New poem that I wrote all by myself.

the galloping typist

We rehearse our colors each night,
hoping that in sunlight
they will not disappoint us
as did our other children.

Then each day is born gray.
The sun rises like a small balloon.

A cubicle.
We wait.

The bald electrics drain pink from our knuckles.
We blink several times.
Kisses everywhere flop and expire like valium moths.

We stumble home,
eyelashes caught in a button hole.

Fall onto a couch of dinge
dreaming small dreams with our eyes open--
narratives of chapped lips--
the wrong mascara next to the
toothbrush cup on the sink,
the wrong face in the mirror,
the elastic that pinches,
a broken colored bulb.

Morning -- that 20 watt bulb.
Maybe we see it again beside us.

We have tried
when the room is empty
to xerox ourselves
to see some sign
and felt somehow diminished
as if two is less than one

See, I'm trying to be T.S. Eliot, but, uh, not so learned. Did you see it?

New poem to celebrate the working blog. Oh yeah.


The General
for Henry Darger

Little girls, everywhere,
tearing, ripping, soiling their pink frocks,
turning into snails. They run from this side
of the page to that,
stepping on their oversized butterfly wings,
squealing.

Pursued by huge poppies or red
-faced soliders,
they shriek and squeal and laugh and hang.

Little girls, everywhere,
their purple faces, dying,
naked chests full of punctuation
and watercolor,
with their candy corn and bayonets.

Little girls, everywhere,
colored like angels or ducklings,
the daughters of a bearded god
with hands and eyes constantly
tracing little girls,
his mouth full of hearts and swords,
full of little girls, everywhere.

sooo.