NEW-- Just published at Five Fish Journal : American Cheese on Wonder Bread And read Alien Days (in The Poet's Haven) More poems... Streets
Decadence left on the doorstep it's a bundle of trouble wrapped in the flames of a burning world burning youth elements in the streets innocents on their own cleave to form a unifying mist the little girls dressed in black and blue leaning to the most recent extremes their stockings seamed their leather clings eyes losing focus I can't see the reason can't find the feeling the bodies bouncing to the beat carefree kids on angels' wings their beer-stained dreams their ratted mattresses they've caught life quick between the sheets roaches and butts patrol the sink looking for some action "Get the rent or get out!" the onion-skinned walls peel scream bug-eyed looking past them looking out watch the pretties file so young so slim so clean the vacant lots vacant smiles parade the streets at night lined with colorful drunks and junk the bars the come ons the walls move in tight the nostrils the legs the rumors spread the pigs are out this joint's gone out gotta get out before the freeze cruising bars: got a light? let's go to my place crank it snort it eat it s'il vous plait? it's cool and sticky runs down your leg in dreams the quick chill at the tip of your spine can't sleep awake in a daze caught in the flow a room some room a shower of eyes arms and knees and scattered sheets bits of thigh bottles lipsticks clips and ashtrays lie and strolling the Army's racks fifty cent hats and nickel bags the black sheep flock booze in bags grizzled chins eyes yellow watery gray mumbling: hey man need a quarter for an arrow-- gonna shoot me a sparrow pulling loose some change he's on his way immortal phrases hung on porcelain walls in a musty pub stuck as he pulls the urinal chain needing air the beach to dry out the waves needling green suds the alewives floating home the bodies broil between hamburger wrappers the sun trapped in a bubble the sand a collage of butts and beer cans radios dueling with the wind comparing newest waves unemployment check shades in hand checking out the scene then packing up pulling blistered body out humping down the street potato skin moccasins stumbling hey man you gotta fag? crazy back in bed and the night's arise sticks his face back in the glass smiling pretty green and popping ludes back on the streets lying in his suit feet dangling off the bed streets tangling in his head gonna escape this mess some day fill the void the time go straight get a job a pair of shoes hitch out West to Frisco you know, the Coast do it tomorrow someday back under covers rolling numbers and overnight it finally happens: the walls sweat crack the roof caves the roaches plan their attack standing on the ledge gotta fly before I fall.
(originally appeared in Poetry Motel) Hello A man called (I think it was a man) he said: Happy Holocaust you hook nosed bloodsucking Jew worm. All I could think to say was Hi right back. And he replied: May your children's children rot in the cold earth like you you slimy carcass carrion you diseased treachorous vermin. You have a nice day too, I said, and hung up the phone gently refreshed by such a meaningful communication with an intelligent sensitive member of our genus species time. Yes dear God, he's ours and yours forever. Let the wind whip a chill down heaven's spine. (previously appeared in Innisfree and Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Bearing Witness to the Holocaust (Northwestern University Press, 1998)) You Are You are the sunshine when I open my eyes and I snuggle up beside you never wanting to let go. You are my heat when I’m cold my strength when I’m weak my voice when I’m mute. You are the lavender scent of a new spring day the breeze that cools on a hot summer day. And you are what I need today tomorrow every day for the rest of my life. I love you, Diana. The Sunrise and You Want to lie in the tall grass in the soft dew with you watch the sunrise the sun reflecting shining in your eyes want to kiss you at that moment at that first newborn burst of light so like the burst of light in my heart when I see you when I hear you when I feel you put my arms around you and know in that instant the Truth like an ancient wisdom I’ve known I’ve carried around in my heart forever. (originally appeared in Mobius and Poet's Haven) Nineteen He was nineteen dying in a field in a foreign land. That was all he knew. He wasn’t feeling brave but only afraid as he felt the life slipping out of him. He didn’t know who was right or who was wrong as they argued about it in the grocery stores in the newspapers at the filling stations and he lay dying in this field of green. He didn’t feel as if it were an honor to die he didn’t feel dignified or proud, just scared, a boy longing for home. He didn’t know anything now just the pain; he wasn’t thinking about bleeding-heart liberals or staunch conservatives only about all the things he wouldn’t see he wouldn’t do in his life now that it would all be over so soon and the fear of the unknown of what was to come. He didn’t know much about politics about “stand firm” or “the right plan” he didn’t know which candidate was better for the country now he would never get the chance to vote). He only knew he was nineteen and he was going to die before he had a chance to live and he wasn’t really sure why. (originally appeared in Wounds of War: Poets for Peace (PublishAmerica, 2006)) Fragments of a Day Old discarded sneaker lying on the roadside as the car flashes past, church steeple liquor store lights turning yellow, turning red, old newspapers blowing down the street, running, always running to catch the next story, billboards of happy smoking people scream: you could have this life, too for a price a price a price, playground with metal tennis hoops, a single basketball sets alone on the concrete waiting for someone to pick it up, skies of gray, clouds of rolling thunder, a dozen roses still wrapped in green paper stuffed in a trash can, sleeping baby smiling in a car seat, not knowing what's yet to come, sneakers tossed over electrical lines, dangling in the wind, old woman sitting in front of her apartment building, glasses falling down her nose, knitting another scarf, a blue-suited bell boy opening the door of a limo for an aged blonde-haired woman decked in furs and jewels, as the girls down the street throw the stone and hopscotch on the sidewalk, discarded paperback novel lying in a gutter pages flapping in the wind, a man in ragged clothes sleeping on a park bench, little boy dressed in his best suit as the casket is lowered into the earth wondering what it's all about, winds of change swirling lifting newspapers up into the air so they dance in a circle by the fire hydrant and empty beer cans roll down the street, an unshaven old man in his white sleeveless T-shirt peeps out his window, at the chaos of the streets below, radio blaring: "Better get out those umbrellas because it looks like a doozy of a storm's headed our way," old man scratches under his arm lights a cigarette closes his window and disappears inside and the world keeps spinning and the world keeps turning try to catch it try to keep up. Chosen Ones I've never been one of the Chosen Ones never sipped my soup with a silver spoon, but have stood by watching, servile, hands behind the back, tail between my legs, watching ladies sip tea, slipping out of stoles, jumping, bending down to pick them up when the precious animal hides fall to the floor, grabbing them and returning them to their owners, unseen unheard unnoticed invisible out of sight out of mind of the powers of privilege, as they, with white gloves, continued to sip, over idle chatter of the latest fashions in dresses, soirees, and wine, their smooth tanned elbows tilted at just the proper angle, quite, 47 1/2 degrees I think it would be, munching on biscuits, scones, speaking of all their charitable contributions, their fund raising efforts, smiling the pearly white smiles that only those in the clouds of grace can smile, while down below, the rest of us carry umbrellas or don't, waiting for the endless skies of gray to clear. (originally appeared in HazMat Literary Review) Alice, Would You Stop? If I saw you on the streets would you stop ran in front of your car would you stop. Called you on the phone hoped that you weren't home would you stop. Showed you all my sloppy poems about love and love and love you didn't bat a pretty lash said poetry?-- you didn't know much about it. Bottle of wine you made me drain it until I couldn't do it then turned and laughed. Beat me red took me to the edge said the timing wasn't right. Remember how you laughed with your friends as the door slammed? You weren't supposed to be here I wasn't supposed to see you but saw you in the streets would you stop would you stop would you stop threw a wrench in my chest they sewed me up neat left the wrench. If I was running for my life would you stop and say hello? I don't think so. If my life was on the line calling collect and I didn't have a quarter would you spare the change or hang me up? If You Were Still Here I could be so close to you in my desperate clinging moments but you're not here. Azure dreams dreams all day long through the night can't sleep for dreaming of you. If you were here now you wouldn't let me slobber sorrow you'd kiss my death-caked looks away and they'd fly high above the clouds, the rain, wouldn't let me indulge myself in self-pity, shock me out if it with your snarl, your smile as you did then. The dreams coming faster, harder now mixing with the spinning turmoil I dress myself in daily. Want to go back feel your winds gently sweeping over me again. Arms When there ain't nowhere to run where do you run? Into arms you never left -- warm arms dark arms. You begin to lean and they're gone never been just needle tracks shadows footprints in the dust in the road leading to a swamp hounds hot on your trail where do you run frantic come across shacks knocking on doors rubbing your arms in the chill night nobody answers the knocks the shadows behind which someone has arms if only they'd open. Mental Ward They're lined up against the hallway walls looking like refugees from a war long past-- the woman of eighty or so on the cot reaching up, her bony hands like twigs swaying in the breeze, reaching blindly as we pass, on the endless swing ride of her past, calling for Daddy: "Daddy, I wanna get off"; the ancient man of bones shuffling along the linoleum floor in his slippers, dressed in his pajamas at seven o'clock at night, eyes dulled like marbles, feet seeming to move but getting nowhere; "Who is he? Who is he?" a distressed voice calls out as I walk past, her eyes on me still as I try to smile try to reassure her that I'm perfectly innocent; the woman shrieking some ungodly song and conducting the imaginary orchestra but smiling smiling all the while; the gray-haired pale-faced woman who can't seem to get the words out as she approaches us, shakes her head, smiles apologetically, and tries for five minutes to open the locked door, then moves on; the victims the wasted the remnants of us this is the circus from hell the place where they go where we may go when we go when little pieces of their minds of our minds start to splinter off and fall to the floor in a senseless pile when the puzzle pieces no longer seem to fit they're there (will we be?) talking to no one to their memories, to their ghosts locked forever in a perpetual snow dome, but we're able to leave they, they must stay playing talking arguing with their private ghosts murmuring away as the elevator doors shut and leave them behind but not for long we'll be back to see the babbling to weep inside at what becomes of some of us and curse our time already lost forever. The Sky Today It's always like this the day after the Horror: sky endless rolling blue not a cloud in sight breeze slight fluttering oak leaves and maple birds chirping unseen, all around but yesterday my father's mother-- light snatched from her eyes-- was led by a steel gray robot to her last shower and yesterday Sylvia Plath turned on the gas and yesterday a girl I knew who hid behind a Cheshire grin did her Sylvia imitation smile sparkling before dissolving into air. So how do I explain today the sun high blinding in a cloudless sky birds chirping as if nothing's come to pass before this day this sky? How do I explain the sky's deception turning my insides out making me want to touch to feel to dance when beneath its cloak of blue the unseen faces lie hidden watching and waiting? (originally appeared in Poetpourri) Blueprints to Black Newspapers blowing in the streets sticking to granite walls match stick corpses piled naked in a pit blueprints to Crematoria # 1, 2, 3 and 4 signed, stamped, and filed letters imploring supervisors to work faster get the job done invoking laws of supply and demand there are deadlines and budgets to meet and finally, done!-- the architect and engineer smile, greet each other by the water cooler for a paper cup toast, and shake each others hands. A charcoal gray sky rain falling lazily in cold fat droplets steady, unceasing like the transports the constant squeal of infants shoes of all sizes lined neatly on the racks eyeglasses stored in great boxes hair like hay rolled and bound proud trademark on the oven makers' kiln a faceless soldier bent over at the sight counting bodies then failing falling to the ground hand over his eyes crying silent tears. Cold night lying alone on a mattress not a sound but the refrigerator's hum the rain dripping against the window pane the distant wail of a freight train and the echo of an infant, a sea of infants wailing-- it will yet be night it will yet be night. (originally appeared in Hazmat Literary Review) Hands He would swear at the boxes they would never stop coming-- tape 'em, stuff 'em, pack 'em-- the routine never died until the skin of his narrow fingers would grow chafed, calloused, cold from the sharp edges the tiny blades that blurred his vision that slipped beneath the skin into his heart. And at the end of the day he would look down at the palms of his colorless hands shove them into his pockets afraid to take them home to caress his sprightly young wife his newborn son afraid that from his touch would flow the daggers he kept locked up in his head. (originally appeared in Innisfree and Hazmat Literary Review) The Necessary Strength Surrounded by possibilities, the lead ring just out of reach, the past bleeding into the present tense. Sitting alone, Black & Tan in hand, wondering how I got to this point. When did the tiny crack turn to a crevice, and then separate the dreams from reality? When did the pressure push me off the ledge? But still hanging on by my fingernails. "It's just life," one said, but what else do we have? Pulling myself up by my knuckles on bare rock, turning them white, climbing up with all my might, to see what lies on the horizon -- is that a clouded sun that I see, or just the eerie light of the moon taunting, mocking me to succeed, to gain the final necessary strength? farewell to a friend it was raining on the pavement as he shaved it off the room was cold cutting hair by hair the fuzzy balls floating to the floor cutting Samson's strength left naked to the blade a clean start and an end the stripped hairs were tears coating the floor clogging the sink they fell and fell air breathing through sun warming a new face broiling the cement soaking up the rain -- a hair or two remained. I Will Never Know Their Names It doesn't seem like too much to think about you once (or twice) in my life for a few fleeting moments: you would have been here not gassed smoked roasted by red-eyed wolves that called themselves men, for what reason? Because you were Jews? Because they needed someone to blame for their unhappiness for their misery? I think about all of you I would have known, would have visited (those of you I would have liked, would have hated). But now it doesn't matter: won't know you, or your children, or your children's children (my cousins), ever. They won't ever be; could this possibly be true? Too terrible to comprehend that men would fry babies and mothers and bearded grandfathers, why? Gas them and pile their bodies, their broken limbs, in mass graves or better yet, they'd say, let's burn them! Let the stench of burning flesh taint this land forever, but save all useable parts-- the skin of the Jew for instance is tough, would make good lampshades-- could they have really skinned us like cattle? Yes, they could, they did, we must never forget. But for all my cousins that were and never were now, for one single moment, with a single tear I cry--I never knew their names. (originally appeared in HazMat Literary Review) Separate Ways She said "Yes, I think you should go, at least for a while. We need to see what's what." It said sexy girls are waiting to talk to you Unique and enchanting female 31, 5' 7" 300 lbs. Seeking someone special "We need to see if things are better if we're not together." Your sweetheart as close as your phone 2.99 a minute "If you feel better about yourself and me about myself this way, we need to see if there's anything left to salvage." Unforgettable conversations, fulfill your fantasies "You still love the girls, don't you?" Get rich quick: rich in love that is "And don't forget to send some money, when you get some, and come and see the kids and borrow the car and use the computer and stereo whenever you want"; #1 Rated bored housewives kinky local girls almost illegal hot mature ladies kinky Asian girls hot college coeds 2.99 a minute "'Cause you know you always have a place here, this is where you belong." Love, happiness, success can be yours in 1996 Amazing results LIVE. Certified psychics want to help Call now. 2.99 a minute 2.99 a minute. "It won't be so bad, just for a while, till we figure things out, will it?" What are you waiting for! Sexy babes want to talk to you! The phone rings once, twice-- I don't move I'm afraid to pick it up. (originally appeared in Desperate Act) Shakespeare's Dead Too Romeo and Juliet took a stroll down the wrong road poor Juliet walking out in a flash sunset a world turned strange all mirrors and wires razor blades and empty vials a fish-eye look hook in a dirty bowl forgetting: hey I never learned to breathe beneath the surface just green around the gills, you might say. So Romeo (being Will's son) he took a stroll looking after J holding back a bit following the road afraid afraid afraid lost looking for a fresh trail in the dust whispering through the trees, shivering: Juliet, come out come out wherever you are. (originally appeared in Innisfree) The Cold Swing Swinging on a cold swing the moon an icy cuticle through bare branches the cold air night a rebirth of blemish-free childhood sky so clear like long ago Illinois nights cold cutting the moon a sickle sweeping striking ears cheeks limbs but honest-- you could drive for miles and miles through frigid rows of faceless cornstalks it was somehow simpler there then every immediate challenge immediate a whitewashed cross of hardwood hurdled easily without strain legs still yearning for the next soaring flight-- and now now straining muscles fail against bulging burdens discontentment fog and clouds the normal color of New York skies except for this moment: the moon hanging crystal clear the muscles babyborn new dark cornfields surround you again and you soar swinging on a cold swing. (originally appeared in The Advocate) Soil The pseudo-friend I was to meet for lunch has forgotten, and the bearded Mexican farmer on the wall stares at me, sad-eyed, life drained from his eyes by all the years of tilling the earth, turning the soil. And what soil have I turned, what crops have I grown in thirty-nine years? And what has drained the life from my eyes but ordinary everyday things-- work, worries, marriage, work, three children, exuberant, bright-eyed, too young to be disappointed, but after twelve years of marriage disappointed as their parents grew, tore apart the family portrait crashing to the floor. My five-year old calls me on the phone twice, three times in five minutes, talking too close to the mouthpiece trying to get closer to my cheek, to my ear, but I'm a mile away, listening in my hull, my echoey white palace, repeating to her: "I love you too, baby," my stomach raw, empty, as gently I place the phone back in its cradle. (originally appeared in HazMat Literary Review) Journey Trudging through the desert he came upon a tiny pool of water after hundreds of years without and he drank from it saw himself in its surface and slept beside it. When he awoke the sun had done its work the pool was gone. And what could he do thirsting for more a further glimpse of himself the memory left on his tongue; he could not drink his own tears could do little but stand and continue on for another hundred sun burnt years. (originally appeared in POETALK) ALL POEMS COPYRIGHT © 2009 BY MITCHELL WALDMAN -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And CHECK OUT: A FACE IN THE MOON, Mitchell's debut novel: http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com/FACEINMOON.html Selected Short Stories by Mitchell Waldman: http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com/Short-Stories-by-Mitchell-Waldman.html A WOMAN'S SONG, the new poetry collection by Diana May-Waldman: http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com/AWomansSong.html WOUNDS OF WAR: POETS FOR PEACE, an anthology of poetry and other writings about War: http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com/WoundsofWar.html
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