The idea was to take a line from someone else's poem--in this case, my good friend Dee--and grow my own poem from it. Of course, that meant spinning it my own way, with many of my pet devices (pop-culture references, obsession with loneliness, etc.) coming out to play. It also mean ending with an optimism rare for me (on this particular subject, anyway).
"Only lovers can claim each other with the bend of a finger."
Diane Williams
The thought of always opening up
my chest and hoping to find
something heart-shaped thuds
there is a peeling myth like
thinking that wolverines gentle
if I hand them cheese or that
Cisco and Pancho have something
hot. I'm not an expert on
arm-crossed desire or on that
A-train-jetting-through-B-station
feel of cuddling with that
special-someone-who-can-stand-
you-for-more-than-two-minutes.
I hold my blood safe in a lead-lined
desk drawer where everyone can
see it (and hence never find it),
where it'll never be freezer-burned
by old-fashioned lust, where talk
of icicles, flaming spears and
melting mounds of sherbet will
never bruise it. I'm insecure in
my bovinity and I don't care who
knows it. I don't mind saying
this stone-wall age scares me,
kids--that whenever I crack my
door to look at shoulder-length
women I backpedal faster than
Curly Howard ever did. I don't
answer the unasked breakdowns
or find the glue to clasp me down
and thrill me beyond repair.
I'm the waiting type whose ass
is engraved with past flimflams,
whose fingers are unbent to
hook the fingers of someone else.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment