Two Poems

 

Horace, To the Romans 

 

I walk alone is what came into my head when I was sleeping

So I wrote you to get the water from which I was so thirsty

Poems are a puzzle

But animals are a beast is

So life is

Quiet life

 

Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems

It doesn’t get more real than this

Said the poet

Oh but you hate poems about

Poetry, and that’s fine

Cause I am never going to send you my condolences when I kill it

 

To the lions I throw you

No, I must restore the broken down altars that gave me so much sustenance

Those fallen busts and statues

That the idiots mention is missing a nose or a penis

When the statues are stone anyway

And I am living earth and bone

 

Ten times now, you crushed me

To tiny pieces then to dust

I just barely escaped the last time

And had to use my mind to coagulate the broken

Into mud then blood then semen

Formidable now, because of this evil mind

 

Which I used so many times under a lemon tree

Just dying to touch you

Because my love I love you

And will say it again and again to the air

Only the gods know how things end

Or whether the seas turn red in the end

 

What is there left unruined after all has been said

What will you make of me, ruined and soiled

My dead figure in a heap with the others

To distinguish, only in the dance

Still, look, look, lookout for me

Our fathers taught us more than country

 

My father my father taught me dread

And your father taught you beast instead

So to the lions I throw you

That your arm and neck I so did covet

Will find your space here

Dead and dead and dead and dead

 

 

Blazing Star Lodge

 

In the deepest part
I still loved him
Had gone with him

To the blazing star lodge

 

The place where

He had worn his brown suit

And blue tie

And had called his sister to tell her so

 

To match him, I wore my brown dress

And blue eyes

And painted a room inside the lodge

His favorite shade of green

 

The meal was simple

A bowl of lettuce

I cut the beets to his liking

I put the snails upon the plates

 

We talked and looked

At the things

We could submerge

In the immobile water

 

I did not commit this so as to tell you so

I did it because I was angry

And could not pick up the shells

Like I had wanted to for all those years

 

And he had promised

A place to stay

For at least a weekend

And said he would be there

 

And he was there

He always was

What a man in brown suit

The neatest purple script

 

In letters and notes

Coming all the way from the coastline

Even on my birthday

Had packed tiny jackalopes into an orange box and sent it

 

When I said for many weeks

That I was swamped with work

I meant I could not

Stop thinking about him

 

And in the night

Had put

Faces over other faces

To make me forget

 

Even through living

He taunted me with his arms

I saw them in pictures

Hold a thousand girls

 

And even I

Went to the edge

To see

What I could find

 

But nothing

Nothing

Ever else could quench

This desire for him

 

Nothing ever was close

To his face

So placid

By the ocean