'New York' pieces

[palephx]

This is a selection from my own collection of citified concupiscence (a/k/a self-indulgent prattling on coffee-stained journal pages).

Chips and Eats

This is how it is
under trees when the leaves
split sunlight, refract it as
if there is an eclipse-
lunettes reflecting off wet cobblestones.
This is the same place
four years later than when
I waited for a taste of death.
The park and I have grown,
and parts of us have eroded.

This is how it is
to have the screaming queens
replaced with squalling children.
Instead of junkies in the java joints
there are women with expensive shoes;
instead of shopping carts, strollers.
This is the same place
where a Gap creeped in and a Quiznos
subshop slunk on breaded paws,
then a pothole called Chipotle.
So quietly, it changed,
intending to embrace life.
Now it just depends
on how one wants
his poisons homogenized,
how one accepts his corrosion.

This is how it is
under a spell of trees,
of untainted air, and sanitized as
if there was a tanker plane-
gallons of bleach to drench the streets.
This is the same place
with several thousand fewer
lives than I left it
and two enormous shafts of solar radiation
where welcomed shadows were before,
memories turned to rust.

This is how it is
to have leaves which fall but don't collect,
to have no one left to respect,
but to recast the same stage
with amateur talent. A rise
in property values has driven off
everything real; the cheap seats
have gotten slipcovers
and a shiny coat of lead-based paint
for the new kids to chip and eat.

______ - Tompkins Sq. Park, 5/2/5, 5:25p

[palephx]

A Touch of Sun

Amateur transgressive act, to be lying
out on the grass. Signs read, Keep
Off, and gates are closed, but here
there are men with fewer clothes.
A touch of sun, and I am weak, hoping
I won't have to leave. This unmown lawn,
this flesh revealed. Welcome all:
East Elysian Field. Where none should
stray, but some will go; a white boy's
lie, yet to be told.

Professional indiscretions met, when truth will
out, and no one seems to need shelter. Keep
Away, and other games are begun. So here's
to the half-naked men with better toys.
A touch of sun, and we are dazed, lolling
on blankets, half still, half-crazed. This new-leaved tree,
that broad back bared. What this invites,
beyond shameless stares, is not for speech
yet some must be told. The white boys
lay, just to be bold.

Beginner's interpretive dance, with luck it
shouts, and perhaps someone will notice. Keep
to the edges, select of those in between, where
men presume to scan for private gods.
A touch of son, and I feel need, driving
out in a burst of heat. Those unvoiced thoughts;
the lust, of course. We all find excuses,
scarcely worse. Of these I have written,
discussed, dismissed as cold. White boys.
Liars. This is getting old.

[palephx]

Redecorating, He...

Light filters in through a glass block façade.
I drift in, out of the rain, into the sauna
that attention becomes when its perpetrators
are drunk. I never liked seeing this. It's
as if I become something less, by circumstance.
But isn't that often the case? This is just
one more work-place, one more supermarket,
where my parts are being priced and I'm being
worked, mercilessly, by people that can't see me
for what I am. A package deal
of idiocy, insecurity, and strength-
of emergency, idiosyncrasy, and hate.
Hate that I've lost the words to explain, but
the idiom is emerging, yes. I have one weakness.
And it isn't the drugs.

Smoke, fitered and secondhand, it will could
the glass, as surely as trying to live
on a steady diet of nothing.
I'm drunk. I never liked being this way. It's
as if I become someone else, with a vengeance.
But isn't that too often true? This is just
what fags do, and heterosexuals, and everybodt
in between. An excuse to be mean
I don't need. I gave myself the license
in sobriety. I too easily revoke it
when I am a tight and buzzed facsimile
of the real me, the bitch, and best friend-
the amazon, considerate and hoping.
Hoping that I find the words to explain why
I consider expectation a game, no, a career.
How dear. I have one weakness,
and I will not be persecuted for it.

Death, transmuted as if by smoke and mirrors,
glass distractions of the career narcissist,
is attention to life, itself, and all its conspirators.
Like being drunk, it is a careering joyride
through half-felt experiences and some god's revenge
for forsaking the eternal spirits. It is just.
It is what you do, and I do, everyday--like piss
and food, and screaming suddently, in the market
or mall, or wherever you realize
you're not simply a housewife to your better self.
There's something else.
The real/fake idiot one affects to get along.
The crazy/hateful consideration one must show
with a fascist smile, believing all the while
you're meant for something. Better
get over it, sweetie. This is the best
this minute's going to be. You may be dead
the next. And you won't have so much fun.
In heaven. It's a lot like hell, just with block glass
and all this saccharin singing
to drown out your screams.

[palephx]

faster pussycat

Came too fast,
arrived an hour early
to a place I don't wish
to be. Alive
now, and awake
for the first month in twelve, stepping
out of my door early
never seemed possible before.
And as I kill time by myself
writing to me, to you
I must seem debauched,
slothful, and self-absorbed.
If you only knew
why I was even here,
you'd probably say
something pleasant before
you ran away.

Arrived too soon
to midtown Manhattan and
aimed for the library
for my literary fix.
To read. A book,
read it now and then leave
with it like a lover from a bar.
For the cover is attractive, the body
to be consumed at leisure, later.
And as I sit scrawling verses
to myself which men will
read as they shit,*
I feel pristine,
purposeful, and self-aware.
If you only knew
one person in the whole world
you'd probably talk
him to death, or bore him there
with your writing.

Leaving now,
as I did from teh apartment
of some eurotrash I found
in a bar, I feel attractive,
like a treat to be eaten
by jealous eyes, slowly.
I know it will not last; as
even with the ones
who do their reading,
the most engrossed
get scared. Like that look
I got on going
out the door, which meant
stay forever/get lost quick.
I even laughed at it.
Because I am a dirty,
rotten bitch, sometimes.
Even death can make me
smile, just as boredom kills me.
You could even say
I was an ugly, junkie slut, but
I doubt euroboy would ask.
He came too...


* = "Qui carbone rudi putrique creta // Scribit carmina, quae legunt cacantes."
Who with rough charcoal and crumbly chalk // Writes verses men will read as they shit. Martial

[palephx]

When Boys Write

Part of me always wants
to see what that other boy
is writing in his notebook.
Hunched over, hunkered down,
what furtive scriblings
is he hiding from eyes,
prying like mine.

Is he lying, like me,
in careful ways, with a foreign
tongue tossed in for
good measure? What treasure
has he just produced
like a stain on the sheets?
Like an inkblot on pages
filled with obscure tests,
who would know him
best, but me? I am the
one who sees. Like
I love the color
purple, I will notice it
on others. I bother
to watch when boys write.

Part of him always wishes
some other boy would come
over and snatch that damn
notebook from his hands.
Some upright hunk
with ulterior motives.
But he can hide that from
everyone else, but me.

Anyone else, but me,
takes care to look away-
like when a woman breastfeeds-
for privacy. This lunacy
has produced
even more ramblings
than deliberate attention.
But I know it's a test.
I know his best
attempts are just a scrawl
across the indignant face
of time. They probably rhyme.
It's more awkward
when they do. Then
they just bother me.

Watch when boys write.
They are trying to prove
their solitary remove
is not a stab at creating
company.

[mousey1]

"Self-indulgent prattling on coffee-stained journal pages", eh?

Bring it fucking on!!!

I have to tell you this is some excellent reading. Too much good at once almost. Next time, if you're able, perhaps intersperse a crappy one or two to cut the monotony of excellence. Speaking only for me, myself and I, every one of these poems is superb. I will have to read them over and over again because there's too much to absorb in one sitting.

You're good! It can only be downhill from here right? Right?

Welcome. I'll be reading. Hope you're not a hit and run poster!

[palephx]

Bring it fucking on!!!

You're good! It can only be downhill from here right? Right?

Welcome. I'll be reading. Hope you're not a hit and run poster!

The DOA reference is appreciated. No, Mousey1, I have plenty more that I haven't even put on my own site. Insofar as someone there has cross-marketed for here (and Performance Plaza, also a nice group), I've bookmarked both and will try to 'spread the wealth.'

And now, in honor of the recent holiday...


Hell O' Weenies

Telerevising the West Village
Halloween 2000 Parade, they
will, doubtless, focus
on every bridge and tunnel
idiot or tourist bedecking
in their respective idea of fun.

Here come Germans,
agape and aghast;
and the French, out-
ludicroused at last.
Don't look for natives,
older imports, or those
not dumb at heart.

Anti-improvising at ritual
and supernatural costume, most
can, primarily, pass
as something of heaven or hell.
Angels and devils besmirching
someone else's idea of home.

There go the drag queens,
glamateur and gross;
and the vampires, out
numbered by ghosts.
Don't ask for creative,
better versions, or those
not praised to faint.

Pseudocompromising the spirits
and the elan vital of drunks, we
may, empathically, mix.
As something of a paradigm
is shifted, like a ton of bricks,
fools and accountants rehearsing
their deaths will be permitted.

Stick around for strange,
usually available by satellite;
and stupid, easily accessed. Out-
paced by a saccharin bite,
we now have suckers for
one-point-five seconds of fame.

Don't look for me,
my neighbors, or those
straight-jacketed to the screens.
Our outfits are the best: unseen.

Author's note: There will be a seance at Prada, noon today. Your company is requested, but leave the chow chow at home.

[palephx]

eve of destruction

With an atomic roar
we light cigarettes
together, in the dark,
believing little, amber
thoughts--like flames-
will tether us
to reality.

No one is coming
to save you.

I think of all
the times I've smoked,
with whom,
why,
and if I might be
the only one with
that particular thought
right now.

But I'm not.

Alone, I have been
among too many
people, tonight.
There were moments
I cherished,
lived for,
am dying for,
and will never
let anyone stop me
from collecting like
butterflies and moths.
Beautiful and pinned
to the velvet of
my mind.
Alive in death, somehow.

And no one
is coming
to save you.

___Slowly, Shirley, slowly plucked
___the pins out from the hotel kit.
___She killed the thrum
___in each eardrum, pushed them
___as far as she could get.

___Slowly, Shirley, sewed her
___eyelids shut. No more
___to feel the pain of her eyestrain
___after a skein of black catgut.

___Slowly, Shirley, slowly took
___the nail glue from her purse.
___Put her teeth together,
___once and forever, to look
___smashing for the hearse.

___Slowly, Shirley, slower still
___with one last evil to defeat-
___she went to town, five
___stories down, through a window
___in the heat.

And no one is
coming--still-
to save you.

Those cigarettes
are burning down.
It's so ironic,
and captivating,
and disgusting.
Let's light another.
Let's live again
by sharing one more
deadly moment.
With a newport smile,
I'm watching you
die because you're not
doing anything
with hope or feeling.

I have it in my hands-
more so my tongue,
more so my mind-
to save you from
yourself, and
all of your
friends, too. Are
they with you, tonight?

Do you really think so?

Which one is coming?

And when Unhappiness
walks in, to crash
your party, wake
you from your
sleep, will you
welcome it, with love-
embrace it, as you
would the thought
of sex with that
person you've been
admiring?
Could you say NO to Joy
when it explodes
in an atomic roar
to fuck up your whole world
just the same
way as the Pain?

I hope you know
how you feel
because no one is coming
to save you.
You've got to do
all the work, yourself.
And, yes, it's tiring
and gruesome,
and sinister,
and fun, fun, fun.

Because you know-
not when you're done,
but while you're at it-
that you stopped
a minute, put out
a cigarette, stepped
out of your
glamor grave
and lived, knowing

no one
is coming
to save
you.

[Doreen Peri]

Hi palephx!

Welcome to the Studio!

I read the first one. Good writing. Enjoyed it!

I have plenty more that I haven't even put on my own site. Insofar as someone there has cross-marketed for here (and Performance Plaza, also a nice group), I've bookmarked both and will try to 'spread the wealth.'

I'm happy to hear you have a lot of writing to share because I like to read and so do others!

I do believe, though, that you are doing yourself a disservice by posting so many in one thread. As mousey said, it's really hard to digest so much at once and I think your work would be read more if you posted one or two in a thread instead of 5 or 6 .

That way, readers would be able to take the time to read and enjoy your images and use of language and reply to you about the piece, itself, rather than attempting to reply to a myriad of pieces.

I've assembled pieces before, myself, which have been on particular themes which I wrote during our Word Jams and posted them all at once so you're not the only one... lol... but I think sometimes I do myself a disservice when I do that, too.

Anyway... welcome! I saw a couple of your visual pieces but I can't remember which forum you posted them on. I wanted to take a closer look.

Hope you enjoy looking around and posting.

Oh and these comments are just my opinion, of course. Others may totally disagree with me and like it a lot when someone posts many in one thread.

You might enjoy our GO! forum if you like spontaneous writing, also. Those threads go on and on with strings of poetry!

[gypsyjoker]

No one is coming to save me either
But do I know the true nature of one?
And we are the ones we have been waiting for.

I liked that last one the best, they were all great. Blew me away. Thanks and happy to hear there is more to come.

[palephx]

I do believe, though, that you are doing yourself a disservice by posting so many in one thread. As mousey said, it's really hard to digest so much at once and I think your work would be read more if you posted one or two in a thread instead of 5 or 6 .

That way, readers would be able to take the time to read and enjoy your images and use of language and reply to you about the piece, itself, rather than attempting to reply to a myriad of pieces.

Thx, Doreen. I'm trying to shift between the code/layout of this board versus others I'm used to. I understand what you're saying. You'd prefer that each piece be set out on its own in a new thread to promote reaction to it, specifically. Though I do not agree, I will comply.

One of the peculiar features of phpBB2 (and my own IPBoardware) is that a response can be generated to specific posts. Maybe we both don't give enough credit to our random visitors--rather than our regular Members, who can be trusted to know the deal--but I totally get how it is to expect that people won't realize such a thing is possible.

In the case of this current thread, I'm fine with people commenting however they want, as randomly as they wish. I figure most will list the title, or quote a portion, or whatever.

If the preferred format is to set each work up as its own topic, I will be happy to do so. I just didn't think I should crowd the forums with so much of my own stuff that way.

[Doreen Peri]

No, not really.

It's not that I prefer it that way.

I was just thinking you'd like to have comments and input and to me, as a reader, it's easier for me to comment on one piece than to comment on several.

You can do it any way you want here. If you want your own thread to continue adding poetry to it, that's fine! No problem.

I'm sure there are many random visitors... obviously by the view count compared to the replies on threads on any internet board.

There really is no "preferred format" here. We don't have any rules at all except one. And that rule is to respect each other. Other than that, do whatever you want... post as you please.

This site is set up as a gift, really, to the participants. I mean, it's YOUR board in that you have come here to participate, so you are welcome to post any way you feel comfortable with posting.

Truly.

Enjoy yourself and thanks for being here!

I was impressed with the first poem and will be back to read the others when I have time. Clearly you have worked on your craft and I admire that!

Welcome!

[WIREMAN]

read the 1st and liked....will get back for more,
good to see one so blessed by the word,
wanna read some of your short work too.....

[palephx]

There really is no "preferred format" here...This site is set up as a gift, really, to the participants. I mean, it's YOUR board in that you have come here to participate, so you are welcome to post any way you feel comfortable with posting.

I'll take the "when in Rome" approach rather than the "when in Vegas" one.

[hester_prynne]

I read em all, dug em all, and will be lookin for more!
Yessirreee pale!

H