He is serious, sincere and rather sad
Has lost friends, lovers
been saved from the loony-bin
by good Samaritans.
I last for six or seven poems
but his monotone
nudges me into waking dream
hallucinatory sleep
recalled to consciousness
by a crash of applause
embarrassed
I ride the elevator down alone
Like him, arrogant enough
to leave sandpiper tracks
of unexceptional experience
on recycled paper.
that is buoyant
like the full mass of the earth
that dilates
Renaissance irises
stalks rain forest
reverberation
solves the lies
at desire's core
that the follow-spot
grips in twisting plunge
from heaven to hell
that waits in armored sleep
circled by fire
by rubble of
imaginary thrones
is mistaken for something
that has something
to do with her.
A is for the Abramsons fleeing some
Polish ghetto, arriving in America.
B is for Brooklyn and Baby Brother Bobby selling Rock'n Roll in Greenwich Village.
C is for Christians who blamed us for Jesus' death and Grandson, Chase.
D is for democracy, Democrats and Delano Roosevelt.
E is for Evelyn, girl-friend and lover.
G is for God who cursed me and watched over me all these years.
J is for my son, Joshua.
L is for my daughter, Leslie.
M is for my mother, Belle Sien.
N is for Nathan, exemplary son-in-law.
P is for Granddaughter Parker, my best hope.
R is for my wife, Roberta.
S is for my father Sam, Daughter-in-law, Stacy and Grandsons, Scott and Spencer.
on the checkout line
jostling and complaints
people unhappy with slow lines
prices, each other
shopping carts full of
electronics, sporting gear
cartons and jugs
how joyful the woman beside me
her cart filled entirely with flowers
rows of razor teeth
come out of nowhere
then are everywhere
claws rip down its
shoulders as jaws
sever its neck
the victim, dragged away
the killer heedless
of its private dying
when it comes
it comes quick
those little voices
in my head
people talking
chattering
when will they stream out
as children burst from school
at three o'clock?
lashed
his rebellious flesh
stuffed hair shirt
under chancellor's robes
racked heretics
with purifying fire
but is almost forgivable
(not for opposing divorce)
but for whipping his daughters
with peacock feathers.
If she were dead
we could afford divorce.
But she lives with us still:
A tiny lady in square black shoes
pacing the grim house
in the dead hours
before dawn.
We hide the death wish
in even closer care
We coddle and cajole
as one would nurse
a sick conscience.
The same force
tearing the roots
of our marriage
drives her toward death
but not as fast.
last night I told her
just leave me alone
still dark
people in lighted kitchens
train whistles on the dawn run
engines firing in the parking lot
last night I told her
just leave me alone
sky won't give up
its iron cast
to sunrise
mist turning to rain
you don't need me
you got a man at home
you don't need me
you got
a man
at home
dragging a lobster out of its shell
just too much work
it can keep its meat
deboning a chicken
the flesh clings tenaciously
even in death
I love her
and it overrules me
forcing acceptance
wherein this bright
unfolding blossom
flowers
in its time.
what happened?
yesterday I kissed you
holding both hands
lips touching
but when I spoke
with you today
clearly nothing had
(happened)
ascend the stair
that I shall climb
arrive
to find you naked there
at shoulder teeth
palm fingers bring
to buttock thigh
in madness fling
my seed like nebulae
to sky
My Village apartment
With fireplace and leather wing chair,
Formica table, closet-kitchen,
Bookcase boards balanced on bricks,
Abstractions in swirling oils,
Queen bed set sideways
Against West wall, headboard
A long, low dresser
Doubled as a coffee-table.
A fifth-floor Shangri-La, accessed
By elevator, a local luxury, in which
My wife stooped, lips around my cock,
Ascending, giddy with danger
Of discovery.
But the bed that had supported
Such frequent coition
That she finally cried out,
"All you want to do is fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Was not the same one on which
Years later, she said,
"I need to find a young stud who can screw me
As much as I want."
some rush to inter-
act
shun the abstract
have beaucoup fun
some live in the mind
prefer the entr'acte
where memory serves up
skein after scene
faux waking dream
© Copyright 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.