Poetry For the Open Mic. Vol I

Cumulative Mistakes

I spent a long night as an ape
and woke up half human
still shaking
I don't know if I can stand the other half


What Must be Done

The least secret thing in the universe
is the door that never opens twice
At least not until it does

all legs and no eyes
thinking only verbs
you never left


Drunkenly Sober

She was drunkenly sober
even as a child
There is a photo I will never forget
She is seven
wearing a dress that I am sure was appropriate for the occasion
her mother would have seen to that
without fail

the is a large festive ribbon in her hair
still proper
but starkly incongruous
with girls darkly serious eyes
and frank expression

I imagine the photographer trying to make the girl smile
with a small joke or frivolity
And I see those eyes register
nothing but the necessity of what would be the next Sunday activity:
long hours of study, piano
cleaning the house
and carefully ducking and sidestepping the endless barbs
exchanged between her parents

Later, during the woman's second marriage
her husband took a second photo of the woman's eyes
and put them on an album entitled "soul eyes"
And I suppose that those who have nothing
would find something in those eyes
there is plenty there
all that scientific materialism has to offer
I have been there myself

It is not her fault.  It really isn't.

Happy Hour

They say that Jazz is dead.

I don't know, I was never alive when Jazz was alive.   Except for Coltrane and Davis, but I was too young.

But I was alive for Meatloaf and Styx.  And I remember and would sooner forget Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.

But I keep being reminded of Meatloaf and his ilk at happy hours.  Cover bands.  And its just so sad--I want to cry.  I want to cry at everything now.  My body is alive with 30 years of not crying.   And in case you don't know the math, that means the last time I really cried was in college.

Me:   Bless me father for it has been 30 years since my last cry.

Priest:  "Keep a stiff upper lip son.  Don't let other's see you.  And do 12 Hail Mary's and the Sign of the Cross.  But you can cry.   Just be discrete.  Let your freak flag fly."

Me:  Its a spiritual awakening?

Me:  Somebody please say "yes"

Reality: (crickets........crickets.....lol)

I have this image of Dr. Frankenstein (or was that Dr. Frankenfurter you Rocky Horror Fans, and you know who you are) trying to resurrect the dead body of Meatloaf with electric shock to no avail. Over and over.    Every Friday night after work.  At "happy" hours.  And even worse, how many fucking jazz singers from Brooke Thomas to Thomas Brooke want to cover "Summertime."   Gershwin would be rolling in his grave without the electric cattle prod.

For 50 somethings this music is a distant reminder of a bygone past.  And normally, I can do the Proust and remember things of the past, but this is just too sad.  And I know its just me.  This is just people working all week looking forward to Fridays after work.  Lining up the beer bottles and wine bottles like tombstones, ready to fall down like a row of dominoes.

Domino.  Love me all night Romeo.  Aaargh!

I wonder if Dr. Frankenstein would have any better luck resurrecting Van Morrison.  I don't care.  And I don't care about the Cardinals or the Cubs.  I mean I love you all, I really do, but it just hurts me to see you listening to all this dead music lining up the dead beer cans.   I feel like I should be doing something to help you.

I feel like I should be doing something to help myself.

But in the end, I hear the refrain:  "Let me sleep on it, baby baby let me sleep on it, I'll give you the answer in the morning."