Poetry
David Greenspan
PathetiqueHe awakes in the dark bits of moon shining through on golden tresses through pieces of parted straw roof eyes into the night cigarette in sleep-stiffened fingers and looks inside and goes inside and the walls have vanished and he spins aghast and tries to recall just how he came to be alone tonight. He exits eternity to stage left and drowns slowly in his own wake and it is here where his eyes open again and he realizes in a shocked halt that he must run and once again reclaim the world which was and is his and he sees black, long ebony curls in blue eye fields and is lost againand does not want to find the way home. He lies in flowers and lies to the flowers who just ramble and wave in the wind like toy people programmed to say goodbye and he is awakened by the pounding of reality coming to the door in brown wrapping paper in script he doesn't recognize and can't understand and when he opens the box sees he let out a whole lot more than he had bargained for. And he sits, alone and shivering a pathetic patron of the night . . . A Small RequestIt's the idea that I should give some other man the satisfaction of her that literally drives me insane. It's the literarily part that really gets me. I sit, blank lines on even longer hours dull tongue in late hours and empty bed on more nights than I like to recall. Man oh Man oh Man. Where have all the good times gone? Well I have some idea. I don't think they've happened anywhere but on imaginary pages. Writing with invisible ink and disappearing sentiment, only unanswered questions that make my hot room just seem like sweaty sheets. I spent my childhood hiding from books and work and realized as I grew older I was unable to escape the call of the writer. I do not plan on changing the world of poetry. I just want to add a voice to represent so many that have lost their speeches in the past. I am tired of artistic dishonesty. I started Butcher Shop Press under the assumption that I would give voice to the dry throats that academia has dried up. When I think of poetry, I think of A.J.Mizzi, My parents, Pablo Neruda, the Beats, WCW, Cherry Valley, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Rockaway Beach, Rimbaud and Baudelaire. I don't see degrees and awards, I see the corners that I've drank on, the beds I've slept in, the nights I've taken advantage of and the voice that I can not silence. |