reading philosophy
I think
my heart might stop
demanding attention
a distraction
like a ringing telephone
puzzled
slightly annoyed
perhaps
glacing sideways
nobody fucking cares
how much you love her
or that she doesn't love you back
least of all
her
love's no melange
alloy
or synthesis
it doesn't 'add up'
it's
one perfect thing
This is the world of unrealized dreams
Where the thrush takes flight at midnight
And the leaves of nightshade glitter
In the lobbies of funeral homes.
A world of terrible waiting
Of outstretched arms
Probing glances
Defeat of will
Exhaustion of hours.
Below the stirring fans
Conversation slows to a helt
And mah jong tiles
Lie still as tombstones.
Nothing we make
Lasts beyond the joke of death.
I write this for the desolate
Who scan cold waters
And accept the consolation
Of tea and biscuits.
a ghost slips through the hydrangeas
along the grassy walk
high over the Hudson
where we would stroll and talk
a ghost that flings itself
against the barrier of years
remembered by a silent urn
that haunts the meadow where I wished
so often to return
holding Ma's hand
pebbled cement
of Sutter Avenue
steel trolley tracks
people everywhere
now mostly gone
1940's people
mostly gone
Still breathing.
Unbelievable.
instinct and sensible
All I experience
is life itself
not fine wines
or lustful women
just
continuity.
Forget Sartre
I am your only
Existentialist.
I had a dream about you
we were near Central Park
crowded with happy people.
You were exiting the car
but suddenly turned back and kissed me
then we were kissing ferociously
and I asked
Why didn't we do this 30 years ago?
We puppets
hurled by the scruffs
across the stage
crazily dancing
jerked on hidden strings
the Puppeteer
playing for laughs.
Who cares when dolls are ripped asunder
salvaged for spare parts?
But this illusion of wholeness
effortless health
strung up in the stockroom
endlessly rehearsing
the muffed lines and missed cues
foisted on us by the Puppeteer...
that's the worst part.
wild girl
above Mount Sopris' double peak
a rhapsody of wind and sky
racing on island cloud
and snowscapes
where you run
leap as you please
no thorn to catch your flying hem
nor roots to trip you
rocks to bruise your knees
the moon your clasp
the sun your diadem
a morning session at the library
vaults me into lunch
a bike ride in summery weather
a book on the jetty
as afternoon
stretches toward night
can't see'ums
have me
gathering book and folding chair
evening plans unfold and
if I lookaround a bit
a poem may come.
we live too much in houses, see
too little sky climb
too few mountains glimpse
evening and dawn
thru the corner of an eye
travel the open road
in closed cars
view hills and fields
on screens and magazines
and why
are you reading
this poem?
they're in the buffets
the fat families
waddling to and fro
with loaded plates
mother to daughter
try this, it's delicious
and father: that's right son
throw your weight around
why struggle
between vanity and craving
or suffer
for a vision of fitness
when you can enjoy the ecstasy of the inflated gut?
blood pressure? plaque? diabetes?
mere medical abstractions
satisfaction's first hand
layer cake, pie a la mode, chips, nuts
ten types of pasta
pealing through the church
of Hedonism, ready
for great-bellied Buddha-hood
yummmmmmmmmmm
please pass the salt, butter, pepper, soy-sauce
duck sauce, salsa, cream, sugar, maple syrup...
this is a lightning bolt leaving town
this is a big top and a clown
this is the merry month of June
this is a window on the moon
here a piano and a score
heroes and men from days of yore
here is the zither and the lute
here is the darkness and the root
there are dancers here
circled by birds and leaves
tangled by snakes
the whirlpool's
music
of the Jew in America
completed in antiquity
standing on the doorstep, ragged
washed up from pogrom, poverty
moduli of terror
photos, keepsakes, silverware
stuffed with garments
in those twine-clenched suitcases
settled the frigid East filtered
to Tennesee, Ohio
where my psycho grandma forbid
paternal love
to that tormented female child
my mother, Belle
to white beaches with new veisions
of culture pasted to film
death of a salesman
Wall Street, 6th Avenue, Madison
genius of wealth
not eluding the old nemesis
Nazis, inner-cities
ghettoes of soul
through tall, thin windows
green tides of grass
billowing
trees flooded in green
thru which a small bird streaks
bearing love's anguish
© Copyright 2-2-97 Martin A. Abramson. All rights reserved.