ly didn’t want to capture it. It was like
The Search For Lost Lives – James Tate
I am the world’s last barman poet.
I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make.
Americans getting stinking on something I stir or shake.
The Sex on the Beach,
The Schnapps made from peach,
The Velvet Hammer,
The Alabama Slammer.
I make things with juice and froth.
The Pink Squirrel,
The 3-Toed Sloth.
I make drinks so sweat and snazzy.
The Iced Tea,
The Death Spasm,
The Singapore Sling,
America you’re just devoted to every flavor I got.
But if you want to get loaded,
Why don’t you just order a shot?
Bar is OPEN!!!
Gif: Buttery Planet
the people downstairs are singing
their piano thrums through my floor
maybe it is a rehearsal for they are far from perfect
still, it is endearing, the hint of harmony
the love that resonates in their vocals
the pianist slowly sheds performance anxiety
for authoritativeness as the holder of the
rhythm, tempo and dynamics
i listen, i imagine myself there with them
from my upstairs chair
i open my mouth and harmonize with
ooohs and aahs even though i know the words
but then, their music peters out:
i wonder did they hear me and take offense
next time i will just listen, an imaginary audience,
and wrap myself in the music of their lazy sunday afternoon.
(written 28 january 2018)
I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.
After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn’t you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.
How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn’t any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.
Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,
a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.
If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
View original post 118 more words
The phone rings
But never long enough
For the slow man.
By the time
The set’s switched on
His favourite programme’s over.
His tea grows cold
From cup to lip.
His soup evaporates.
He laughs, eventually,
At jokes long since
Gone out of fashion.
Sell by dates
And limited special offers
He comes home
With yesterday’s paper
And reads it… tomorrow.