Pyrrhic Defeat
A poem wants me writing it
a bad-ass dancer of a poem
a cool boy that can look good in sunglasses
but he insists he’s all pyrrhic feet
toes akimbo and not one stress among ‘em.
My boy don’t believe in stress.
(when the in the of the or the though)
But my hands are still luke-warm
and my bones aren’t ready for the soup
at least I hope has me not
so every line finds some emphasumph
and cool boy tosses down his cigarette
and finds someone else to fuck.
Tunes and truths tell he’s gone away
but I follow him, and leave songs and truth behind me
Memory and Pearls
“Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost always makes me high.”
John Denver
I can’t remember the day I first saw my mother smell a tree; but I can imagine it. A hike on a hot summer day (the trick works best in the heat), myself still clumsy with extreme youth, and my mother leaning easily forward to bring her nose close to the bark of a tall pine, just a foot off the trail. I might have asked her why — I might have simply followed her lead and pressed my face to the rough trunk.
