I wrote a poem this morning to Linda Lovelace

Honey, you don't have to tell me what rank things the world taste like.

It would be nice to subscribe to the tesserae, the identified voucher

that love making is. Or to  announce each secret ecstasy a body movement,

to the rhythm of spoken words. Poetry don't happen like that. The poem

picks, from the mosaic of appalling loops, it's own earthen subjects.

I fell in love with you in the 70's at the Studio North Theatre in Ferndale

next to a guy jerking off, where one felt the invisible tug between

you and everything. Though it's never too late for benevolence,

the cut iris's never too splendid; the sheets never too clean,

you were Liz Taylor in that expanding preciousness standing in a peignoir

white slip or that thrown away intimation in "Where The Boys Are".

Afterwards, I can lay my misspoken chalice at the feet of Jupiter

and still you wont love me.

I am tired of showering a lover with praise before they leave me.

"To have died once is enough" Virgil wrote. And then the act is over.

I blow horns, throw small rocks and shout but the deer just stand

there and look at us. Honey, I don't have to see movies of what

you've done to know the veracity of what you can do. How in the end

every man repulsed you. How when you did it you didn't believe it was you.

But it was. But you still didn't believe it. And in life, when all of eternal

awesomeness is consumed, I imagine that gray cat of mine

as I chased his scurrying a*s through the house

with the mouse he had already half eaten.

Reviews

[G. Cedillo]

A number of things -- first off, what a great opening line! The direct address and, yes, I heard the Shakespeare reference as well, but it also adds to something I want to hear more of in the poem and that is a lament. I wonder if it could be re-written: "You don't have to tell me what the world's rank thinks taste like" or "what rank things the world tastes like." Either way.

One small note, and it's just me, it always turns me off to hear poets talking about poetry -- it's like watching movies about actors or a play-within-a-play. It takes me out of the unfolding drama and always feels too self-referential. I don't think theres anything poetic about poetry.

The next stanza is gold -- Liz taylor, the studio north theatre, cut iris'!

I don't know where the ending comes from, it doesn't matter -- for some reason, I've been there, I feel it. thank for sharing this read

[BLACKBEARD]

this is a well written poem. i like the concept and it is well structured. continue writing. you have a gift

[Amare]

Definitely well written. Will have to check out more of your work.

[Beccy]

I had to look her up. When I did, when I read about her life, this poem became so much more than words on a page.

Fate is a fickle mistress. We think we have so much choice, but in the end, much is chosen for us.

I confess to a slight pricking of my eyes as I read this.

Beccy.

[writing mojo]

a frogged response in such things that only required a kiss
to associate a princess to a prince... that's what she needed a kiss, instead
of roller derby and disco Hairy Carrie with pig blooded Hari Krishna,
acceptance. Your letter of ode gives more then lip service to the hilt of such releases,
a souled reply to circumstances sharp enough to prod a bit at Fonda's Barbarella space
without rocket reentry..excellent piece

[Emily B]

i needed a healthy dose of wondrous poetry, so i came to you

you never fail me

[W.k.kortas]

My goodness, where to start? The little nod to Shakespeare, be it conscious or no, with the "rank things", the invocation-to-the-muse-esque opening stanza, the ingenious and seamlless mixing of Virgil and Liz Taylor, the sacred and the profane, half-chomped mice and bums jerking off. Years and years ago, Elton John wrote "Goodbye, Norma Jean" his pop-song paean to Marilyn Monroe, but it was that--a pop song, two-dimensional, lacking any blood and jizz. as it were (I'm guessing Elton wasn't going in that direction, given subsequent events.) This lives and breathes in a way no frothy pop-anthem could ver dream of.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

love the allusion to the half eaten mouse...and i remember her saying she couldn't believe what she had done...there is no denying what is past and is in our past...we did it...we can't go back and start over, that scene is done.

i like the part about being in the theater with the others who fantasized that she was their girl...and she was doing it to them..."dying several times from ecstasy ....what would Linda say to that? still deny it was she?

and i like the part about not having to see the movie to know what she could do...same for all of us...we don't have to see the movie either to know what we could do...but it's about choices and regrets, or choices and feeling satisfied with those choices...flip a coin, it's life.

[Lyn Anderson]

I love this. I remember my parents talking about Linda Lovelace. Way to put yourself in that 70's porn mindset.
two very small things I noticed were (taste - maybe should be tastes? -- or that could be intentional) -- and its does not require an apostrophe in this case.