Tag Archives: April

diaric, poetry

’24 Rather be

Lacerta, Cygnus, Lyra, Vulpecula and Anser”, plate 14 in Urania’s Mirror | Source
When the paperback is two backs curved gently together
Chests closing into embrace
a fire like Beltane, I fish
my nets only to stop and say cheers,

When it’s camping season, tents afire
and the kindling are the children
and the adults in the room hunger
for hot, young blood. Brutal gimmes.

When my motivation is desire, not innocence, 
but my éclat. The benefics perfecting together
in my pasture. Ours to share right now. And I wonder 
who else will find.

Time to burn the candle pink. 
When age’s lip sync reveals down to legacy
down to a pair of fire bugs burning across the tree
us two, you and me, blood of Gawain.

She holds an umbrella when she dances
machucá lo. Machucá lo. Machucá lo. 
When she dances, she stomps.
When I saw you, I knew.

When it’s pugilistic poetry rising
and I love that. Let’s keep that energy
let’s keep the flag flying. Let’s lift
our children, we are Mother. All these kids
are our kids. Look at our fortune.

When we are poetry in motion
in the face of pluto, giving face • face • face
Let’s get smashmouth.

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

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diaric, poetry

’24 rope bunny bratmobile

Photo by Mark Tegethoff on Unsplash
When it’s a playful sun. A fistful.
That’s how I clean now, with my fist.

When a friend brought me here.
1993 but I’ve been here before but
I didn’t know what to listen for.
	The pink rotary phone
	cradled to me with my patience and 
	devotion for you. Please.

When it was Jim Carrey, revisited, unbidden;
movies and acorns; a pocket 
brought me here.
	Eat your hat—a lotus leaf
	—catching into jumping fire 
	into your arms, you fly.

When she can tell me herself her first 
	favorite movie,
	favorite song: 
The Dance of the Happy Forest Sprites
& The Monster Who Loves You


				—When you’re not crazy, it is indeed 
				war crimes upon war
				crimes upon war crimes upon
				War crimes upon war—


spinning Sundaze with my pufffluff baby orange
tiger tree-watching under the orchid bough.

When the nickel jukebox takes a dime
so it’s lowpoly slowerpace and his green erotic 
bray for me. Crawling home to me.

When I belong in ‘90s London [rave piano]
When I belonged—the canary horse cottage
	working-dog-shattered windowglass-and-frame 
When you belong you know: tears spring.

When you tell us you're above it all
you show us how boring.

Stay in the pocket. When you Stay 
in the pocket surfing
barrels-to-thread out of pocket
slipping a stitch ride the needle singing 
	Now is the time to stand out,
	Powerline. Now is the time to count.

When [REDACTED]
	—that was some heat there. 
	How bout it, Laocoön? My teeth / like butter to flesh like you. / You won’t feel a thing.
Anyway, Thank you, Natasha Richardson, for saving my life every time with your hug.


Now that I’ve blown off some steam—

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

Standard
diaric, poetry

’23 raining rubies run the roses

when it’s a rain run,/
when you’re welcome, hop on in my woodie/
my chariot plays again the Butterfly Lovers on violin,/
when there’s a lost wolfhound crossing the road,/
so you double back but dog gone;

when a teenager hangs out the car window
when it’s almost warm enough outside
and just beyond the stop
he shouts <<i love you>>
to the skateboard kid on the sidewalk
he calls back <<what?>>
when they laugh calling back and forth
<<i love you!!>>
<<what??>>
<<i love you!!>>
<<what!>>
when until their voix dissipate in the distance

if it hurts, let it hurt.

pay more for the waves that rise and blot your book
pay more for it is luxury.
For this city lived a thousand years
For this sinking has already commenced.


Dame Darcy Queen Alice Tarot

supper clubs, movie stars
winning the contest
(not caring a whit for the outcome,
caring only for fun’s plaisir)
above all, inner fulfillment
this elegant pearl shows contentment

The Wish Card

two tea parties in one day
all the cups end up on the floor

Find greater heights.

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diaric, poetry

I’ll quote myself this time

the soundtrack to my waking was j’ai été au bal
my night viewing is a nightingale luring a fox.

this afternoon, the historian referred to the wantons as rams in spring.
this afternoon of the phlebotomist’s atrocities.
blaming a baby for your carelessness. how dare you.
“her veins are too tiny”; you didn’t even give her bandages. how dare you.
you gave up halfway. on each arm!

stories in my stack: the moors, wives & children, cassettes of a growing voice
there’s an offer on the table.

when invitations are for the giving and the taking.

there are clues and you cannot hide them.

Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

The Romantics

House of Flowers
Gates of Love

by Zeus, it’s a lightning bolt(!)
storming expansion in our hold

(allow me to tuck you in, sweet darling,
your little duckie blanket all snug)

Halls of Power, pirates,
singing queens, sunset sold;
Flying scoundrels falling
in love, myths retold;

House afire,
Magic bold.

When it’s never smart to burn white hot
(lest you flame away)

When this side is paradise.

And when it’s my birthday.

Photo: Robert Katzki via Unsplash
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