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It's a question of materials: a thick, loamy mud will make a mask that reveals your true complexion; a square of black tulle will hide it. But -- For any mask more permanent, forgetfullness is the kindest stuff, but mostly I've turned inward, first leaving the outer walls shored up in mechanic, painted smiles, in veils, in gay cut-outs waving from glass-paned eyes; whatever sends you by unquestioning-- You solicitous, untouched ones: Leave me alone. I'm carving my own mask. I'm left alone. I'll be my own companion. Ed note--this was written from a suggestion in an exercise book, so if you don't like it, blame my own complete lack of inspiration. If you think it's okay or worth bettering, leave a suggestion or two. Thanks! posted by Reen at 7:06 AM | link| versify 0 comments
His sweeping mustache and the rose between her teeth— Fine aluminum. Above them, a beeping wreath Of midi music ebbs against walls consisting Of circuit boards, each complex furrow a trysting Ground for minds who’ve moved too far apart, the modern Twist on Donne’s compass needle. And on the table The wine is poured, faint hint of ether, grease and oil The banquet laid: sparkplugs, wires, a solenoid coil. The dancers’ faces shine in each other’s bodies, The mirrored sheen a promise of something naughty— Saved for later. Now, the tango richly pulses, In a wailing binary, moving finally to its denouement, a dip to the floor, now covered with petals formed like ones and ohs, where the lovers end their smooth descent with a soft, metallic kiss, their wires crossing in sudden, unprogrammed bliss. Then, the mustache hovering over the quivering rose, Handlebars all unfurled—gently says “Hello world.” posted by Reen at 6:55 AM | link| versify 0 comments
You look as though you never had a shirt that fit in your life -- and not because they were too stretched or small, but made of bad material, some blend that doesn't breathe on your bored body. Heavy bored--yes-- with your cigarette trailing ash above your head, dull eyes framed in the thick black specs of your generation; your grizzled beared that makes your mouth somehow seem like a tear in a shag rug. You look on and through with watery eyes, watery and still and deep enough for your purposes. Oh, whatever you do, Mr. John, Mr. Henry-- don't look down. ed note--here's some information on John Berryman. The photo section doesn't contain the photo that I wrote the poem from, but the last one is very like it. posted by Reen at 7:04 AM | link| versify 0 comments
On this same track again, Out of Washington at evening. The Jefferson Memorial, its blue-lit rotunda Seeming to revolve as we pass, The Potomac shining copper under streetlight. So into Virginia, where I watch the cities Rising out of night, through a veil of fast-passing trees. Cities and reminders of cities – a lone gas station, the red brakelight Of cars stopped at a crossing; A far porch Glowing out in the pasture, the fields farmed over lightly with snow, The honeyed lamps and dark furniture of trackside living rooms. And my round face, hanging pendant and pale in the window. It is the moon; watching all destinations. It is the moon; watching for where you are now. posted by Reen at 6:19 AM | link| versify 0 comments
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