There were some minor poets
on tattered yellow paper
behind the candy machine
at the abandoned five and dime;
the Zagnut and the Baby Ruth,
are old
not worth the quarters
that must be spent.
at the very last pensive Mardi Gras
in Passaic,
the poets spoke of Ginsburg and Whitman~
spoke of Kowalski in hushed tones,
mourned Brando
they rescued the candy machine
from its moors,
removed it from its stifling confines
took it out of doors
into the sunshine,
and celebrated America
with absinthe and wine
in tinted glasses
while the parade passed by.
Jesus flowed into the river
and was gone.
No-one noticed,
once the music escaped
there was no need to write
articulated checks
money rolled up to the docks.
Streetwise to the sailors’ schemes
the poets took to sad cafes
and spoke in low tones
of religion’s demise,
Gleeful,
they spun cheap pens
pretending it made them dizzy
so that they could speak in tongues
and handle snakes with glazed eyes,
Just another demon to be cast out,
they would shout
and return to the ruminations of worms.
Who would’ve heard it anyway,
the tinkling of Freedom into a rusty bucket
to be stored away
with the salt, and Uranium?
Last gasps,
her under wire bra does not protect
from sudden impacts,
the poets were born too late,
they were selfish
and wrote of Love,
“...but I like you”
they said to the spinning pen
hoping hard would pour from the reservoir,
“Le Blanc! Le Blank!” they would cry,
pleased with their horde,
scribbled amours
smeared with black tears
Cupid’s darts flung endlessly into the void~
something in the way a flower
turns it face towards the sun
should it be received
let it flow through the roots and the soil,
there beneath the gallery
in that dark theatre,
on that grim stage
it all begins again,
the waiting for Godot,
the Poet on a string
tied to the candy machine,
urgent with new words
in the same old world.
Author notes
Written June 26th, 2006
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1 - 9 of 9
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I don't know what to say besides 'wonderful'. I'm speechless.
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Another ride of a poem, from one image to the next. I never know whats around the next stanza , though this one seems to run the same track. I sometimes wish I could see the engine more clearly but the trip is well worth taking anyway.
Like Lisa, I feel it beautiful in a sad and wounding way.
D -
flashes of lorca in some parts, really quite powerful. ginsberg props show a sort of self-realised grounding and background understanding that a lot of poetry doesn't. bit about handling snakes is a favourite, as is darts flung. yes, the world is a gallery... the end was cool in its melancholy. maybe sometimes words make new worlds? bubbles within bubbles overlapping bubbles. y'know?
x -
I really enjoyed reading this. I hope it makes you happy to know you aren't dull
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Sometimes I hear things that touch on the fact that someone writes poetry to free people of their confines and think in a new way.
Thank you.
This made me see things in a new way.
Maybe not entirely new but I really thought about things this time through.
And I'm so glad that you posted this.
It's amazing. -
something in the way a flower
turns it face towards the sun
should it be received
let it flow through the roots and the soil,
that is very beautiful.
makes me sad. the whole thing. in a good beautiful wounding way.
i was talking about five and dimes to sammy just this weekend, we had one up town -- Andy's Five and Ten. I loved it could walk there the people that owned it were ancient and really it was passed the time for five and tens -- but they stuck it out. They sold those little animals, china and glass in the front. And turtles in those plastic containers with the fake palm tree. That eventually gave diseases. and all sorts of cool everyday stuff.
my tanti annie lived in passaic. her husband made her a house that looked liked a castle from austria - it was marvelous with turrets and everything. she wore patchuli like my grandmother and they played parchesi all the time.
the tinkling of Freedom into a rusty bucket
how good is that.
You are normally pretty good. This is special. Course I just finished bawling through a book about Mr. Pound. Plus, dreadfully, I'm such an emotional poetry sap. I also like the Jesus flowed into the river part
write more.
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Have you ever seen those religious snake charmers? A bit creepy, but still highly intoxicating. I think I might join a cult for this very reason. Your poem, however, evokes something far more earthy in me, but I'm a "selfish" poet
, and worry the words will get lost when I'm away. On that note, I'll just have to check in often 
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Sobering. Bitter. It all goes round in fashions, new old words for new old things. Is it always about love? Strip strip strip I guess so, all eighteen words of it. What else can keep it all going.
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I have no words
Brilliant.
Myra
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