Sunday, July 26, 2015

A Tiny Stab to the Heart

In a flash at a stop sign,
I saw your passing car and your turned head
Doing double takes while I sit and watch
You drive on, a sad acceptance
For your sullen passenger seat.

Subconsciously my fingertips touch the car window
In a half hearted wave hello,
But they wished to touch your face instead,
Or trace the outline of your shoulders
Or better yet, hold your hand-
Instead they grasped the steering wheel
As I made the right turn towards the green light
In the opposite direction of you and her.

I wonder if you said out loud
Whether you had recognized my car,
and whether she gave an indifferent grunt
In reply, or said nothing at all,
Staring straight ahead with a scowl
Souring her pretty face
When my eyes light up every time
You're around, then hide
So not to betray my inner wishes
To know your love, to see the artist
Living his art through body and mind.
Does she like to watch you work too?
Does she want to run away with you too?

The drive home was dark and silent,
The road an unseen guide home-
But not to the heart.
I follow it blindly.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

2 new poems

My latest pieces were written on 7/2 & 7/4/15, respectively.  You will see once again in the second poem how the Beats are inserting themselves into my writing.  They do inspire so much.  The ghost of Jack looms over me like the invisible lover who only wills himself into my sight.

My love, he dances 
Like a child-
The world, my heart

In his eyes.

For a kiss, my life
Is made-
A love I cannot share,
Only my body-
No one else has me
So lovingly trapped.


I wish more artists gathered here.
They would feel at home

With bebop jazz playing softly above me,
Intimate seating, good coffee,
Room to work, no- room to breathe!
They would feel at home.

I can see Jack sitting at a corner table,
His chair directly under a wall speaker,
Fingers tapping the blank pages of his
Tiny notebook pulled from breast pocket-

I can see Neal being bored, talking to
Anyone who comes in, the universal greeter,

The mascot and soul brother to all-
His roving eyes touching every female,
Chin nodding in appreciation.

In another part of the room
By the window, Allen and Peter and Corso
Talking, staring at everyone walking by and giggling.
Old junky Bill Burroughs sits outside away
From everyone yet within reach, with empty bags
In his pockets that once held a bit of dope.

But today it's only me-
Wishing there were more crazies like them today.
They would feel at home.