Thursday, April 12, 2012

Lost & Found Poetry, Day Three

Okay, two more from The Hoard: These are from a later semester at UB, when I was still either too egotistical, or too lazy to edit my poems. Sorry, Kendra! Anyway, I'm editing them as I go.

Five O'clock Shadows

Mid shave
I notice the small
grey patch
on my head.

I think about growing
old. I wonder,
will I age like the famous
latino men of old—Ricardo
Montalban, Lorenzo Lamas, Omar
Sharif, who isn't latino, but looks
good enough to be?


Then I realize the patch
is the same size it has been
for years: seven wiry silver
strands, marching to a make-
believe beat, refusing to bow
down;


& I think, how typical;
I start things & never finish—
all the schools, novels, scripts, sitcom
concepts, friendships, meals,
lovers, careers, religions—
Start strong, excited,
all four feet: fleet,
until the thrill bays
like a broken breeze...

Well, maybe, I think,
When I finish going grey,
I'll finish all the other things...
Maybe going grey is the only
thing I'll ever finish.


I wipe the blood
from my face,
shame exuding
in tiny red polka
dots, & walk away
tired of mirrors
for today.


smacking birdies from the foul line 
in the bed that eats tired men

It's Saturday afternoon at the edge
of the world, I'm dreaming
of basketballs: there's a game
on the tube. I spread
my eyes to catch
the scorein my dream
there is no score
but my eyes are not done
sleeping. It's sixty degrees
outside, the heat
strokes a dusty patch
of white across my chest,
& I tell myself, "You should be out
there."

Myself rolls over to tell I,
"Shut the hell up!"
I'm mad at myself, but I have
to sympathize
I've worked long weeks before
struggled
with the desire to abandon
my post
fought off futility

Did I
sell
push
smile
hustle
clean
order
give
slave
suck enough?

Sleep becomes me
I become sleep

It's Saturday afternoon at the edge
of the world Tiger's shot
an eagle off the tee
There are things I want
to do. 

Eat—yesterday
I only had one
meal, a taco: cold & soggy
before I took the first 
bite—& frustration
didn't let me finish.
Drink—my tongue
is dry, fills my mouth,
a bloated beaver whose dam
is bigger than the river.
Finish—I promised
I would clean the room,
install the light,
fix the hard
drive, empty
the dishwasher,
lick the toilet
until it shined.
Write—I have to make
it sound like I really did read
The Odyssey in three to five
pages, & I have to find the poem
hiding
in my depths. But the game
in my head is so thrilling:

It's tied
in overtime
sudden death
only a few seconds
left on the clock
everyone has the ball
& there's absolutely
no pressure
to succeed.

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