For "Veritas," for Wednesday, and an Eatable Saturday

Okay, well, you said we could post things on Wednesdays, Gabe, so here I go.

Something old (1):

i am to write a poem
a poem of intent
kissed once on the bottom lip
thrice on the bottom lip
twice on the bottom lip
because you looked and were
sweet
and
sweetly disposed of

a poem of old letters
have folded you in three
that’s a tri-fold
slid you in a bubbled bit
of exacted paper
with my last pack of lights (2)
and sent you back to me
so that i may
miss
and then
not miss you
when i so choose
and please

a poem for the ages
or
for next week at least


Something new (3):
To be composed entirely of words-
Of gerunds fit for more discerning hearts-
Has halved me, wholed me, cut me into thirds
Of self composure’s few remaining parts.
A filled, flawed glass, for certain, poet, dear,
For never saw I fact drip from your pen;
Yet “Veritas”(4) you print above that mirror
And hold me steady fore it once again.
And yet I see not in this papered view
My mouth, honey-drenched, peaking at the tips,
But rather see my tongue, sutured anew,
With metaphysics strung between my lips.
But then, I sigh, while sipping at some tea,
I think I suit this better than would she.

Something borrowed (5):

You gets your just dues in
 Heaven--------Heaven'll 
    Be indifferent to this
       Indifferent dog

(Yet, honest indifference
were better than cant)

  …really

      When I hear pious
 Bullshit about Justice
& Democracy and I know
 the hypocrites are lying
    in their false teeth

I'm not indifferent to God
    I'm indifferent to
me-on-earth

   I cant think of anything
More ridiculous than me
    On earth -
       Really!

Something blue (6):

life is tangible
life is tangerine
so you can chew the fucking air if you want to
and you can tear a letter up
and you can tear a letter down
and you can tell someone to go fuck themselves
or their father
or you can do that for them.
and you can tell that there’s still
boysenberry sorbet on the sidewalk
except now it’s a little less blue and a little more
art nouveau.
and you can't put your hand on that stranger's ass
but you can feel up his car's ass
when he isn't looking
and the car won't mind
but it won't fondle back, either.
oh, we sacrifice, we do.
and you can thank your mother for her ring
but you can’t mean it.
also, you can’t sleep in.
your father has a busy day tomorrow
cleaning sidewalks
and other things
and can’t be bothered
to wake you up
or down.


(1): Written May, 2007
(2): Parliament Lights
(3): Written yesterday, 2008
(4): Latin for "I'd like to see you naked"
(5): Borrowed from Jack Kerouac
(6): Not so much "blue" or "art nouveau" as confusing


Harumph. 3 me, 1 I wish I could take out to coffee.


Now, Saturday's post, since I can't do anything but edit my posts right now.


Thus, boredom bears down like a weighted bog
And renders all my musings useless waste;
My stylus taps and taps and taps again
In vacant hopes of some tremendous thought.
So setting my pen down, and sighing deep,
My body wills itself into my bed,
Then reaching, half bemused and half distraught,
My hand, which, under great duress from self,
Does find my gray remote, remotely hid,
And beareth down upon the top button.
To soul’s delight, and to my own as well,
A large “40” appears atop the screen!-
And Giada De Laurentiis smiles wide-
And grills that garlic clove in seconds flat-
Then places it above a roasted duck,
Then adds it to a chopper filled with greens
And grinds (with purpose) till the mess is smooth,
Then heats it, salts it, serves it on a bun.
And though it’s been a year since I’ve had meat,
And many more since I have eaten duck,
My mouth begins to drip and droop and smack;
And so with teeth a-grinding, eyes aglow,
I ravenously raid my small, cold store,
And munching celery, return again
To watch, intent, this heavenly display.
For dieting eats not just at your waist,
But, rather, also at your weakened soul;
Therefore my salvation is Food Network,
And, till this bulge is lost, will remain such.
I've never had much taste for religion,
But should this lull e'er turn to hungered lust
I'll bow before the basil-lighted screen
And proclaim "Worship food porn," ever more.