Author: steeleweed

Chumley’s

It is pleasant to see
the poet/letter-writer/whateversheis
smile
as she looks up from the paper,
smile as she glances at the others
or at some private thought
or because she feels like it.
She has a nice
smile.
I’m jealous because I didn’t invoke it.
Maybe I did. Maybe
she smiled at the sight of me.
And maybe
she just smiled.
It suffices. Today
is not a total waste.
   Thank
      you.

Sorting through

Sorting through the collection of our lives
having decided on
a rummage sale of the soul
we gaze curious and disremembering
on joys and pleasures
pricing them by whim
til all are sold.
We will not sell our pain
at any price.

Time

Time is the burglar to whom we all
open our doors. Casually
we watch him
rummaging through our lives,
examining with his commercial eye
our lives
bits and pieces that are
our lives.
What a puzzlement when he chooses
inconsequential knicknacks
we haven’t looked at in years.
What fear when he scrutinizes
a cherished heirloom of our past,
polished religiously, kept in a place of honor.
What disappointment
when he tosses it aside.
“Take it!”, we want to scream,
“It’s important!”.
Expressionless, he looks at us
and shrugs.

What if

What
if
we
all
decided to ?
shit ?
in the middle of Fifth Avenue
& 57th Street.
At High Noon.
On a Monday. Imagine
thousands of bare
asses
commenting
on the State/state of the world
(and commenting on 5th Avenue and 57th St.)
and making their comments on
5th Avenue
and 57th Street.

I wake up

I wake up in the middle of the night
speaking bad French or mediocre German.
I don’t speak French at all
except when I’m asleep
and little German
at any time
except when I’m angry.
When I’m very angry
I speak Russian.
When I’m absolutely enraged
I shit in English.
So
there I was
being philosophical in French
and my philosophy
(my French being what it is)
sucked.
Or rather, it remained unexpressed,
like anger and love and other
things I could mention.
Sometimes I think I do that
deliberately – philosophize in French.
It reminds me how much is
inexpressible
in any tongue.

Roses

I urge my roses on,
coaxing reluctant blooms
from bad-tempered stalks.
They naturally resent it and impale me
every chance they get,
but I’m afraid if I left them alone
they’d never bloom again.
What a shock to find one wild in the woods,
covered with a carpet of flowers.
In their own good time…

Still life

Still Life with Lemon
with sour grapes and rue,
with sorrow and tomorrow and you,
with choices
unchosen,
buds never to flower,
an unpassed past,
the future always in the future,
and no Today. No
Now.
Living still
life.
Why?
I