Today’s unplugged session
has been easy on eyes and ears
John Lee Hooker
And a packet of strangers
Ever winding
on the riverbed of stereo
Don’t speed on me, clock
I don’t want this day to end
Cold numbers
in the scattered sky
pure as the high school princesses
in faux virgin finery
But that was 18 years ago
And now it’s Ladysmith Black Mambazo
chiming in to the air
on a sunny spot at Walden’s Coffeehouse
As the SUVs drive by
I’m a protective cloak
Invisible within other shields
The fog is my fingerprint
snaked between tethered trees
The road basks in the glow
of the ocean’s imagination
Ever long, the waves steer clear
of pronouncements on the horizon
I’m a bellwether of the apocalypse
when one stares too long at the sun
At the cash register
I’m set to admire
the stunning hair
she’s spent days preparing
But she might read into it.
Be ashamed
Embarrassed
Because I was set to admire
the stunning hair
she’s spent days preparing
She might call management over
have them ask me to leave
without paying for my groceries
be told never to come back
should I be given to
harassing other staff member
because I was set to admire
the stunning hair
she’s spent days preparing
So I just gave her some change
and said “Nice hair”
She said nothing.
Hey you guys!
it’s the winning season!
escape from connectivity!
hands across the water,
drown in your sleep
Everclear is the best!
Any kind of jones will make you numb-
seek all possibilities,
French Freedom fried loveliness
Barracuda charges
Bears in the bull social median market
Harness your everlasting ersatz energy
Love the love you’re with;
Yeah, I’ve got issues with that
Anger management
It’s a hot needle that continues to pierce my psyche;
18 more numbers to call
Until I’m able to punch someone
For unintended shows of vengeance
Done in the name of therapy
The bird swallows it pride
In the arms of it’s mother
The postman arrived late
With letters from Chile,
Awaiting my arrival
Once Allende is in office
In the meantime
I let my youth leave me
As did my lovers
While I write tattered odes
To local girls
Spring gardens
In filthy shades
Hellbent on hidden suns
In their winter stars
I set three candles
upon the dresser;
A trip panel divider
completes my circle
The white is for Isis,
the red for Apollo;
tonight, the rose is lust
partly unfulfilled
I repeat two names three times,
anointing the rose candle
with my scent, mixing
in rolled patchouli oil
The first name is my partner;
the second is a memory,
returning on occasion to
taunt me into blackness
Old charred cones,
frankincense, myrrh, musk
renewed with desire upon
a touch of lighted wick
Chant is as always:
“God and goddess, allow me
an audience, my fool’s bi-amorous
quatrain almost complete;
Names of love and hate
I have shared:
One is to be with me forever;
The other, a libidinous score to settle
One is to burn
in a life of passion
The other to dissolve
in sex-fueled recovery”
The cones become a bonfire,
melting the candle into it’s bowl
as fellow reps of God and Goddess
look on in waning envy
Within the scents’ strong flicker
the horned God both
admires and admonishes
my divided desires
“You demand a life of love
but also a night of lust;
Why betray a lover to fuck
your way into good terms?”
Further questions empower the flames;
they smoke and whip my body
into electric trances, now beholden
to the God’s sudden thrusts and moans.
The horned One has left satiated,
for the bonfire starts to weaken;
I still drip as with every man who
ever came into me with no answers.
——————————————
The circle is cut to set
the candle on a window sill,
Allowing the wind commune time,
caressing the remaining flame.
Two hours later, the last standing
wax has filled the bowl,
charred incense cones buried
in a Krakatoa of paraffin.
The wick still burns.
——————————————
“For, if we can’t be friends
I could at least leave this earth,
my cunt having enjoyed partaking in
negotiations of peace treaties”
The touch of fading cologne
from a cracked, plastic rose;
The only sign of reverence
to some glorious flamenco past
non existent in our current
outcrop ancestry
Someone brings me around
To brittle eggs in a cash court
Cashiers nervous but unhurried as furnishings,
muted in chaos disguised as efficiency
It’s my first stop in a long morning
of savored poetry and Radiohead
Window seats are but
prized possessions
After the cafeteria flummox
In plywood playpens of misgivings
For I’d love a piece of couch
Named after a long lost lover
But the intertwining of memories
may sink the housing experience
In ruminations
of sexual turmoil
And after the temporary ecstasy
We still must bus our table
(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)
Take the clean strut -
“Calligraphitti on wooden floors”
Elocution said,
“Slide your hips -
It’s the old bordello way,
enticing taxiderms
into sideshow access”
Burnt sandlewood shot
through badly boiled gin;
octagon beads in the doorway
as another night of tap
dancing on the cloaks
of local heresies begins.
I often dreamt of rebuilding
Buenos Aires in the desert,
only to be content with a shrouded
cathouse in Storey County
Where men from Bend
leave their little girls to die in hot cars,
occasional stray couples wandering off
of I-80 to ask how much it would cost
for them to stop dancing.
(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)
They were flat gangsters:
eloquent but apocryphal,
a side step in the beehive
As plated futurists
lay vacant to daily apologies,
these antennaed antidotes
flew as witches,
anointing kitchen herbs
on quartz belltowers
raised by evangelical termites
Lords of silk lovers
blessed by blue necked
goddesses of the water,
the marina lay in plane crash sight
of their fraudulent dolce minuets
But who’s to question the
flickering eyes, steady wings
of seers in yellow jackets?
(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)
All contents © 1991 - 2006 Helen Sventitsky-Rother/Jane of All Trades Music (ASCAP). Rights as stated below. Most content previously published.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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