| Jota Poetry III |
| Swiss Poem Account Collection |
| Poem Account Poets jota wylde Barry Fitton Joshua Griffin Craig Moore panta rhei Paul Kren Orphicgoblin judih |
 |
| The Truth About Lies Washington D.C. Almost Rainy Afternoon in May Places Where I Have Smoked Cigarettes Young Men Older |
|
| comments: judih@hotmail.com |
| The Truth About Lies I was a liar before the truth came I was a poet before the poems came I was a liar but the other lovers had no name I was a poet but the words were all the same I was a drinker before the smoking came so when you asked me I told you what you wanted me to say and you sprang me from the tomato pyscho ward that is the supermarket of my brain and we crept up from the basement to the top of your tenement soul and then we danced all night on the rooftops lit by ten foot candles in the street we did the shimmy and the koko bop and pistol finger shot the dancing ghosts and neon signs and we sat like indians face to face and fought a duel over art and space and time riches? screw all that Kerouacky fame, you said who needs this crap, staring deep into my sockets pulling out the energy of my spine, chanting, wren-gay-key-o like some dinosaur in heat my god, you could have lit all of Manhatten like that instead you lit up the Jersey shore and I howled in delight and like the King Kong of my wet dreams you stamped the bus of my lips to smithereens and sent the little people running for their lives look out for that monster! POW and then when the wobbly moon went away, you hid your face in shame to be seen with me when the sun came up again you were so radiant in your retreat Still I will wait for you up here on this rooftop of yours looking down for any broken parts of you in pieces lying there on the ground I throw rocks over the ledge and they go splat like the eggs that are all that is left of my virgin eyes Waiting I was your lover before the lovers came I was your friend before the others came I was your favorite before the end came Now I am nothing more than a liar in love |
| Washington DC Almost Rainy Afternoon in May it's snowing blossoms outside against the glass branches drop their heavy leafy arms swaying above the grass raising dust rising up the courtyard steps bending in the wind arbored arms testing earth in their lust now almost praying low for summer's coming soon so soon may blows the wind makes the trees scrape to bow their prayers for the coming kiss so humid hang the white gray clouds it might rain today later in the afternoon wipe away those tears come on now, please its time for lunch aren't you hungry? |
| Places Where I Have Smoked Cigarettes My father's funeral I crept to the outside edge of thee cem-et-tary washing dishes at 17 in a fucking no name truck stop where Andrea the road weary mother woman gave blow jobs to dis-em- bodied truckers and to me and my mexican polish sailor brothers we washed the ditritus of a meal unspent the gent punched his woman and left she crying bunched up on the floor that's how I met my wife she liked I like to think loved us all underdog busboys in an underdog town and anyone lives in an anyhow town |
| Young Men Old Young men old toil hard, spinning their hearts in sawdust bars Streaming whiskey rivulets of tears, blinded by all the hard-boiled years Their murdered cries and lotus lies wound the wood in places where water never rises Young men old come and go drinking dry the night saloons Rage and swear they grip the night, rent the air, shaking fists and moans From dusk to dawn beneath the wobbly moon they roam the floors of rotted rooms Stagger home and rise again each noon They seek the gilded face in such a place to slake the dying thirsty parts That ache inside the dulled and hollow stomach hearts of low-slung boys children men These beaten children men in all the towns they crave the honey milk Seek the friendless friend to suckle from her soothing breasts She who always comes to smooth her silk on sullen cellar beds Is gone again when they awake from weary restless sleep comes the rose of dawn to make them so radiant in their retreat Young men old pass their days and tortured nights in bottles clear as gin Drinking bitter wine and salted ale from broken pots and splintered pails To fill the hole that never ends Young men old spill their souls in devil water, pass away the hours, Toil and spin to try and lift by chance the ancient sun Make born again that hero sun To fill the empty afternoons with light And laughter all about the nighttime rooms Wisps and shapes nodding shades smile all around to someone else Nothing more than a melted holy vision in a cup raised high To fill the hole that never ends Sends them back to drink again Bolt sky blue White cloud shades Fields of sun-dipped flowers Where Johnnie and Sam run to hide Behind the hay barn tower warm and high Where the tree green wind whispers wonders Whistling past the creatured grass and marbled water Ever long the morning day That winds its way to afternoon Dries windrows high and showers Drifting motes of sun drop sparkles Feeds the dampened earthen musk Folds the hours of fevered laughter Tilts the slanted shadows into dusk Bends the hand that always beckons Moves the cricket songs to motion Soothes the feathered roosted oceans Daylong sun descends below the hills Mother calls and boys run home Young men old toil and plot to break their lot of midnight sin Yet the siren song of spirits poured drowns their will and makes them ache To drink the drink of the day last past; they forget and then cast off to spill awake On desert shores where wretches stir to find they fit the sallow skin of old men young Mercy's borrowed gift then returns them only this - the tortured song of a misspent youth Old men young sing such sailor songs, bend low to spy their whiskered ghosts Trudge home upon a darkened path to find their footed rest beside the toasted hearth Then, when supper ends, old men young they drift and nod while Death's half-sister unfurls her claret satin curtain Old men young they lift their bones to climb forgotten stairs Creaking hearts in trembling hands and only one thing certain Leads them dream full moon seas and land, land far off Sail on they sail until they pass the shoals and stagger fall til they find land again Wooded meadows where sailors fall tumble drop to sleep dream no more of salt But a wooden pillowed bed is all they need for now Old men young toss and turn, pray their souls to keep Still and pure in time's wide river black and deep Old men young they plead to break that spell Toil and spin to catch forgotten faces Feel the lost embraces Reclaim their rightful honor Bring back the lost white mourning doves Be someone Whom someone loves again |
| Contact the poet: JayM@satmetrix.com |