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Monday, April 30, 2012

RED ROOF INN, Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey

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RED ROOF INN,
Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey,
Revised, April 2012



Darling, darling, girl,
Much between us remains unsaid,
Remember that first overnight date at the Red Roof Inn.
I am in search of this lost time.

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length.
It ran from the front door to the rear of the room.

And you, there, in your bikini briefs,
At the end of the aisle, you were in an alcove,
An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom;
It occupied half the suite’s entire width.


Your back to me,

You stood up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a mirror,
A mirror whose length matched the table’s surface,
And it covered the back wall up to the ceiling.
Recessed lamps provided light from overhead.

You brushed your hair, and
With each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I remained behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms between your legs.
I was squatting and each one of my hands
Was wrapped around one of your ankles.
My fingers held you just above your feet.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder went to the center,
It rested within a spot between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the back of your right knee.

That was the posture when I had at first embraced you.

Once I stood up,
Regained some sense of normal composure,
I told you that
I had never personally encountered a woman,
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

Wow!” Burst out. And you said,
You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

I was dumbfounded. I thought for a moment;
I took a moral attitude, yet my tongue was tied.
I spoke these words, yet they were only to myself.

Woman! Trust my veracity.
Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’

Then, pretending to further my defense,
I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words,
Those lines about truth and beauty being one,
And is not response to beauty, truth?

I ran the maxim in my mind. I remained speechless.
“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’”

I dwelled in total awe of you.

And when old age our generation shall waste,
And time brings world to more and other woes,
We have had this moment and its sentiment remains –
Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself,
I had not uttered a word aloud,

You know on earth, and all you need to know.’


Saturday, April 28, 2012

CORPORAL, All-Night Love Encounter

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CORPORAL,
All-Night Love Encounter,
April 2012


Corporal, he saw time,
He saw thirty seconds, he saw temporal instant,
He saw the spin, the vortex, the end point,
The whirl whereat all disappeared, no fiction,
No imaginary construct, the vanishing,
The event plane was real,
The same as any other object in existence.

He was turning the corner into the living room,
When he noticed the couch had become clear light,
Transparent, a configuration of lines,
Blue lines on white background, and at the bottom,
On the right-hand corner a lined of this vision, 
A rectangular box spelled out
Blanks to be composed at latter time,
They read, NAME, ADDRESS, and PROJECT TITLE.

Corporal Felt himself slip into more familiar space,
He lay upon the bed on his back,
He sat up. He bent forwards and grasped his toes.
He was smarting.

He was hurting all over! He suffered!
It seemed every muscle, every joint ached.

My! What a plethora of subjects crossed his mind.

Corporal, he saw every crack and crevice of heaven.



He rolled up, brought his knees to chest,
And then white light,
He caught such gigantic power,
That night he broke the bubble and went beyond,
He went way beyond the stars, he walked a field,
The wheat had grown up to his waist,
He ran full speed, and he could see himself,
He could see himself stark, dark figure in the distance,
While he ran, he ran, breakneck, towards the horizon,
Horizon of black-and-yellow, checker-board-colored sky,


2.

It was at this moment he turned to ask her,

Their clothes were scattered throughout the parlor.
It was late night and a view of lower Manhattan lights,
The buildings, street lamps and bridges burned,
Out the window the illumination, awesome,
Out the window view from
The twenty-fifth floor of the high rise.

He asked how it had been for her.
Corporal wondered because they had never left
The front room couch and the sadness of reentry,
Earth’s gravity began to exert its heavy hold.

And she, adopting chapter and verse from
The good Doctor Leary’s work, replied, she replied,

A thousand times better, it was!”

A thousand times better,” Corporal queried?


3.

Their clothes were scattered throughout the parlor.

Corporal flashed in Technicolor,
A motion picture screen,
It occupied the theater before his eyes.

The hall of the movie house appeared vast.
It had three long, down-slope aisles,
Which parted rows and rows of upholstered seats.
When Corporal tuned his gaze upward,
He saw a fretted vault with giant chandeliers,
Whose crystals seemed to float impossibly down,
Down from way, way up atop the hollow of the structure.

At the cinema's front, a long, flat-board stage
Ran below the drop of the great, silver screen.
The stage had a trough for footlights,
And thick, purple, velvet curtains, themselves
A match to the fabric and the color of the theater's
Upholstered cushions. The curtain was parted,
Then gathered, draped,
One to each side of the the stage's width.

The movie house hosted an orchestra pit.
A short shinny, marble wall, and upon it was mounted
A low brass of post and rail, this wall and fence
Separated the pit from where the audience sat.

Elsewhere, as he considered what lay before him,
Corporal discerned, ornate blocks,
And floral, leafy rosettes carved in high relief.
Bright light, on-and-off, splashes emanating from
The aperture in the projectionist's booth
Accented the luxury of the antique setting,
Highlighted the palace-like details,
The decorative elements of the theater's interior design.

Corporal was stunned by the back and forth of the lights.

He lapsed, it was as if he had a time machine transport,
He saw workshop studios.
The tables and tools of long-ago, men who wore aprons.

He bore witness to the labor of yesteryear,
Industry beyond narrow focus of bottom line.
He lamented how terrible the cost of greed,
That new notions, corporate profit priority had replaced
The love and regard for hand-made things;
His mind ran as a freight train from town to town,
And when it slowed to heed the road level crossings,
Corporal saddened over depopulated stores.
He saw towns with ghost people walking the sidewalks.
The sight of an old girlfriend,
Sitting on a bench in empty public square, unsettled him.
The thought occurred, he wondered whether,
Had big-box merchants reduced the work of America
To the stacking of shelves with cardboard cartons.
Click, click, click, he heard machines dispensing,
Before him loomed an endless role of bar code labels.

4.

Corporal refocused his vision.

His mind's eye returned to the movie house's interior.
He saw upon the walls, fluted columns,
They rose the floor to the ceiling,
And, framed between them, between those columns,
There were paintings, pictures of deep woods,
These painted forest scenes opened upon coves
And secret, manicured gardens whose waters reflected
Amorous gods, deities at sport,
Who played at love with mythical creatures.

And, then, in the moment, when
His eyes returned to the feature,
The show that ran upon on the silver screen,
He realized the film playing was a cartoon.
At first he thought, Yes, Popeye,
But no! No! Olive Oyl was not there,
Instead he saw a white-hot blonde,
With long, curly tresses, bouncing from her shoulders,
-- These were full action figures --
Then he realized the cartoon characters,
Who animated the screen, they were he and she.
They were locked within impossible embrace.

Corporal heard the music score, wham bam,
He checked, he reached around his torso,
Touched his back,
He had to feel with his fingers,
Otherwise how could he have know,
Did the joints of his spine still stay in place?

He wondered whether contortionists on view,
A dream, or was it third-person glimpse,
The camera’s true capture, the hours’ previous delight,
Now projected with vivid light, on the screen,
Oh, the animation and color before him!


5.

He mulled it over, he was trying to discern,
What was real, what was not?
And then he fell to warm, all-over, pleasant body heat.
And heard what he knew was voice of the Lord.

Eagle, Eagle arise… Why sleep now?”
It is dawn, and eat and drink,
And all the eagles wait to watch you.”

Lord, Lord,” corporal whispered,
All that You have put upon me,
I know these things are good.

Haven’t I been promised them since youth?”

And she, her face no more than an inch away from his,
(They were still upon the couch in the parlor.)
She sighed and responded, again, to his erstwhile query,

It was a thousand times better!” She said.

Corporal ran, he ran, breakneck, towards the horizon.
It was late night and a view of lower Manhattan lights,
Although now a slight color of dawn touched the horizon,
The buildings, street lamps and bridges burned,
Out of the window the illumination, awesome,
Out the window view from
The twenty-fifth floor of the high rise.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER,
Version, April  2012

Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it that you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns our love into disappointment and woe?

I imagine that you must have your reasons.




Yet do not suppose a simple story!

Do not count yourself as chief player, the subject,
And, me, the writer, who writes a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The common drama which depicts us flying
To marvelous heights and then dropping
To a hard, low-bottom sorrow.

For us there is no script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all other sublunary things, it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light warms my heart.


DIE FOR YOU, Crossroad, April 2012

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DIE FOR YOU, 
Crossroad, April 2012 


Let me take this moment, or two, 
And publish, 'You are the best thing, 
That has ever happened in my life!' 



May God forgive; 
I have no wish to disdain His great gift. 
Yet were fate to bring us to terrible juncture, 
A crossroad whereat all choice reduces 
To either my earthly existence, or yours, 
Gladly would I give up mine, 
I would die for you.

I express this simple interlude, 
Mean it as a paean to the experience, 
The joy of having had the splendid fortune, 
How wonderful the time I spend with you!

Thursday, April 19, 2012

PLEDGING MY LOVE, Abide With Me

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PLEDGING MY LOVE, 
Abide With Me


Abide with me for fast closes day. 
Darkness deepens with alacrity, 
Nothing halts the night. 

Stay with me while time permits. 
Although other comforts flee, 
Accept I mean the best, 
Spare your soul from bottom and regret. 

In every deed, and in my every word, 
I want to be true, do right by you. 
Though many things to tell, 
One thing sums it right, 
One thing huge, deep and great, 
With ocean of delight, 
My heart embraces you.

 
You, my love, are all my life today.

I wish to assure, let it be known,
Though you in mortal moment seem,
Great Light, Infinity, blesses you.

Happy outcome, whatever your secret dreams,
That they find an absolute alignment,

God’s will be done,
And that you have the power to carry it out.

And I add,

I hold belief, whose strength
No public fire, no coliseum of wild, hungry beasts,
No awful rendition, torture in far-off land,
Might ever shake, nothing my faith dissuade,

Yes! Certain, as I write,
For you awaits the greatest gift --
That at the hour when you awake and start the day,
You will have come to believe,
And learn to say a simple prayer,
‘Thank You. Thank You, Lord, for life,
And yet all You do for me.’



Wednesday, April 18, 2012

SEEKING A MUSE, Personal Classified Advertisement

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement



I know what to do!

I am not at a loss, despondent, or down and out,
Not at all! I've got plenty of options.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

I'll write, Single, White, Male,
Looking for a muse,
A girl to inflame my verse,
Make my heart sing a wondrous refrain.

I'll say she must be educated and smart,
Tall, slim, and good with money,
A brunet, who has a pleasant smile,
And whose buttocks own an exquisite form.

I'll require her voice to possess subtle timbre,
Her smell to be sweet and, above all,
I'll demand that she be
Disciplined in work and habit,
Someone to put me to bed early,
And early to arise, a woman who might
Qualify suitable mother for a child or two.

Oh! Did I forget to mention?
I want large brown eyes and an olive complexion.

So don't think, don't believe for a moment,
That you are elemental, like some sustenance crucial
To happiness and breathe, for you are not. Ha!
You see how easily you can be replaced!

Get it straight! I know what to do.
Honest! It's not that big of a deal.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

CATULLUS POEM 11, An Adaptation of a Ancient Love Verse

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CATULLUS POEM 11,
An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse,
Rewrit
e



Christopher, Billy,

Hey guys! Do Stanley the favor, and tell her,
Please, convey the message.

Tell her, he is afoot upon Indian Ocean shores,
And this time he has consort,
A glory maiden, who owns a girdle, a mid drift
With such exacting, tiny measure
That it focuses her form in a symmetry well-nigh perfect.
Why it brings joy to any man when he spies it!

His new love, a love as beautiful and striking as
Ocean waves whose presentation evokes
Eternity in the cradle swell of mighty motion.
And she, stepping along before the crash of waves,
Her feet springing through the water,
As it flows and sweeps along the shore,
Yes, my friends, I tell you true,
She complements the paradise of the beach.
Her gait carries hint of the everlasting,
.
Her voice, what echoes the sound of the sea,
And like the woman, herself, is magnificent,
She, how else might he describe her,
Another sensual gift born of the fruitful palms.

Try to say it right, guys, make her jealous.

Or if you feel that story too convenient for her to believe,
Tell her. Stanley goes alone into the Ganges plain, and
Seeks to follow the time line of empire and civilization,

Or, maybe better yet, that he has turned
To sign post pointing north
To the glacier’s cave, the river’s mouth,
Where sky animates the waters in spectrum of colors,
Which, when running against
The half-submerged rocks and boulders,
Uplifts such awesome scintillating, incandescent spray
That pilgrims must rub their eyes and wonder,
They must assure themselves that they are awake,
And have not fallen into the magic of a dreamland slumber.

Billy, Christopher, my friends, let her know,
Let that woman know,
How close to heaven is the mouth of the river,
How great God's gift whose flow begins
At ice-bound, cavern source in the Himalayas!



Tell her that Stanley is gone,
Tell her what you will,
That he has discovered new love and spends his time
With wondrous companion on East-Indian, ocean shore,
Or that he retires to a mountain cave, and lives alone.

But, should it be, and Stanley must run even farther,
As if, he must vanish
So to escape her haunt, her awful memory,
Here's a good one,
See if this story strikes a spark in the devil lady's eyes.
Run the tale that Stanley sets blanket on sand in old Siam,
Where lovely Buddha women administer,
His every physical need, and teach religious tenets
That might bring soul to calm
And show person path to new knowledge.

Tell her, he travels to the Far East.


2.

And should you hear that she still follows him,
You may note, but do not share with others.

Keep this destination to yourselves. It's a secret!

Stanley escapes to Australia,
First to the city, Perth, to acclimate himself to life,
Where under influence of the Southern Cross
Astrology may chart a better course of life.

And should he not find peace.
On that island-continent’s western shore,
Know he treks the long, highway east,
Traveling from mile post to mile post
Out from Bunbury toward the Outback,
Past roads with names like Starvation and Reptile,
‘Crossing the Nullarbor’, and then down south
To Port Adelaide and across the eight hundred miles
To the docks and wharfs of Melbourne, and once there,
In Victoria, he turns to the North and East,
Beyond Eden and Milton on Highway 1,
To find Gulburra, where he meets his Australia,
A bathing beauty, a blond and tall, true love,
A maid known for her moral character,
It happens while he walks out upon the sand,
Against bright, bright sky as South Pacific burgeons,
And it makes its great roll onto the white of Surf Beach.

Billy, Christoper, tell her he has found a way to cope
With her turning everything in his world upside down.


3.

Oh his friends, his buddies, Billy, Christopher!
Though you are ready and might wish to hurry,
To travel and visit, to join him in this remote geography,
-- We all live according to Destiny’s will --
You may believe him when he declares
Happiness comes to all good men as do the rays,
The bright that comes to souls with summer’s sun,

Announce, would you please, would you let her know,

Yet before he had departed that he left these words?

No need temper his assessment, good comrades.

Do not bother to ask that she forgive his unkindness.

Tell her, he tired of living beneath her continued deceit,
Her stubborn refusal ever to admit the truth,
Her lie upon lie, until her and his own head spin,
No real memory, no living history,
All concoction, each and every personal event,
She not remembering a word she said.

And let her live and love,
May she have three hundred lovers or more,
And disappoint whomever her unhappiness encounter,
That her self hatred destroys whatever hopes some
Good and noble might have,
Cursed are those who fail to discern her treachery!

Here Stanley cleaves unto the words of Catullus,
When, once upon a time, and so long ago,
The ancient poet had come to realize the term, whore,
Was a word he meant to stand for her insatiable lying.

As for Stanley, and his love,
All that love of his which had been hers for the embracing,
His deep regard is gone and in this, our pagan world,
No forgiveness, no promise of the resurrection,
No flower, once the farmer’s passing plow
Deracinates and mangles it,
No flower may hope to live and flourish,
It has no future and never blooms, again.


Friday, April 13, 2012

DEAD BURTON

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DEAD BURTON


It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.

First, the surgeon clipped a couple of toes.
But before too long he lost his foot.
The doctor cut it off almost at the ankle.





Yes, it was a very dreary business.
Burton was chopped down.

His disease had brought the big man down,
Burton, down, and of him the adage reads:

Above life itself, he loved his drink.

The genie was in the bottle,
Her spirit, more to him than family and friends.

What love! He held her close,

How he caressed her mouth to mouth,
He clenched her with hands whose such strength
No mortal man might ever asunder,
And he fondled her, and was true to her,
Until death did them part.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You, Reread

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LOVE POETRY,
Lost Without You,
Reread, April 2012



How about some love poetry?

Right now I am so desperate for your touch
That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.

I could walk out the door into the hallway
And scream with such ferocity
The neighbors might think
I have taken leave of my senses.





When I think of food,
Nothing compares to how I savor you.

When I contemplate delightful vision,
You are the only vision in my eyes.

I love all music,
But no sound is better than your voice.
I await every telephone call,
And lead you with questions,
Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore.

Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.

Oh! Baby! I love your smell.
Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed,
And fluff the pillows,
I do so expecting the redolence of you.
And when you are gone,
Even after a day or two,
And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too.

At wits end, I circle the bed,
And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet
Whose master has not returned home.

I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.

 
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