Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A Poem From Back a Ways

I don't have much going poem-wise. I'm prepping two books right now, my collection of stories that will be out soonish, and my novel (endlessly), whose ending I'm rewriting and whose polishing will take forever if I let it. It's been two years now since I 'finished' it. I hope it's worth doing.

Anyway, as promised, a poem I've probably linked before, from Girls with Insurance.

How Terror Might Work for John Smith, IT Guy

With the formless voices that bitch in his ear!
Instructions: cap your appearance off with a balaclava.

No one but the people on the mask's other side
will know. True terror does not require identity

revelation; otherwise one might set goals
for vengeance in one's yearly situation report.

This year was very poor for Terror Investors LLC: little
Jimmy from next door escaped our 23-hour-vigil,

lived to ram candy into sister Suzy's cute dark hair;
Mama had to cut it off. George at the office moved

to a corner suite with high-rise view and a leggy
blonde assistant taking dictation on her knees every day

at 12:15 as you stand by the coffeepot that never
works. Your wife and the coffee-brown pool boy

(ye gods, the hits just keep coming), licking batter sensuously
from the paddle of the Kitchen-Aid mixer you bought her

on anniversary ten: the blowjob anniversary, she said.
Somewhere in Pakistan Osama bin Laden aerates

his blood in an expensive machine as the United
States of Indecency sits on its hands. He laughs in his

beard. Homeland Security can't contain the domestic
rage of the auto industry or the corpse-fucking

of the banking industry. It’s time to go home. The baby
too lies like one dead on the sofa, sleeping off her future.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Mahmoud Darwish--Rita and the Rifle

photo by Amer Shomali

This must be a popular poem--it's all over the internet, but I found it via Tom Clark (thanks).



Between Rita and my eyes
There is a rifle
And whoever knows Rita
Kneels and prays
To the divinity in those honey-colored eyes
And I kissed Rita
When she was young
And I remember how she approached
And how my arm covered the loveliest of braids
And I remember Rita
The way a sparrow remembers its stream
Ah, Rita
Between us there are a million sparrows and images
And many a rendezvous
Fired at by a rifle

Rita's name was a feast in my mouth
Rita's body was a wedding in my blood
And I was lost in Rita for two years
And for two years she slept on my arm
And we made promises
Over the most beautiful of cups
And we burned in the wine of our lips
And we were born again

Ah, Rita!
What before this rifle could have turned my eyes from yours
Except a nap or two or honey-colored clouds?
Once upon a time
Oh, the silence of dusk
In the morning my moon migrated to a far place
Towards those honey-colored eyes
And the city swept away all the singers
And Rita

Between Rita and my eyes—
A rifle

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

David Bottoms

I'm slow to discover nearly everyone, I'm finding. Like David Bottoms. I admire the beard.



Shooting Rats at the Bibb County Dump
by David Bottoms

Loaded on beer and whiskey, we ride 
to the dump in carloads
to turn our headlights across the wasted field, 
freeze the startled eyes of rats against mounds of rubbish.

Shot in the head, they jump only once, lie still 
like dead beer cans.
Shot in the gut or rump, they writhe and try to burrow 
into garbage, hide in old truck tires, 
rusty oil drums, cardboard boxes scattered across the mounds,
or else drag themselves on forelegs across our beams of light 
toward the darkness at the edge of the dump.

It's the light they believe kills. 
We drink and load again, let them crawl
for all they're worth into the darkness we're headed for.


Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The Nepotist

Somebody likes me!

Three poems worth: Parkinsonism; Sonnet for So and So; Hollywood Appalachian Noir: A Lesson.