(no subject)
make that three.
"a page for ariel pink"
i think that ariel pink
will get an entire page of his own
in this shrine to teenaged foolishness.
ariel pink
who stared out at me cockeyed
from the pages of a music magazine
(crumpled and reeking of perfume samples)
ariel pink
that "detuned haluncinatory radio"
whose "acid washed symphonies"
escape me yet.
ariel pink
bleeding heart drawn on in cherry lipstick
lipstick halo on the blank white tile behind
cherry tears smudged down
drug-fed cheeks
ariel pink
and his eight track,
capturing my attention and a page of his own
that was an old poem. i just found it.
these are new:
"a thousand poems"
inside that boy
are a thousand poems
lying semi-dormant there
in movements, speech,
in the music he hums incessantly
and in the way he thinks:
long languorous thoughts
visible to the careful observer.
Watching him think
is like watching a machine,
state of the art and newly polished
churning, turning out
with such efficiency.
the boy is a thousand poems
and no one sees it!
that is why i write like one posessed.
poems beg to be written
and i oblige,
for recently i find myself keeping
everone's secrets but my own.
perhaps i am in love
perhaps i hear the call of a thousand poems
waiting to be written.
"saint coltrane"
i hear they've made you a saint now,
saint john coltrane,
with your own church even
in some big city.
whenever they spoke of jazz
they spoke of coltrane; so
wanting to be in the loop,
i added an album to the pile
i took home after my
grandfather died.
i took it home in the bottom of my bag
telling no one
(for fear of sounding pretentious,
i suppose)
i took it home and listened
to it late at night
and was dissapointed.
i wanted to like the music
saint coltrane.
i tried, but felt nothing.
eventually, i turned it off
and fell asleep feeling
as though i had failed.
i don't know who i was trying to impress
both my grandfather and you,
saint john,
are gone.