The Old Man
sits naked on the veranda
playing with his balls.
The young boys shout vulgarities
and throw strong stones
through yellowed glass.
Young girls
call late at night
and then,
hang up the phone;
falling in love.
The Bankers use the side streets,
and never go alone.
The clan gathers on the holidays
and discuss Aunt Esther's breasts,
the near disaster
at last Easter's fest,
and Tiny Tim,
says something wrong
and the smiles up and drift along.
I exclaim!
David would expect
Genet to jump out of the cake,
or Hesse,
to play the Glass Bead Game,
but the Masters are all dead men,
lying in a grave,
who itched and scratched
like alley cats
howling on Beale St.
as the blues drifted
from the smoke filled room.
Still, we are packed
so closely together
riding the Dharma bums to chopper bars
the celebrations we abhor,
always tainted by blood,
seeping through the back door.
though I know,
you have paused to grieve
as the mothers push
and the young boys
debate the properties
of sperm
oozing quixotically from their monkey brain.
Should I have then
written of ingenious murder,
rather than the slaying of Art--
as the Mob enters the square
with torches and pitchforks
howling with high-muddled madness?
This mania which grips the bones
thru hard toes;
this existence of fast rules,
where the queens ride;
cranky cyclades
chirping in Ceylonese forests
like the buck I made
festooned like a marmalade
whorehouse on crank
when another tasteless joke
was made.
Mandrake and Lothar
at Heaven's gate;
and we are all
mesmerized and memorized
pissed and pesticide.
The glow from the brazier
is fading,
and I turn to Agathon,
and I ask,
"Is the evening done?"
and he replies,
"Like the fire,
when we are too near, it burns,
and sears,
and clears."
Author notes
tis mostly about Truth.
Written December 18th, 2003
In a list
What did you think
Comments
1 - 18 of 18
-
Is David, David? -
This good..
again.
-
This good.. -
I think this should get added to the list. Me and Kim used to call a kid named Kevin (7th and 8th grade) and hang up. We also used to press our faces against the glass while he was practicing in the band room. We don't talk about Esther's breast -- we talk about Elaine's and Linda's and Karens -- they all got boob jobs one teardrop, one we call the porno set and &c.
Anyways. Hi and stuff.
-
Your writes are so full of depth and meaning.....I very much enjoy reading......and as I do I always see a beat poet reading his work in a dimly lit smoke filled room........Thank you for the enjoyment I find in reading your words.
Bettina -
As I wander the old hallways .. I wonder ..
How'd I miss this one? This is not a Mushika poem...well not that I'm an expert on Mushika I only read a few of his ..However, I would say I am approaching expertise level on the Lutean Poem. And this is definitively Lutean... via all the usual suspect of influence.
I've never really been able to formulate why I love what you write .. other than I feel the Mystery of Poetry when I read your stuff. And I like that. There's room and yet its so very close.
Course, I'll be back after a few more reads with further thoughts ..
Lisa
-
You know I have read this so many times since you posted it. I even printed it and read it on paper. Carried it around in my handbag.
You would think I would have more to say about a poem that I find so intriguing and inspiring, but I find myself surprisingly devoid of anything worthy to say.
I think they call that state of mind "speechless".
-
Agathon! I want to add him to Oldpoetry when I am sufficiently senior.
This is a poem to take over a mind.
p.s. Re. Mushika; I quote: 'Lute got mushy muse'. Revealed!
-
Ah, tis another Lute poem, so thickly buried behind a matted undergrowth of praise and glosses and eulogies and flowers (as always) that it's hard to detect what's a-goin' on. But I can see another sad litany of cultural decay and the killing of truth by the foul mob, like a variation on the Skid Row poem. Reminds me more od Desolation Row, with the usual assortment of random characters from fact and fiction, all pervaded by melancholy and modernism (which may be the same thing) and with some rather dazzling internal wordplays and rhymes (for someone who finds rhyme bland and tastless - or was that form).
Desiree's comment makes me wonder what Mushika's stuff was like before he removed it all. Hehe. Of course you cannot be Mushika, as you wrote a fulsome tribute to him, and Lute would not praise self in so blatant a way, oh no.
Great pome by de way
Edited on Dec 19, 6:43 p.m. because ''. -
Like Pataliyah, I too get the same feeling I used to get after reading Mushika's poetry, I think I've mentioned that before
And sometimes I still wonder if you are not the mad genius in disguise.
Anyway
There is much I like about this piece though most of it went completely over my head. Duh. The sixth stanza seems to stand out for me and yea the ending. What a trip.
Desiree
-
Hmmm...i read you all the time...but have not left a comment in a while...
I like Pataliyah...have often felt that same way about your posts...Very Mush-Like...and tis a true compliment...for he is a master and genius (word-surgeon supremist )
But anyway, i do read even when i find myself with a lack of appropriate words for a comment...
But i wanted to tell you that i really like this one. Particularly the ending...so much reality here.
UB
-
Hey, what up with men scratching/playing with odd body parts? Not very cooth, I daresay. Liked:
"Should I have then
written of ingenious murder,
rather than the slaying of Art--"
I'll take both for $200 Alex!!!
Wondering what this looks like:
"marmalade
whorehouse on crank"
Sounds like it would make an interesting visual if I could just wrap my brain around it.
Well, enough of that. I leave flowers.
- and santa smiley
-
Sorry Lute, wish this comment could be a bit more intelligent, but I get the same feeling I used to get after reading Mushika's poetry...you may have caught some of his work here before 'he hoisted himself, and took leave of this place'? Anyway...the first couple of lines reminded me a little of what I believe was Einstein's name for God...The Old One...and though the images, yes, were rich...I guess I'm just too goofy tonight to put it all together...enjoyed in any case...Doooooyyyy...
Edited on Dec 19 because ''. -
rich, very rich. americana made surreal, like the "truth" we are told to cover up the Truth. Lute's brilliantly artistic mind shines in this one. a WOW poem if I ever read one!
I bow to a master word crafter. -
Dearest Lute
What I mostly admire of your poetry, is the way in which you entwine connotation and denotation; the way in which you mingle reality and perception; the way in which you enrich your imagery with everyday life, forming a basket of wordy weavework, holding the fruit of this world.
You know I love you. And your words.
Myra
-
I LOVE IT. The lines "mesmerized and memorized/pissed and pesticide" are particularly strong. The first two stanzas are VERY strong. The phrase "who itched and scratched/like alley cats" is also quite evocative. I love "festooned like a marmalade/whorehouse on crank" but I have no idea what it means(but it sure sounds fantastic).
Sometimes I feel all the elusions to classic literature are a bit out of place. Or at least that they upstage what you are saying.
I would love for you to check out my contest- http://allpoetry.com/Contest/396160.
-
Lute, Truth comes in many forms and you have taken and expressed with much gusto. Take care, Lissa
-
Interesting, Though I dont exactly get what it means (I understood a few parts) very unique though
Adding your comment:
1 - 18 of 18
