if it's not forever, if it's just tonight, it's still the greatest...

After much unsureness and eraser marks in my cranium i've finally found a closing more suitable for this poem. It was loved in the original state- but i was never pleased with the ending (the first edition of this poem is posted somewhere in this blog). so after a bit of poetic plastic surgery it is now presentable (in my eyes at least). and some liked the original better, i guess you can compare for yourself. but as a poet (i think i can call myself that for a fleeting moment) i think you must except nothing is ever perfect. so this is my poem that has seemingly perfect tits but a lopsided left nipple. (perhaps i should have deleted that last sentence...)
Life is in fact balloons and butterflies:

My prince came roaring through
totting balloons and butterflies
in a pastel pink '87 Volvo,
blaring his emo love tunes while headbanging,
losing control and crashing
into my chest.

Like the too tight hairband on my wrist,
he was turning me a deep shade of purple.

I would awake to blinking red lights
emanating from a digital face
much reminding me of those brown eyelashes
that would blink out Morse codes
in response to my restlessly tapping digits.

Our messages were composed
of Nat King Cole slang
and disgustingly sentimental pet names.

We would dance in the style of Fred and Ginger
to scratched records
and dusty yardsale mixed tapes,
stepping on one another's toes
without pardons or concessions.
I treasured the adolescent August
and Spring was months away.

lord you don't know how you're making me feel...

it has been a very long time since i've written a piece about someone. and the two pieces i did write were about the same person. but this subject has needed a poem for a while and since this one doesn't suffice for me, there will probably more. but i don't know if any poem could be more true. perhaps he could read it and realize it was about him and make things easier by claiming where he stands. if you know me closely you know who this is about.i was told this was one of my strongest pieces to date (which i disagree with). i enjoyed the love given to it. and it meant a lot when a certain lovely man who doesn't say much about poetry brought up the constellation line a good 10 minutes later after hearing it...not knowing it was mine. evidently, screwed up loves or lack thereof provide great material. this poem doesn't deserve this much of an introduction...

ursa major:

i can barely whisper about the hue
of your skin, eyes, hair.
i am too hesitant and overwhelmed

with confusion. i sometimes think
your eyes were only constellations
that i could never quite find

or name. and at others i'm sure
each strand of your hair was a memory
that might be lost at any moment

down the bathroom sink. then again,
your skin was the dusty cover
of a book which hadn't been touched

in years. i could never read well though,
or nimble my fingers enough to please
that rusted latch. and i know

those vocal chords were serenading
like the robin outside my glass pane,
but i'm not so sure anymore.

it was good to keep me guessing, cause you know i hate attention. but can you get down to it?...

i have this notion that i should somehow end up settled in cape cod, it now seeps into my writing. and was on the news tonight. and vonnegut clearly pulls much inspiration from the place. and it finds itself in my music. it has invaded my life and i must invade it one day with my presence.


smooth sailing in cape cod:

this mexican man i met on the street
followed me home. and i let him.

i needed some warmth and color.
i was underexposed and it showed.

all the blue-green eyes paraded behind
the barred apartment windows, rusted over.

they were the natives of my antique cape cod,
the people were just as weathered.

born in the generation of french cinematics;
no one understood my language.

nothing more than a tourist attraction with my velvet vest.
the mexican was my admission.

we just saw it from a different point of view, tangled up in blue...

who ever would have thought this elderly town could provide something other than hellish regrets?


caffeine addicts and broken glasses:

you wrote like an outcast from the beat generation and my, how i enjoyed you, honey.
every vulgar quotation muttered as you sipped and gulped your orange crush.
it was more than a crush, wasn't it babe, but not quite the monotonous idea of love.
those musty alleyways crammed us together and i remember suffocating on bluebirds and
window curtains.
the town was decaying, i was a white flood, and you were the revolution.
the traffic sign stalking our door said "stop", but we never obeyed.
"what can you expect from two bad seeds looking for soil?"
i was light and cascaded with the changing winds, but you were rooted
and your literature was too heavy for wings. it wasn't love; i was alive with glory.
the neon sign proclaimed "we closed" and the greyhound door was open...