when it seems you have been cut out from
construction paper,
block speckled primary color green,
a carved-out human form,
when it seems as if identity has been placed on the shelving,
— fleshed-out and unread —
what, instead,
walks around in its place is the abstract me
with abstract legs and triangular feet,
a circle standing in for a noggin,
made by a bunch of kindergarten scholars,
a veritable platonic form,
that forgot about its meat on the shelf,
cautiously rotting
So I go and pick up my half-smelly carcass,
filed between a copy of
jane eyre and buddingbrooks,
and slap my self around a bit like a butcher with
a premium slice,
salve a healthy dose of vinegar to spicen up
my languishing corpuscles,
jimmy into my corpse once again as if it were a
union suit
nostalgically lined to my handsome rectangle;
Stones of Erasmus — Just plain good writing, teaching, thinking, doing, making, being, dreaming, seeing, feeling, building, creating, reading
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
30.12.09
Poem: Another Kind Of Cave?
Labels:
abstract,
philosophy,
poem,
poetry
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
29.12.09
Poem: "to beget"
the world does not provoke the world is provoked
so
does “the
world is too much with us”
mean
don’t be materialistic
?
or does it mean something like
there is nothing out there to catch the eye
because “we lay waste our powers …”
(to say something inside is a better argument, wordsworth?)
which is why giving up on nature walks is probably a good thing
the ants have nothing to say
“Little we see in Nature that is ours”
are not perturbed really by being stared at,
or the moth
even the stumbled upon lizard,
pitifully its glistening eyeball falling out of its manacled socket
is not sorry does not get its feelings hurt if moved off the pavement
the same if accidentally stepped on
or Wordsworth is writing about arrogance , here
the panache of human beings to believe us so provocative!
something like prometheus stealing fire; his goddamn hubris —
for does he really think the tritons managed
such a gaze can he be that trite?
does “the
world is too much with us”
mean
don’t be materialistic
?
or does it mean something like
there is nothing out there to catch the eye
because “we lay waste our powers …”
(to say something inside is a better argument, wordsworth?)
which is why giving up on nature walks is probably a good thing
the ants have nothing to say
“Little we see in Nature that is ours”
are not perturbed really by being stared at,
or the moth
even the stumbled upon lizard,
pitifully its glistening eyeball falling out of its manacled socket
is not sorry does not get its feelings hurt if moved off the pavement
the same if accidentally stepped on
or Wordsworth is writing about arrogance , here
the panache of human beings to believe us so provocative!
something like prometheus stealing fire; his goddamn hubris —
for does he really think the tritons managed
such a gaze can he be that trite?
Labels:
memoir,
nature,
poem,
poetry,
prometheus,
wordsworth
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
27.12.09
Poem: "Regional Transit Authority"
Labels:
imagery,
poem,
poetry,
public transportation,
subway
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
24.12.09
Poem: "I never knew how to date"
At the ballpark, the stadium swells with people,
I never knew the arcane rituals,
the runic scripts, the book of love –
never knew the caress of the cheek,
the hand on your face
before.
Never put to rote the rubrics
of subtle peck and pay the bill
before.
Only spontaneous embraces
like best friends at supper.
Sloppy kisses over sloppy joes.
Daubed anxiety
Doggerel verse
Silly adolescence clamoring for whatchamacallit and nachos,
pulling your pigtails,
mommy.
I am like a kid getting married in the street.
I am bereft of courtship vocabulary,
the “how do I take your hand” svelte.
The “When do I call for a date?” anxiety.
How do I undo your pants,
Meet your folks –
Do I call you at work?
Should I hold your hand during the national anthem?
Or do I clap your back?
I am like the boy playing grown-up in the playpen,
dressed up like Donna Reed,
My plastic skin peeling
and during the ninth inning your child stares
Eating a nodog
I had bought ten minutes before.
Awkward smiles and nonchalance,
No runs batted in and take me out to the ballgame.
but
I never knew how to date.
I only knew the camaraderie of a slap on the back,
a troubled smear on the cheek,
an intimate pantomime of swelled emotion.
I never knew how to date.
I only knew the camaraderie of a slap on the back,
a troubled smear on the cheek,
an intimate pantomime of swelled emotion.
I never knew the arcane rituals,
the runic scripts, the book of love –
never knew the caress of the cheek,
the hand on your face
before.
Never put to rote the rubrics
of subtle peck and pay the bill
before.
Only spontaneous embraces
like best friends at supper.
Sloppy kisses over sloppy joes.
Daubed anxiety
Doggerel verse
Silly adolescence clamoring for whatchamacallit and nachos,
pulling your pigtails,
mommy.
I am like a kid getting married in the street.
I am bereft of courtship vocabulary,
the “how do I take your hand” svelte.
The “When do I call for a date?” anxiety.
How do I undo your pants,
Meet your folks –
Do I call you at work?
Should I hold your hand during the national anthem?
Or do I clap your back?
I am like the boy playing grown-up in the playpen,
dressed up like Donna Reed,
My plastic skin peeling
and during the ninth inning your child stares
Eating a nodog
I had bought ten minutes before.
Awkward smiles and nonchalance,
No runs batted in and take me out to the ballgame.
Labels:
baseball,
boyfriends,
friends,
friendship,
poem,
poetry
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
28.11.09
Poem: "je t'aime"
he wants it all in a large package,
as if love can be given in one moment,
but I am not angry
at his infantile gestures,
rather
amused
that he could believe that love could be
so whole.
yet,
i believe in his tenacity,
somewhat envious, actually
of his certitude
so
i am able to say back to him,
without too much guilt and
little temptation to retract my words,
i love you too
but I am not angry
at his infantile gestures,
rather
amused
that he could believe that love could be
so whole.
yet,
i believe in his tenacity,
somewhat envious, actually
of his certitude
so
i am able to say back to him,
without too much guilt and
little temptation to retract my words,
i love you too
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
17.2.08
Poem: "favor"
when you open your mouth it sounds like you’re going to say something horrible,
but instead, what comes out
is less worse than its preface:
your face all in a contorted mass,
because you are half-afraid what you’re going to say
will be muddled
and
the efficacy of your hold will be lost.
so you do that preface thing
again
with your face:
pull out your hands to the corners of the room,
your mouth opening to the scale of an italian frescoe,
downsizing your chin a bit —
almost wanting to be interrupted —
so that I can perhaps fill in the void for you
“i need you to take him to the doctor’s”
“i can’t find anyone else”
and it wouldn’t matter so much that he is asking for my time —
I have lots to give,
plenty of deferrals to stave off the tedium of whatever you want to call it
but it is in the tenacity of his stare,
the half-gaping mouth
and the reluctance to just come out and say it
that fuckin’ stuns me
but instead, what comes out
is less worse than its preface:
your face all in a contorted mass,
because you are half-afraid what you’re going to say
will be muddled
and
the efficacy of your hold will be lost.
so you do that preface thing
again
with your face:
pull out your hands to the corners of the room,
your mouth opening to the scale of an italian frescoe,
downsizing your chin a bit —
almost wanting to be interrupted —
so that I can perhaps fill in the void for you
“i need you to take him to the doctor’s”
“i can’t find anyone else”
and it wouldn’t matter so much that he is asking for my time —
I have lots to give,
plenty of deferrals to stave off the tedium of whatever you want to call it
but it is in the tenacity of his stare,
the half-gaping mouth
and the reluctance to just come out and say it
that fuckin’ stuns me
Labels:
author,
faces,
openyourmouth,
poem,
poetry,
preface,
Relationships,
speaking,
writing
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
24.12.07
Poem: "Why I’m Not a Good Lover"
when I was a kid
I would swim to the bottom of the swimming pool
and attempt to clutch the sandpaper bottom
so as not to float back up —
“hold your breath in like houdini” —
and I could do it
if I were under the diving boards
at the 90˚ angle
where my dick could push against the cool water spout
and even then, it was great and lusty, a little bit of jouissance for a squirt like me
— excuse the pun —
and then
at the last second,
with a burst of superman
energy
I would kick off
and feel the rush of virginia woolf,
the expectation to break the waves,
a kind of insane desperation —
and it was kinda fun
in those days,
to play that game
in its different variations
and I feel that way now,
hiding at the bottom of the swimming pool —
and it doesn’t help that I’m reading ballard’s novel about boy in a detention camp —
pushing off with my planter wart soles
thumping my chest against the harsh water molecules
desperately —
and I don’t use that word lightly —
to get air
and it isn’t like when I was a kid playing
frivolous games in the lukewarm pot of summer vacation
and I know why I feel this way
that I cannot get air
because a word that comes to me repeatedly
— and you have noted it in your scrapbook —
is “bereft”
a past participle of bereave
and I cannot stand to lose you
that is it exactly
so I feel bereft
and that kind of feeling is too much like swimming up for air,
isn’t it? —
I mean, the time it takes, to kick up from the bottom,
to the moment a mouth kisses air —
is a wide expanse of time and space
and I am afraid of being alone, but pushing you away is all I know how to do
Labels:
lover,
poem,
poetry,
Superman,
swimming pool
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
1.12.07
Poem: "Disclaimer"
No need for grey-eyed pity,
but my father never taught me how to shave
left me like telemachus at the plow
white lather rinsed sink swirling pool of saliva and babe,
kicking my little feet in the alabaster pond
in the center room where draped greenery was
i would watch him tracing long traces across his body,
especially his face
he may have pretended once or twice,
sliding a plastic covered blade over my skin
to joke
but that was it;
the split memory of childhood
left in solitude to handle my own adolescence;
shaky questions during sex,
much less know the simple hygiene
and i still
wince
at the drops of blood, spread evenly,
like a red crescent
every time
as if i will never learn to do it correctly
as if this solitary life is forever frozen
over a sink of running tinged vermilion water
but my father never taught me how to shave
left me like telemachus at the plow
white lather rinsed sink swirling pool of saliva and babe,
kicking my little feet in the alabaster pond
in the center room where draped greenery was
i would watch him tracing long traces across his body,
especially his face
he may have pretended once or twice,
sliding a plastic covered blade over my skin
to joke
but that was it;
the split memory of childhood
left in solitude to handle my own adolescence;
shaky questions during sex,
much less know the simple hygiene
and i still
wince
at the drops of blood, spread evenly,
like a red crescent
every time
as if i will never learn to do it correctly
as if this solitary life is forever frozen
over a sink of running tinged vermilion water
Labels:
odyssey,
poem,
poetry,
telemachus
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
30.10.07
Poem: 'Jakob'
Innocuous halls of a candy store:
glass, safety, sweetness all around —
somewhere in københavn,
but it could have been anywhere,
my lovely dane,
anywhere,
with the same saccharine, sick smell,
but here his hand was somewhere,
counting change in my hand —
really, with no meaning at all —
just to count change. Softness on softness.
I felt his touch, slightly, a brush
and his name tag remarked
‘You’re from abroad?’ —
for a moment only us,
a caress; it was only us:
‘Yes, I’m from abroad,’ then a laugh, a smile.
I wanted his touch; though, I only grinned
And Jakob smiled back,
Then, gone,
I kept rushing and swinging, relishing and imagining;
I kept breathing, He: continuing, space lengthening
into an ephemeral distancing then gone
into banal innocuity: a saccharine sweet smelling calm forgetfulness
glass, safety, sweetness all around —
somewhere in københavn,
but it could have been anywhere,
my lovely dane,
anywhere,
with the same saccharine, sick smell,
but here his hand was somewhere,
counting change in my hand —
really, with no meaning at all —
just to count change. Softness on softness.
I felt his touch, slightly, a brush
and his name tag remarked
‘You’re from abroad?’ —
for a moment only us,
a caress; it was only us:
‘Yes, I’m from abroad,’ then a laugh, a smile.
I wanted his touch; though, I only grinned
And Jakob smiled back,
Then, gone,
I kept rushing and swinging, relishing and imagining;
I kept breathing, He: continuing, space lengthening
into an ephemeral distancing then gone
into banal innocuity: a saccharine sweet smelling calm forgetfulness
Labels:
abroad,
ardor,
caress,
copenhagen,
denmark,
furtive glance,
infatuation,
poem,
poetry,
travelogue
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
30.9.07
Poem: "Jeremiah"
God, an androgynous childe,
an avatar of muslin, a linen whisper,
starched, turning turning, a leg cradles
into a V, pointed east, west
(A virile, crude me posted to a chair)
A mild body straight at the waist then
a triangle; God mimics a turn
in a cream gown; sweeps,
quivering beneath the torso,
not quickly, but delicately slow, like a gliding
erne: people scurry, people rush,
scatter, swim, splash and go —
but God turns a laggard pirouette,
a brief muse, merely monochromatic
and out of focus, a dim apparition
spoken out of vesperal incense.
Invading choir, God does a retiré,
then evanescence, a flush smooth wipe
from the serviette.
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
14.9.07
Poem: Burnt Sienna
Mark is burnt sienna,
burned and wrought like a serpentine
fox, a lusty red torpor veiled
as a troubadour, a dapper dan
who stole my luster, my zest, my naïve
sheen — I was beige and taupe,
ecru and serene; now I am
brown, almost crayola white with
love handles dangling down, hazel in
my eyes, sipping a hazelnut coffee
just for spite, a greengage by my
side; yelling to be heard, smoothing out
dry, liver spots from my eyes
Labels:
boyfriends,
poem,
poetry
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
13.9.07
Poem: "Forgot to Listen"
Forgot to listen, learned one voice.
Stood erect, a little shaky, stood to one side —
learned to mimic a consuming system,
jamais penetrate, just preserve,
emitted jelly slugs, phage, phage, phage.
Spoke magnificent monotones with glee,
curved a unilateral smile and a sly handshake
grasped. A chuckle and then a dead listen.
Untied a bulbous, enveloping shoe,
engorged, overfolded the dialectician,
held the united sphere and showed the germ.
Proclaimed the world, as mighty metaphysician.
Dissected and stored it all in a little shop,
Plowed through the murk, to the immediate, ethereal top.
image credit: Greig Roselli
Stood erect, a little shaky, stood to one side —
learned to mimic a consuming system,
jamais penetrate, just preserve,
emitted jelly slugs, phage, phage, phage.
Spoke magnificent monotones with glee,
curved a unilateral smile and a sly handshake
grasped. A chuckle and then a dead listen.
Untied a bulbous, enveloping shoe,
engorged, overfolded the dialectician,
held the united sphere and showed the germ.
Proclaimed the world, as mighty metaphysician.
Dissected and stored it all in a little shop,
Plowed through the murk, to the immediate, ethereal top.
image credit: Greig Roselli
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
29.8.07
Poem: Mim's Gin
like a flemish still life
placed
on the bed George made
there stands a space of wood that the mattress has provided,
a bottle of Mim’s Gin,
bought from Wal-mart,
placed there like a girl in a pirouette,
softened by the color of Ticonderogas and sticky notes,
torn up pieces of magazine, the dried cuticles of fingernails,
a stained tumbler resting on the side;
placed there to become there a flemish still life,
a framed design of cheap, store-bought beauty,
so it is not moved,
when tidying up the room,
but stays there on the edge of the bed,
half-full;
their contents — says the voice in your head —
are to be emptied,
to drain a hundred miles of frustrated tears
by Greig Roselli
PDF Copy for Printing
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
7.8.07
Poem: "Staten Island Ferry"
View of Governor's Island from the Staten Island Ferry |
in a corner amidst friends,
winds and Liberty smiling like a skewed
Mona Lisa
but he, only staring, clutching pewter-like bars,
foam fetching and returning
and he waiting to touch soil anew.
Labels:
boat,
ferry,
harbor,
new york,
new york city,
new york harbor,
poem,
poetry,
staten island ferry,
transportation,
travelgram,
waterways
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
Poem: "Albanians"
Albanians are beautiful when they sing,
often cupping their hands to their ears, calling out and calling back in,
dressing and standing, cream and burnt umber salad dressing, large black buttons and bright brass horns, topped with cucumber. Even once an accordion, like a squished
banana and I thought I heard a yodel.
They often travel in bands.
The underground is dark and people stare.
She shares my clothes; he leans on my necktie.
Sunken eyes, burnt, but a healthy rest —
she dances with a glare, tightly with her baby there,
around and inside, somewhere. “You dance so well,”
speaking only French and I tugged at my belt.
The little child inside only smiled.
Leaning, cooing, whispering, wooing.
An arching double vision:
the back of a woman and next a headdress with a painful terror —
and I sat up, lightly touching, strewn books, pausing at titles, sighing, with one under my leg and another open with red-letter between the sheets, the part when Harry meets Sally.
A lonely negro girl revitalized and charged —
Netting her hair and saying, “I’ll be right there!”
A nettling neighbor watching, a quick kiss, and parting,
and a lonely girl on the metro to Merode, plaintively chewing at already bitten baked crust as the lights buzz, and I flicker on and off.
This girl dark with a light chin pointed like her mother but hers was larger and doubled.
Black plain true eyes — but soft on luck . . .
Dust and pizza, a broken nose and a boy — no she did not know him —
He jostled from image to image dreaming of Colombia,
Body to body, pressed against already open books, pages tearing, forcing his
persistent shadow to grow and malinger, and I fear death ...
No redemption,
a lingering death as he picks cherries and finds my place.
Tries to place the scales and ribbons, peace back into place,
I lie side by side, he green and supine, a coconut and Borden’s mix of smooth, trace pale fingers and rest like a pillow, crying on naivete, like a spread napkin soaked, and he spreads. Speak about love and friendship but I remember I have an appointment.
Another he. He fell from a high tower and held Christ in his body shrieking all the way; his mother had asked: “Do you believe in God” hoping for salvation — though it was only a conversation. Why would you ask such a question?
But Colombia’s tears only trace and map a morose tale and look —
While other girls prim their hair, thinking of shiny boys and plump bellies,
I shake as the station nears by. She had already eaten her crust.
Colombia is only a memory but I hang a photo of Christ, a double vision and Albanians forever and ever woo me with their smiles.
often cupping their hands to their ears, calling out and calling back in,
dressing and standing, cream and burnt umber salad dressing, large black buttons and bright brass horns, topped with cucumber. Even once an accordion, like a squished
banana and I thought I heard a yodel.
They often travel in bands.
The underground is dark and people stare.
She shares my clothes; he leans on my necktie.
Sunken eyes, burnt, but a healthy rest —
she dances with a glare, tightly with her baby there,
around and inside, somewhere. “You dance so well,”
speaking only French and I tugged at my belt.
The little child inside only smiled.
Leaning, cooing, whispering, wooing.
An arching double vision:
the back of a woman and next a headdress with a painful terror —
and I sat up, lightly touching, strewn books, pausing at titles, sighing, with one under my leg and another open with red-letter between the sheets, the part when Harry meets Sally.
A lonely negro girl revitalized and charged —
Netting her hair and saying, “I’ll be right there!”
A nettling neighbor watching, a quick kiss, and parting,
and a lonely girl on the metro to Merode, plaintively chewing at already bitten baked crust as the lights buzz, and I flicker on and off.
This girl dark with a light chin pointed like her mother but hers was larger and doubled.
Black plain true eyes — but soft on luck . . .
Dust and pizza, a broken nose and a boy — no she did not know him —
He jostled from image to image dreaming of Colombia,
Body to body, pressed against already open books, pages tearing, forcing his
persistent shadow to grow and malinger, and I fear death ...
No redemption,
a lingering death as he picks cherries and finds my place.
Tries to place the scales and ribbons, peace back into place,
I lie side by side, he green and supine, a coconut and Borden’s mix of smooth, trace pale fingers and rest like a pillow, crying on naivete, like a spread napkin soaked, and he spreads. Speak about love and friendship but I remember I have an appointment.
Another he. He fell from a high tower and held Christ in his body shrieking all the way; his mother had asked: “Do you believe in God” hoping for salvation — though it was only a conversation. Why would you ask such a question?
But Colombia’s tears only trace and map a morose tale and look —
While other girls prim their hair, thinking of shiny boys and plump bellies,
I shake as the station nears by. She had already eaten her crust.
Colombia is only a memory but I hang a photo of Christ, a double vision and Albanians forever and ever woo me with their smiles.
Labels:
belgium,
poem,
poetry,
prose poem,
subway
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
20.7.07
Poetry: "For Tammy"
with a sock puppet, dear, she carved out a few queers
to love her —
the most kind of women,
to love us deviants
she wiped away our tears with her touché kleenex —
on television everyone is a performance
the difference being only in the self-awareness
appendix:
this hero of a guy chris cries on a streaming video
that the media needs to leave Chutney Shears alone! —
or you’re going to have to deal with me —
she’s not well right now —
and we rouse up our spirits with equal fags
who stand up for the underdogs, yup
even pee-wee fucking herman,
a champion of gay rights —
his onanism in a girly porno theatre
warmed the cockles of our leftist fag hearts
to love her —
the most kind of women,
to love us deviants
she wiped away our tears with her touché kleenex —
on television everyone is a performance
the difference being only in the self-awareness
appendix:
this hero of a guy chris cries on a streaming video
that the media needs to leave Chutney Shears alone! —
or you’re going to have to deal with me —
she’s not well right now —
and we rouse up our spirits with equal fags
who stand up for the underdogs, yup
even pee-wee fucking herman,
a champion of gay rights —
his onanism in a girly porno theatre
warmed the cockles of our leftist fag hearts
Labels:
celebrity,
extremes,
gay,
icon,
makeup,
poem,
poetry,
preacher,
queer,
satire,
tammy faye baker,
televangelist,
television
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
8.4.07
Poem: "Crucifix"
Labels:
christianity,
poem,
poetry
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
6.3.07
Poem: "Oranges in my mailbox"
I am not a man of pleasure
— it has been denied me —
(save for an orange in my mailbox
and a shave of savon in my bath)
For when I go to touch pleasure I only find
a vaporous warmth, a verdant void,
thinned out ecstasy, lightly veined
things,
for those things, those real things
are forbidden to me —
for with a hair shirt for a mind
and a brazen wooden lenten bowl for desire,
I shall not have pleasure,
even with
an elevator to take me several floors,
air conditioning massaging my cell,
and an orange in my mailbox
— it has been denied me —
(save for an orange in my mailbox
and a shave of savon in my bath)
For when I go to touch pleasure I only find
a vaporous warmth, a verdant void,
thinned out ecstasy, lightly veined
things,
for those things, those real things
are forbidden to me —
for with a hair shirt for a mind
and a brazen wooden lenten bowl for desire,
I shall not have pleasure,
even with
an elevator to take me several floors,
air conditioning massaging my cell,
and an orange in my mailbox
Greig Roselli © 2007 PDF Copy for Printing
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
24.2.07
Poem: "Portraits"
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
5.1.07
Poem: "brother & sister"
she’s a waif about to vomit her bread,
to get ready for the Banana Republic shoot,
the “I love it when you look at me” pose.
she’s singularly angular, positioned on a bar,
her brother at her side,
singing glad hallelujahs to the boys passing by.
Everyone loves a stare, a glance, une regarde,
but this gal wallows in it,
lapping up the paparazzi shots, the mental
undressing behind the pews.
She loves it;
she’s sick,
or possibly stuck in a Truffaut film.
he loves it,
complete.
And we are so sick that we stare anyway,
because we know he, she, they love it.
the “I love it when you look at me” pose.
she’s singularly angular, positioned on a bar,
her brother at her side,
singing glad hallelujahs to the boys passing by.
Everyone loves a stare, a glance, une regarde,
but this gal wallows in it,
lapping up the paparazzi shots, the mental
undressing behind the pews.
She loves it;
she’s sick,
or possibly stuck in a Truffaut film.
he loves it,
complete.
And we are so sick that we stare anyway,
because we know he, she, they love it.
Labels:
christianity,
poem,
poetry,
siblings
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.
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