January Poems #23: Falling Through the Ice

This is a fairly typical poem for me from my post-graduation period: references to my childhood, to my fear of ending up alone, to my being too "nice" for my own good. (If you gathered all the women who've told me how "nice" I am in one place, you could probably fill Wrigley field to capacity.) Come to think of it, it's pretty typical for me now.

Never believed in being
the Wild One crammed
with miles of flame,

the young urban lion in
piss-stained sunglasses

who knows the value of
something whispered deep
at night: "Kiss me, my

rollercoaster. I am Ravage,
and you will love me."

Never could escape the fear
of being sole, put it on
ice to be better handled

than a country-western tune
sung in Middle English or

a look/look away across a
not-wide enough crowded room.
Never believed in being

anything but the starer at
setting landscapes, smoke

on the rocks, windows dark
yawning velcro vaginas not
allowing recalled flashes of

tight denim across morning
thighs and clocks wound just

right until I collapse,
a monster model of paste
and hope that stands only

long enough to be praised.
Too many levels hold firm,

a never-ending string of
minds too determined to be
packed away with the first

touch of a warm woman
in a sweater or the dry

memory of my first crewcut.
No more surprises here.
No more devastation here.

The hills and lines get cleared
and sterilized by a descent to

safer ground, where the first
shades of a cracking sunrise can
find their melting way home.