Karaoke for V-Day

Playing around with the James taylor song "Don't Let Me Be lonely Tonight"
I substituted some new images into the lyrics.

Pour me peroxide,
pour me fresh squeezed,
Tell me flash fiction
but scan stanzas to tease,
Save streaked mascara
for the rising peach light,
And let me
be your crescent tonight.

Pay me plugged nickles, pay me with pearls,
Relax like my hands are soft as a girl's,
Save the lower lip for the brightening light,
Just let me reflect on you tonight.

Let me shadow your shoulders, pool the small of your back,
Unshutter your stories, part the blinds a crack.
Start your getaway car in the horizoning light,
But let me fill you
like moonlight tonight.

Meh, whatever. Good exercise, and maybe I'll keep a line or two. Or three.

25 Random reasons I refuse to do a "25 Random things about me" list on Facebook

1. Because 25 isn't a prime number

2. Because the Holy Spirit is quoted 25 times in the Gospels, and I'm a not a Christian.

3. Because there were only Three Wise Men. (and I'm still not X-tian)

4. Because I would have to include the fact that I am hyper-ticklish, which I obviously don't want anyone to know.

5. Because the square root of 25 is 5 and the Pentagon gets too much love as it is.

6. Because I once lost a huge pot at an underground poker club on 25th St. to a guy holding the 2 and the 5 of Spades.

7. Because Abraham waited 25 years for the birth of his son Isaac and I'm not Jewish.

8. Because there are 8 notes and 12 tones in an octave and neither number divides evenly into . . .

9. Because my son was born on the 27th, not . . .

10. Because in Nascar Brad Keselowski drives the #25 car and who ever heard of Brad Keselowski?

11. Because 25 is the length of a Sacred Cubit in inches, and Solomon built his Temple 25 cubits high. (and I'm still not Jewish)

12. Because 25 is the atomic number of Manganese and who mines for manganese?.

13. Because there are only 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.

14. Because I got married when I was 25 years old.

15. Because "Y" is the 25th letter, so why should I? .

16. Because I only need 16 bars to rock the Mic.

17. Because 17 days is one of my favorite Prince songs.

18. Because contrary to what you may have heard, I'm not hyper-contrary.

19. Because 19 is the number of Allah, (although I'm not Muslim.)

20. Because I was 37 when my son was born.

21. Because Roberto Clemente wore number 21, not . . .

22. Because Barry Bonds does wear #25 and he's a liar and a cheat.

23. Because my birthday is on the 23rd, not the 25th.

24. Because the Prophet Muhammad was 25 when he married Khadijah. (Though I still aint Muslim)

25. Because there is nothing random about me.

Good Morning

If you were Frosted Flakes
I would spoon you slowly
until the bowl
contained only
your milky sweetness,
then tip the rim
and sip
one small swallow
at a time.
Then dart my tongue
into the curved
hollow of your bowl.

Turning the key that tightens the drum

RUMBLE (deep)

Nosing it
like a fragrant neck,
I run my thumb
along the hips
of a snifter of scotch.
My tongue glistens
in anticipation
of a half sip,
careful as
a first kiss,
then a pause
to let it pool
in the mouth
before a swallow
slow as wings
drifting on
the warmth
of an updraft.
I know how a finger
of moonlight
through the window
can taunt.
How a CD
can repeat
until it loops
into the DNA
of loneliness.
How a single malt
tries to build
its case
in the back
of the mouth.
I know too,
that what swirls
in this glass
is a whirlpool
with no bottom.
So give me
the moon's finger
on your ankle,
time
to silently
memorize the map
of your tongue
or huddle
in the hollow
of your heat,
listening
to the splash
of your laughter.
I dream of a path
that winds
down the coastline
of your spine,
But wake
to a wandering hunger:
awaiting the day
my tongue
curls like a wave
across the
soft beach
just above
your collarbone.

Parsing the 'Praise Song'

I wanted to take a minute to re-view Elizabeth Alexander's Inaugural poem "Praise Song for the Day" and share a few thoughts about what I thought was going on. Already there are several other critiques on the web, mostly negative, such as this one, (which includes video of her reading), or this humorous poetic take . There were a few positive reviews like this one by E. Ethelbert Miller (scroll down a bit). The correct text of the poem can be found here.

Many of the reviews focused on her reading of the poem and found her performance lacking. I too, would have preferred a more conversational cadence and pace, especially given that the poem's diction was prosy in places. Overall I thought she did a decent job reading the poem, she spoke loudly and clearly and made no obvious mistakes, despite reading before the single largest live audience for the reading of a poem in the history of the world. Something that might make a few folk nervous. It was also very cold, about 25 degrees and not an audience that came to hear a poem, two factors which work against a slower paced reading style.

As far as the poem itself, my initial reactions were that the prosy diction helped the non-literary crowd to get into the poem, that the poem was a little too long, and that it fizzled about 3/4s of the way through. Given how difficult it is to write a great or even very good occasional poem, and given the gravity and historic nature of the occasion in question, I thought the poem was pretty good, but contained more than could be taken in at first hearing. The Malcolm X allusion "Say it Plain" I recognized right away and loved, as well as the allusions to the Bible "Love thy neighbor as thyself" and the aphorism taught to medical students "First do no harm", I knew that "Take no more than you need" was an allusion, but was unfamiliar with the source.

Having actually had the opportunity to peruse the text, my opinion of the piece has grown. Being familiar with her work, I know that Alexander is a poet of both great skill and care, thus it was not surprising to note that the poem is comprised of forty-three lines, loosely in iambic pentameter (mostly 9, 10, and 11 syllables) and arranged into 14 tercets, plus one final orphan line. That the body of the poem is 43 lines is no coincidence, since Alexander is smart enough to know that while Obama is the 44th President of these United States, he is the 43rd person to serve as such. This is due to Grover Cleveland serving two non-consecutive terms as the 22nd and 24th Presidents.
The poem's form, a praise song, is common throughout Africa and especially West Africa, although they are usually written in praise of people, living or dead. Thus a praise song for the occasion mimics the Sankofa bird, a way to look both backwards and forward simultaneously. A way to honor her heritage as 'griot' while also honoring a momentous event. The poem opens quietly amid the bustle of everday events and everyday speech moving on to notice quotidian noise and the heritage of even daily speech. The third stanza specifically denotes some daily tasks

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning /
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire / 
 

From here it moves to bucket drummers and other forms of music. Next, we encounter three instances of people waiting on the cusp of some event. The poem then establishes the primacy of language in human encounters. At this point, the beginning of the seventh stanza, the poem shifts it focus from contemporary everyday events to a collective 'We" that is in motion or transition. The poem recognizes the contribution of those who:

said / I need to see what's on the other side./

I know there's something better down the road./

The speaker notes the need for a "place where we are safe", but then cautions "

We walk into that which we cannot yet see."

It is here finally that the poem begins to acknowledge the occasion before it, the tone shifting from the conversational to the oratorical. Line 25 opens with an allusion to both Malcolm X (whose favorite phrases included "Make it Plain") and the African-American Oratorical tradition, by way of reference to the documentary and book 'Say it Plain: A Century of Great African American Speeches' which examines said tradition from Booker T. Washington to Barack Obama. Given that 'X' is the 24th letter of the alphabet, I doubt that the placement of this allusion is arbitrary. The next two stanzas, the ninth and tenth acknowledge the contributions of all who have made this day possible. Alexander's skill is obvious here in the way she denotes occupations that any American can relate to, but that have special resonance for blacks, particularly those of her parents generation. Lines such as

who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

are especially apt in this regard. It is after these stanzas, in my opinion, that the poem makes its first misstep, in the opening of stanza eleven with "

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day."

This line commits a common error which sinks many poems, that of stating the Theme of the poem in prose. There are few things which will unravel the effect of the careful embroidery of verse than stating the meaning of the poem, in the poem, in prose. The negative impact of this line is compounded by the fact that its specific language steals the thunder of the poem's last line. This is made more unfortunate by the particularly evocative image of the "hand lettered sign' in the next line, and the quiet, but duly noted feminism of the stanza's last line. In the following stanza the poem examines three aphoristic creeds; "Love thy neighbor as thyself" from the Bible, "First do no harm" from the medical profession and "Take no more than you need" from the environmental sustainability movement. The last (and probably least familiar to most folk) of those is from a quote by Paul Hawken "Leave the world better than you found it, take no more than you need, try not to harm the environment, make amends if you do." The stanza closes out with a supposition

What if the mightiest word is love?

The penultimate stanza elaborates exactly what type of love the speaker has in mind and again a slight technical glitch appears. Given the eventual import of the poem's last line, this stanza could have magnified the closing impact by having the order of its last two lines reversed, thus reading

love with no need to pre-empt grievance,
love that casts a widening pool of light.

Placing the "widening light" last in the stanza helps to foreshadow its importance and make it more resonant and easier to recall. There has been some grumbling by critics that the 'light' image is cliched, but I think handled differently it functions well enough. The last stanza is in my mind particularly well written, especially the image of "today's sharp sparkle, this winter air" then the three images of transition. The last line "

praise song for walking forward in that light.

Seems to me to just miss the mark, with the inclusion of the word "forward" a bit much. Perhaps something like

a praise song for walking into that light.

or

like a praise song for walking in that light.

may have worked better. Last lines are oft times so crucial to the success or failure of a poem, often disproportionally so.

In interviews prior to Inauguration Day, the poet had stated her intention to write not just a poem for the occasion, but a poem that would resonate past the day. It is the opinion of this critic that she succeeded in that endeavor. The poem, in my mind rewards multiple and close readings, growing more powerful with each one. It is not ostentatious in its learning and is subtle with its allusions. Sometimes a poet who writes in this manner pays the price of readers overlooking or missing the work's less obvious qualities. Is it a home run? Probably not, more like a line drive double into the gap, albeit off a very difficult pitcher to hit. Given the pressure she was under and the enormity of the situation, I think the poet has acquitted herself quite well.

Pining like an evergreen

Went to the Inauguration. Had a blast. 1.5 million people and not a single arrest. Later I'll post a review and analysis of E. Alexander's Inaugural poem. But for now, this is the last thing I wrote.

How I Split My Tongue

I have always loved
to say 'acetaminophen.'
A wizened woman
once told me
that some words
are magic in the mouth.
Almighty, maybe.
Can be held
on the tongue
like a nib of licorice.
Some words,
like licorice
are roots
that can be chewed
for medicinal value.
They can also stain
the tongue.
Some may raise
the blood pressure
or fatigue the heart.
Like 'acetaminophen,'
some can cause bleeding.
Your name is a word
in a language
that I cannot yet speak.
I say it now
as a wish.
A yearning
in my tongue.
Some say Hope
is almighty.
Your name is known
to be habit forming.
I lick its aftertaste
from my stained lips.
A rare sweet root,
it can be added
to certain sentences
to mask any bitterness.
The pharmacist says
boiled into an extract,
it can alleviate
even the barking cough
of lonliness.
Your name rhymes
with acetaminophen,
can relax
the hard muscle
of a heart.
Or spur
hemorrhage.
Bright syllables
spill from my mouth,
robe me
in crimson.
Tonight,
I am a monk,
in the dark cave
of the heart,
chanting a
name until
it is wholly

light.

Like a crisp twenty on a Park bench

I found the following poem in a note that Francine Harris posted on Facebook. I made some (hopefully) judicious edits.

Getting Lost in Detroit

Wrong turn down a street
that feels like an alley,
alley that feels like
someone's back yard.

There is always
someone alone walking
through the falling snow.
You wonder where to.
Sometimes you want
to stop and ask.

I wonder.
I might be disappointed
if I asked.

That if they are headed
to their girl's house after
I've concocted a tale
about them getting off
the Greyhound
cause they overslept
through Cleveland

and figured since
they were here
they'd go to the Casino,

somehow that speaks
poorly of their character.

in case you're wondering,
if I imagined he was headed
to his girlfriend's
after a long day at work,
and walked all the way
from downtown,

I'd be intensely disappointed
if he told me
he was just off a Greyhound
in the wrong town.

I took the wrong train
to Bloomington
a few months ago.

Thought I could visit
Indiana University
in Bloomington, IL.

The cute redhead
next to me
let me know
I was on the wrong train
before it took off.

Unfortunately,
she did not invite me
to stay on the train
and keep going
wherever she was going,

I have wound up
staying in the wrong train stop,
the last bus stop,
or the only stop
at that time of night
outta' somewhere else.

That's how
I moved to Chicago.

It was a bad layover
that lasted. and lasted.

Anyway,
got lost in Detroit tonight,
looking for my boss' house.
Turned around
in bank parking lots,
and empty storefront byways.

Watched the snow swirl
and pile up
like little white blowflies.

Rolled down the window
just in time to
catch a few flakes
on my tongue.

Still water runs deep

There's a poem I need to write, that I haven't written and somehow keep resisting writing. This isn't that poem, this is the poem I wrote to keep from writing that poem.

[Untitled]

Today too, I will sip
my cup of Earl Grey,
eyes closed
and half-smiling

and study the face
of the woman narrating
the highlights of a game
whose ending I already suspect.

I'll examine the back
of this elderly gentleman's hand
and that guy's tattoos,
looking for a woman's name.

Expound on
LeBron's lack
of a mid-range game
or Kobe's unwillingness
to give up the rock

wonder aloud about
the waitress' marital staus
then hum a few bars
of the latest hit tune

as though my heart isn't
the last leaf on a branch
fluttering in the brisk breeze
of your passing.

Silly of Me

Here's another Bop. I'm coming to really dig this form for certain purposes. This poem isn't as good as I envisioned it conceptually, but there's still time.

The wind kisses the ocean's back,
waves rise like goosebumps,
fall soft as footsteps on damp sand.
The brown skin of the beach glistens
with the lines sung by
the surf's rolling tongue.

I imagine you curling your hair
or changing the Band-Aid on your finger.
Choosing between black heeled boots
or suede, wool lined slippers.
An expression descends your face
swift as Vietnamese swallows winging
through a name, startling as
the backwards knees of a Flamingo.

Tonight, you might follow
a string of numbers to this table.
Then wrinkle your nose above a smile
that curves like a bowling ball
down a shiny lane, before striking
all ten of my heart's wobbly pins.

THE EMPRESS OF HIGH DESIRE

(For Yen)

Call her an electric currency.

Imagine a banknote
high as her cheekbones.

Yearn to say grace in Cantonese.

Not before an ordinary meal,

but before lips full as ripe fruit.

Say the tongue dreams
of tasting her oranges,
freshly peeled. Dreams
they say pluck me in Mandarin,
of softly circling a Navel.

The flesh pulses with Blood
anticipating a touch.

What does she deal
if not a high card narcotic ?
Call her addiction (opiate):

watch her smile blossom

wide as the petals of Poppies.

I cannot box, but will rebel

if denied these endorphins.

Intervene S'il vous Plait.

I'll relapse into a dream

of her slender fingers.

I bend like a card

marked by a yearning:

Wash me face down,
shuffle me by hand, I beg.

In Other News

OK, here's a version of a crazy poem I was playing around with. The actual poem has a slightly different layout, but I don't think this blog format will display it properly. Lots of punning and tangential leaps, a few jokes and lines I thought might be clever. I guess it's a love poem of some sort.

OF HER MAPLE SERIF

A sign of

Love's liquid change

molecular letters

stated symbolically

buy a drunken tattoo

a tavern cryptograph ≠ a bar code

scanned lines numbered

Sin, Neck, Dough, Key

of lips radiating red

of hot fingers on a cool palm

excited now as though

she wasn't a complete tease

the hand covering her mouth

a stone bluff ?

Overhanging. A sticky desire.

To be called ?

Let us sing a new song

LANDSCAPE WITH MELODY

(B-Bop Solo # 3)

Her voice

rides a breeze,
her song washes
like eternal waves,
(although sea water
and the salt of sorrow
may be too married.)
Medleyed with a morning sun,
her tone tracks the heart's arc.
Since all that would elevate
fear what falling might follow,
she is careful,
sings of descent first,
is cautious with what
she allows to be heard
in the harmony.
And we wonder
what price of translation
she pays, as she sings
in a voice that is naked
and slowly utters
every word
by barefoot
word.

Her voice is more searchlight
than song, splashes dunes
with waves of something
wilder than water.
Her lyrics are a people's sighs
medleyed with moonlight,
a sound like whales exhaling.
Since tears shine,
what saline struggle
she's tasted illuminates her,
reflecting what
traces of grace
she may have seen
in the foam swirling
across what beach she walks.
She knows the sea and sorrow
sing in the same key,
but chooses to listen
to what the tide
utters in the interim,
word by rising word.

(For Cesaria Evora)

Morning in America

"This victory alone is not the change we seek, it is only the chance to make that change."

Past all the symbolism and the emotional import of last night remains the fact that this man is the real deal. Like the Tiger Woods of politics, not just I think in his appeal, but in his sheer ability to perform under pressure and get the job done. I am not often impressed, but last night watching that speech I was about as impressed as I have ever been by a politician. I loved the way he used the quote above to switch the tenor of his speech and deal with the reality of the situation we face. May god bless Barack Obama and god bless the United States of America. (Yeah, I'm a non-theist, but so what)

Stop me before I hurt myself

Jesus, I don't know where this is coming from, but it's soothing as new rain.

GAIN
for X-tina

The best part is when I think
she hears my voice…

an earth-brown sound—pure rumbling
grainy as groundnut shells.

Last night I dreamt up volumes
with velvet ridges—

spinning, metal knobs for
when she is alone

and it seems, almost—
She wishes I were a knee-high boot,

so she can feel my tongue
along her legs.

Eavesdropping

A SIMPLE QUESTION

Is there a ticket into the reserved seats,
The roped off balcony in your head above
The quirky movements of the orchestra?
What can be read in the sheet music
Of your half-smile with its curling clefs;
An ancient oboe brooding in shadows
Or an internal organ piping its blues
Into your blood's oceanic motion?
Doesn't a subliminal sonata
ripple through this moment's facial flicker,
Coding your face's random freckles
Like a bowl of bruised bananas
Sporting spotted notes below attached stems:
Secret notation of the unsung soul?

Dreaming

LUCKY LADY

I wax for your witching eyes when the moon
Mints its shiny coinage high in the sky –
When the black chips of midnight and its boon
Of bright stars are flung nigh like dotted dice.
The dozing sun reclines in Jackpot dreams—
All the slotted machines flashing red lights
As their trays are heavied with coins in streams
And your eyes waxing now, like mine, excite.
For some coins are cool circlings of silver
Wagered on the green tables of a dream,
A smile pressing the next bet. In this room
Where one awaits embrace: a flicker
Of fluorescence kisses quick. Sudden gleam
Of subtext; a winning wink of the moon.

Status Update

Every once in a while as a poet you produce a poem that you feel like you didn't really write, but instead just happened to be holding the pen while it came through you. Below is one of the those kinds of poems for me, like all the technical aspects were internalized and I was just spouting pure poetry. It may be the fastest I've ever written any poem. I'm sure it can use some polishing, but there's plenty of time for that. Anyway . . .

[Untitled]

Once I was homeless
staggering down dark hallways
to snore in a sterile stairwell
where I dreamt your lips
kissing along my collarbone.
In the dream
your voice is cashmere
brushing my earlobe,
girlish and high
as Barbies on a shelf.
The curve of your spine
makes the small of your back
a jewelry box.
Like a snake, my tongue
can taste what will moisten
when I release its secret latch
and finger the velvet lining.
I have fallen down
enough bushy hillsides
to know how water
shimmers into a pool below.
I trace my name
in the sheen
on your inner thigh
Doesn't the forecast
of the first gasp
call for a firestorm in the brain
followed by a heavy downpour,
then the slow rhythm
of bright beads dripping
from eucalyptus leaves?

I have heard
that after the Autumn Equinox
you become Persephone
white knuckling the rail
of a long escalator
into a dark depression.
If, as we lay tangled as strands
of just washed hair
I held up a sliver of mirror
to reflect your laughter,
would it be sunlight enough
to seed the ceasing
of your smallest sorrows?

Or would it suffice
if you knew now
that last night
I slept again in a stairwell,
wrapped tight in the ragged
overcoat of my imagination
and felt the soft feet
of a nude descending
the staircase of my spine,
that her lips wore only a light gloss,
that this creaking morning
I'll stagger and stumble still,
but wearing her lip prints
like a necklace of light
whose gauzy glow hallows
whatever ground I cross?

Nude descending the staircase of a spine

Once again, the view from the curb. The whizzing and splashing and passing of tires adorned with shiny rims and women's feet, in knee high boots, bopping past you into forever. (The refrain is from 'True' by Spandau Ballet)

SWAN SONG

The logic of your neck is fuzzy
The fuzziest peaches tender scented
the tender flesh, most willing
willingness wells like ocean waves
the wave and beach involved in a bite
the softest bite somehow best

I know this much is true

It would be Monday with a muted trumpet
there would be a piano flickering
your fingers across ticklish keys
the mood almost aquamarine
a Flamenco is scantily sketched
a solo dance, then a sigh
the trumpet blows air kisses:
the last kiss is pianissimo

I know this much is true

The kisses now miss your neck
The neck of logic isn't long enough
I long for a tongue, fuzzy as the sun
the sun sinks into the ocean's mouth
the mouth says goodbye with a thousand waves
waves won't cleanse the memory of your scent

I know this much is true

Caramel cameos

Found a new muse, gonna follow her where ever she leads. Messing around with some haiku, senryu, pseudo-haiku and micro-poems. Need to get back to reading poetry everyday, whether I write that day or not. Anyway . . .

My thumb
parsing the soft parts-
of her peach

Lost, I feel
the trunk of her leg-
this moistness, moss?

The ocean's salty
tongue laps the brown lips
of the beach

fondling her ear
she licks her lips-
starshine

As I decide-
the waves race up the beach
and back down

On Love and Anger

Consider a clenched fist,
a flared nostril.
An expletive salting
the afternoon air.

Or a cashmere caress,
lips wet on a neck.
A whisper's velvet whirl
into an ear.

Two streams cascading
down different sides
of the same mountain.
Same fluid clarity.
Same foam
surging over
whatever lies
in the creek bed,
stirring turbulent reflections.
Who among us can bathe
and remain unswayed?