I’ve been to war
It wasn’t fun
I bought a rose once
For a boy
He got a rose
When all he wanted
Who am I to say
When he will come back
If he will come back at all?
Winter is the wolves running to the woods.
They’re a lot like wives that way. Listen
To them eat fried chicken and mashed
potatoes, split a green apple, then
God gallops in with the cavalry.
Ma’m, move along – Sir,
you too. Mister Lord
When my time comes
I will go like a Queen
strapped in burning shoes
that dance her to death.
I’ll take a shoe off;
not every day a dancer yells at you
for writing when everyone else is naked
My heart has learned its one job is to pump blood
and therefore pumps it faster.
Give me more of him
thin boy across the way
dressing for bed with the light on.
I ate all this Adderall,
reading an OK story about a dead bird
Beethoven’s last piano sonata on
because I have trashy taste in Classical music
the futura palm trees swaying.
The pianist Rudi Serkin minds his fingers
as Stan comes out of the house dazed and naked
Staaaanley from Newark who likes it there inexplicably
who looks like he should bump into things
more often than he does.
You look at that sky he says wrapped yellow in gauze
I grunt I’m reading a Very Good story about a dead bird
it Just Reaches Out of the Page
plus Rudi has plenty to show me with his friend van Bee.
Stanley turns over his soft goldenrod ass lifted to the wind
rippling his taint hair fine and blonde but there is so much of it
but wait it isn’t the wind it’s him it’s Stanley
thrusting himself into the green seat cushion
to my trashy Beethoven
a sudden rush of keys Rudi drops in time
he pushes in a wide slow circle
ragged at some junctions at others delicate
and I think OK OK Stan
I can set aside
my little dead bird book.
If only you could have seen his ass as I did
hungry for cold cuts the ocean behind
split tetrahedrons that caught the light
threw it back
sky took pinks, reds
he missed a beat, try again
the song played 19 minutes.
And when he was done
a concert hall in Berlin applauded
Stan rose at a 45 degree from his inseam
flopping back into the house
funny how it’s fallen on me again
to make up for both our bad behavior last night.
It comes back with the second or third cup of coffee
having seemed so well deployed at the time
like, trying to write a poem not addressed to you
but there is no better you pretending to sleep
or me on a pile of dirty clothes
my curvy boner heavy on my belly
the room hot from the vent
smelling hot the window all blue
but where it was red or brown
you awake with your eyes closed
breathing that was it oh my god.
I have news.
My sexual ideal has shifted
to a schlubby bloated
sort of a Sven laid waste
by Cheez-Its and, yes
a lot more like my father.
I want to die.
not what I meant
to say what I
meant to say was
I don’t think there is a poem
or if I wrote a book today
I could make it quite as big
as what we did
but we really didn’t do anything.
Shakespeare loved a straight dude that way
which is weird
because we’re both available,
That is all - -
Oh, and police lights look pretty
reflect on the tree
red / blue
blue \ red yes
the cops shut down my street
Charlie Corbett is a mushy 7 and temporarily employed.