Friday, December 14, 2012


The blue-lit letters of Jordan Marsh
and the several hunchbacked parking lot lights
drone on into the night like common knowledge
as I pretend to converse
into the payphone

I'm crunched down
against November's thorough chill
reciting my new poetry
into Ma Bell's buzz
pretending each honeycomb hole in the receiver
is a little, faithful ear
that I have to fill
with sweet, easy honey
I say things like:
his goat-gray hair | floats in the breeze | like fastened curls of smoke
or something like that

Across the way
the wind and the bus stop
play accompaniment to my verse
issuing rudimentary whistles
like the first ever wind instrument
long since abandoned
The traffic on Route 9 seeps by
each car passes
like mobile paranoia

I hear his slapping feet
dogging the pavement
like a lazy flogging

His body reminds me of an old and busted watch
beyond repair
that still somehow maintains
stubborn, perfect time
He collapses through the parking lot
in his usual black nylon jogging suit
lined with yellow reflectors
that shine and move
like scared, wounded night
He slips inside the bus stop
sweaty and winded as only
a community college professor can be
when reduced to this

The scenario resumes:
He calls himself Will The Shake
and I am one of his
lesser know characters, Fellatio

In the silent corner, he pays me
Not as much this time
He says, Don't shoot it all in one place
If he only knew where it went

But still, I start


and so, and so

On cue
he takes out a small, tortoise shell comb
and strokes his finely trimmed, academic beard
as if posing for a bust
He turns his head casually, side to side

I excite to


on the way, on the way

In caesural pause
I say, I'm going to be a poet
He rocks on his heels and laughs
He says, This'll be grist for the mill

I quicken,

like this, like this

As always, to fill the silence,
his voice echoes among the empty public stink:
'Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric;
I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.'
His voice bounds and then
quivers as

I move to


footfalls, footfalls

This past Autumn he has serial killed
He's re-stabbed Polonius
again dunked Ophelia
had Gertrude swallow twice
and just now
has speared-speared Laertes

He turns away, my one and only rule
completing this, his never ending lust
I barely dare to glance this nylon fool
at his perverse and guarded figure just
before I slip back through the door outside
I dream of sleep and dread the too long walk
and wonder if he knows this eventide
behind the doorway so well spent and hawked
that I've managed with guile to make Hamlet
the darkest shade of green impotence for
a boy of lesser name and age has met
the challenges of life head on, though poor
to get a seat (full paid by Will undone)
for INTRO. POETRY class one-oh-one.

No comments:

Post a Comment