood melt
down upon your face.
against a bus stop he leans
with his guns in his eyes.
kissed a girl who didn’t want to be touched
manufacture some hate
aren’t you getting kinda stout?
don’t you realize yr a self
conceited egg tonight i met
jesus with a bottle of zing in his hand.
a lonely elephant asked me today
i was as mirror of discontent.
we should all wear pink
and be forced to carry around portable sinks.
drenching darkness empress
coca cola clown
onion blood baby
blow me. let me follow it down your throat.
i have sat inside my room
placed my fingers inside your wounds
touch’d things smoother than moonlight,
seen you hide from the cruel dancers.
a spider weaves suicide across the moon
t hide the memory of a king
who hung himself one afternoon
one sticky afternoon in the seaweed
beneath big blackman’s beach.
spring lingers on
sleeping under the snow.
moses kissd all the virgins with rain,
gave them passports,
put them on the cattle train.
one must please the customer.
DANCE LITTLE LADY
DANCE UNTIL YOUR FEET ARE THE FLOOR
DANCE UNTIL YOU CAN’T DANCE ANYMORE
DANCE LITTLE LADY
DANCE FOR US ALL
THERE’S NO TIME TO BE LEFT AT EASE
DANCE LITTLE LADY WOULD YOU PLEASE
my bride stood before me in yellow
she was scrawny
& sour. a tinge of resentment on her breath.
get outta here
i mean would you please leave the room
i wonna think about the love you gave me
but i don’t want to think about you.
i can hear my daddy’s poetry
building stand naked
sounds of groaning uncles
& their voices.
i met a child in the back of the back room.
she came wearing a badge.
i lifted her latch
burnt her on my minute steak.
i announced i was running for god
& everybody gathered around to ask why.
don’t get too close
i couldn’t handle an overdose.
close your eyes. you’ll never go blind.
watch the seagulls fly in their cage
broken beer bottles in the grass awaiting a victim.
lonely romeo trapped in her canyon
a wooden waste basket full of crawling hands
a crowd of a thousand breathing
a skinned woman
desks and silver spoons choking
her visions of you have kept her
up through the night.
she weeps like a tyrant.
through the cracks in the wall. i
can hear the rambling on
of small talk in the hall.
look at michael trying to apolo
gize with his jokes and his cur
ls and his gift of pea
rls and his lost wor
lds. antiques will replace old ladies.
my grudges she warms like white coals.
– i’m losing the beat.
what about the year of 56
when men breathed fire
and men threw sticks.