Goodreads
del.icio.us
a pack of smokes i'll be right back
i lost your number a train was delayed
missed my connection i mean
it was brutal out there
strawberry kiss, atomic slug, interior
motive, wall-to-wall science, my
standard religious beliefs, my
gum-soled shoes, wanting,
wanting, wanting
and see here it is again,, the moon
the swarming roads in moon
light,,, wanting,,,,
to feel the cold wanting on my face,,,,,
the next corner,,,,,,
who am i kidding? i missed
my appointment but here i am
thinking of you, and i am
out, out, out
of time for my wheezy strolls
and indiscriminations,
my welded attractions undoing
your smile sliding shut
the web of the door
Obvious as what blood does,
unconcerned as the beating of a heart
unless corrupted, it settles upon me too
and I become, I settle too
into a poem. The uncontrolled myriad
settles upon me, upon this single page.
It filters my time with you.
Others have their own, the scraps
that stick to unsocked heels
in unkept places. Yet in our eyes
it is the same, the beating,
the warm floating, the
single obvious late afternoon.
We can approximate the center of a line, a circle,
a guided missile, a reign of terror over or nearly so -
most any dead or killing thing, but never the center
of self or loved ones. How long the
denouement? The wind up, the tooling down?
Don't we know in our blood the hottest part
of the day, the moment when, wordless,
it all turned bad? I want to believe
the roadrunner has no midpoint, ever splatting
in his quest, want to believe Sgt. Peppers final chord
rumbles on. Believe me,
I want to believe I have some notion of when
this poem begins to slide downhill, as I will,
you will. Belief, will. Pluck a word out of wrapping air,
a few more, arrange, and PRESTO!
you'll tire soon, that's all, where the bisection appeared
you might not be sure, but now it's lava coating the mountain,
hometowns withstand, still they're gone.
now it's not PRESTO, but
help whispers not to wake, sudden memory
of how light snuck through the leaves,
how taxis danced, people grinning shouting
what? —
no matter, close enough to unison
to catch eternity, or at least
a reasoned consensus, as if everyone
voted the same, professed their love,
knew which side they were on.
I must take to heart the sunset
as some do sunrise. Though it's risky
to think so, you're pretty sure
all those little rascals are dead.
I hold you in my arms as boulders fly into the sun,
suddenly all zooming backwards, the wrong speed,
frantic in a lifelessness setting us so apart
we might as well be one,
except for that thing covering all whatever that blank is called
even my shuffling, my dementia, all the approximations
forecasts and revisions
but I was a kid in your arms I was
a distance a blue period a pocketknife slicing the film
tatters and totters abandoned and undernourished
a weak and weary return now rested
a blockhead unbalanced dead weight
both sides of life
Apart from all else, I want you
to be my fulcrum, you are my
fulcrum fulcrum fulcrum
aren't you gleeful shout Chuck Jones
Tex Avery Yoko Cinderella Chick?
If you agree, I will believe you.
John Eivaz (john e) was born in New York and lives in California where he works at a winery. He has a chapbook, Remainder of Thursday Afternoon, available at Lulu.