Blacks and Blonds.

a love poem for the old.

don't mind the controversy. Let me explain.

I met my girlfriend in a park with

no strewn whiskey bottles. Which means

I probably didn't meet her there, just

thought I did.

Is love the assumed impersonal purposeless

determiner of unaccountable happenings?

If so, then tell the moon of winter I've

had enough.

2.

I've found it curious that Tito from the Jackson 5

didn't speak. The big lumbering type I guess

that forces his apple hat will, his blue-jean

redemption (I think it's called) that wins back

from the consequences of sin, belief in another.

The logs chopped close.

The meat burned.

Look closer at the lovers as they dance.

Look closer as they share food like eagles,

just Juicy-fruit  when their saliva is sweet,

there after the ebola fear vibrates the passing membranes.

Someone said that we swallow at least

8 spiders a year. I've  lost count of mine.

That in all of Degas dancers, none were barefooted.

None were of full frontal nudity like those 68 Playboy

magazines where  belief foreshadows a little crotch,

a snippet of pubic hair perhaps but no Tyndareus daring

of the benumbed mythology. I've fallen in love again,

at 90.

And I want the sky as blue as a White girls eye. It's

tempestuous lips, as red as a redneck. I want the

overflow of dreams to be less Aretha. Less "Chain of Fools"

and more gospel kisses that compensate for loss.

Winter: twice as long as the sepals of Autumns  bloodroot.

The biological taxon; the re-description of each bird.

The leaves of the maple that hang, each year,

so low like green, mint testis.

And since you asked me, why the forest? Let me just say

that I best be left alone now. I've heard of the man

who survives alone in the wilderness with blade

and sweat and daring. Built his log house with beaver

and hawk in his shadow. But I smell funny. I am not

that guy. Here you will find me in the snow-scape of

all things imaginable. In the snow-globe of

little prairie houses, their doors un-pried open in the dupe

of colored bales. A huntsman half eaten by the wolves

I believe I've dreamed. A coroner in his pants of

changing patterns.

the air getting warmer; I forget the sweetened carrots

tenderly forgotten in a casserole.

Reviews

[Lyn Anderson]

The expanse and depth and breadth of this was truly amazing. I enjoyed the whole of it. I have but one suggestion, to break it up a bit, or perhaps segment it more clearly into different parts, even if it is to remain one piece. It needs an audience, this poem, it is very special.

[W.k.kortas]

Not quite full-on Molly Bloom as far as stream-of-consciousness goes, but a step in that direction, one reckons. This is billed as a love song for the old, and it's that certainly (as if we of a certain age should simply step aside from the business of life and leave it for the young), but it's bigger than that but smaller as well, if that makes a bit of sense. It takes guts as a writer to try to encompass the whole span of life through intimate details, and it takes a boatload of talent to pull it off.

[The Twin Arenas]

nice write, Dana. needed it.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this is fantastic...love the allusion to "chain of fools"--great song...

what we have to offer now is not much compared to when we were younger...
now we forget more ingredients in the casserole than we care to admit.
Angela Dorian....oops, yes, by the way...my all time favorite playmate...was from sept. 68---

but now, other things take preference of interest over playboys...and other such things...

trying to keep the mind active is enough of a chore...the body does what it wants.

yes, we used to share food, gum, whatever...now we can barely share saliva.

ah, the passion at 90....

you inspire me when i read your work...
and i can feel it happening again.

great piece.

[emmajoy]

' I want the ..overflow of dreams to be less Aretha. Less "Chain of Fools" .. and more gospel kisses that compensate for loss. .. Winter: twice as long as the sepals of Autumns bloodroot. .. The biological taxon; the re-description of each bird. .. The leaves of the maple that hang, each year, .. so low like green, mint testis.'

You're one of those writers who can curl the mind as well as the toes.. yet here there's very much a semi-surreal (can't think of something better) response to mind, memories and would-be comparisons. The present is very much yours, isn't history's rival, but, just perfect for now. Finely written with somehow metaphors, auguries and pensive assemblages!

[writing mojo]

a cuttzzy buffet of prime choice taste, fanatical enough to crux into man-na .. i like the intertwining wining and dinning of nature with thought as coin phrased entertainment, the attained prodigal sun coming around the earthly lover so worldly enough to never forget, only in abrupt sounder auras nocturnal in depth of dana's hunger panes... excellent piece