the old one tries to write a love poem.

So i'm talking to Jeffery , a power bottom, (don't imagine) at the Pride Parade

and he tells me how he's giving up trying to find love in bars. And I tell him

to Take his "Democracy Now" tee shirt wearing a*s to a town where the

lights dim fast. I convince him to write down his passions like the poets who

oversimplify their lives. And if need be

with a piece of charcoal against the newly set cement for the sidewalks

on the street with no houses left. And I make that swirling motion with

my mouth agape and my arms flailing like a bird who uses the mythical

abacus to count the planets. Love is forthcoming like the months of winter

or like war zones crossed. And for him to be grateful that he hadn't contracted

HIV when his Medicaid was due to expire.  Now how is that for the bitter angel

of life to give over to your wanting self? So I'm watching the movie

"The Island of Dr Moreau" where all of Brando's children has a tale/tail

but was convinced anyways to offer themselves to truth. Or of how

Rasputin who couldn't predict the end to suffering but could lay his hands

on the sick. You are not that, Jeff, the tall b***h in the Mademoiselle magazine.

Not even the wayward seal that clings to the rocks after the killer whales had

eaten your children. Joy, I try to explain, will not be laid out for you

like those throw rugs from the resale store, those from 2007 with the stains

of an old dog put down in 06. Your love,

your heart and even your emotions are as your apartment, the only place where

you can wash your tongue down like the hide of a beast not yet evolved. We all

deserve happiness, even if the hunt for it hurts us forever to imagine.

in grade school I read Walter Benton's , "This is My Beloved" so many damn times

I started to sound like Laurence Harvey. Flute music played to the passages I read aloud to myself .

I would breath deeply until I couldn't any longer, thinking that someone

would return amongst the "ruffled table clothes and lit cigarettes". I convinced

myself that love was a real event, the way the light came thru my little bedroom window to

honor me. Every chance I got I recited those passages to the girls I feel in love with.

Even the pretty, fragile ones . Even the ones who hated me

or hated poetry/

Reviews

[Emily B]

A consummate poet, preaching it to the lovelorn masses

Hope you are well

[h d e rushin]

all is well my love...thank you so much for those kind words....dana

[Ken Simm.]

I can never get beyond the amount of wisdom and sheer, as my old friend said, majesty that is present in your work.
You are simply amazing. So say all the old wild bunch at the time of writing this inadequate review.

[h d e rushin]

those are some beautiful words Ken...thank you my friend....dana

[W.k.kortas]

Hmph. Benton wished his work had this range, this simple majesty.

[h d e rushin]

i knew i couldn't slip a Benton reference by anyone on this site.....thank you my friend....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

is there still love out there?

can we still write love poems after surviving the relationships wars? i guess you give me hope, here.
i have all but declined now, and opted for the safe route---alone isn't always lonely...and there still are poems that have to do with love...although mostly the opposite side from real, just the imagined kind.
j.

[h d e rushin]

jacob, you're right....I too can still write poems after the storms of love...I think it even gets easier over time...thank you dearest brother...dana