Like Bright Sunlight Underneath The Moon
Muse- I want to see you wearing barrettes
In Paris-
Alma- rings of golden satellites between brown
Knuckles-
Warm sweet kisses underneath broken school
Busses- Alma-
Warm sweet places, like hot clay in
Art class- and easels waiting in the broken
Monuments of honeysuckle daylight
With saw horses underneath open hearts:
The way the wilderness waits across the canal
For you- Alma,
To step into the crepuscule of the burning sugar canes
At the dead ends of suburbia,
To leave the senses to go to sleep behind you,
And to start our barefooted, your feet
The size of toy boats, as you exhilarate the heavens
And pull them down to examine your own heavens-
And they see the truth to your passivity,
As the canoe lays tinkered up to the bank, underneath
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Swan At Some Distance
Bannered and awaiting the snows, don’t
You sit and wait under your mountain of all things-
Like a dark eyed jewel:
Alone, on a dark road near sea level,
So far beneath you, I have sexual dreams of taking you
Along Southern Blvd,
And you are so needy and pressed
Like something god has been kind enough to
Return; and you don’t know how to play
Soccer; and I am a dream myself in roller-skates
In the crepuscule of soft dinners,
Your eyes engorging on the fictionalized ice-creams
Of that wild satellite that isn’t even real.
A mollusk travels across the dog hair on my pillow,
Gets caught in the sharp tinsel of my scars;
And I awaken and moan. Even before I awaken, I sense
That it is the barren establishment the sun’s strings are returning
Me into- the silver fish blue lipped on the prow of his
Apathetic ship- and here I’ve never been able to achieve
The rights of beauty. For there you are all done up
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Down Their Awful Hall
You are my secret prejudice
I haven’t yet found a way to give up:
I don’t believe you actually love the
Human race,
But you sup right beneath the football
Coliseum;
It would be better if you more appreciated
Baseball,
But your hair is so perfectly auburn.
Listen to the way it swings,
Back and forth like an unhurried sea.
Even in your coffin it should swing that way.
You are like the titillating prize at the bottom
Of a crackerjack box,
The very thing I used to drive to Miami with
My father for deep after midnight,
To get my fingers sticky,
To populate my soul,
To watch the winos basking against the fire drums;
But the prizes are getting cheaper,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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If She Does
We’ve got in pumpkins-
Entire bins of pumpkins- and my job today
Was to kill the ants,
And think of something:
And this really beautiful mother came in today-
She looked like someone’s sister.
She looked like she’d played soccer in high school.
Then a man came in with gold teeth,
And I think he made a comment about my face
Under his breath-
I shouldn’t like to think what he had to say,
But I know he was Italian and a painter
And from New York,
But definitely not an artist,
And I was glad when he went away,
And after he went away I thought again of myself as
An artist
Who must try and look at his face from the sunburned
Shadows from the best possible angles
And try to make the best of it,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The First Steps of Outside
Making love in front of coquina fireplaces sometime
After school,
While all of the debutants were getting ready for
Their decathlon of enviable plays,
Jogging in place, and combing their hair:
The unmistakable angels in the iron clad air, kissing the
Follicles of their perfect skin,
The tryst of crepuscule make vulgar machinations
Around the four corners of their house,
Like liquor around an Indian reservations:
But they would soon all go out into this, a sorority fully on
The metamorphosis,
With or with out roller-skates, and making love,
But never so far as to make it across the canal,
Or to think so long of the commercial voyages of the wishing
Airplanes,
As to remember or think of me, as I laid like something
Amphibian against the banks of their parks which they would
Hardy think about anymore, which they would so
Easily be stolen away from,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Get Up Good
I want to get up good,
And go to work, easy open sky work,
Like the open lips of love-letters:
Good easy work,
Like being back in preschool and going on
Field trips to the
Naked galleries in the over spilling
Art museum,
Inebriate, leggy women- their first explosions
Of chartreuse rhapsody,
The easy, every day spilling spume,
The alarm systems and identical sisters colonnading
The rosy earth, and I don’t want to every have
To get up again with a tooth ache,
With a bend; I don’t want to ever have to skip school
Again,
With these two legs, or a bicycle to listen to a lion’s
Stomach growling all day while watching
Cartoons and the trash the housewives are made
To watch in stagnant captivation:
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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How My Story Goes
Walking out in the roses and the waves
Not knowing where I am,
And you not knowing why you feel the need
To bring your body so near to me
When your eyes are so far away,
Engorging.
And the mountains are filled with evil spirits
While Pedro takes off his close,
And the Christmas trees sleep like starving conquistadors
Fearing that they have been brought too
Far into the wilds of the state of Florida,
Beautiful men so full of turquoise thrills.
Men on roller-skates,
Men slinging the news to girls who live in their mothers
And fathers trailer parks,
Girls who always go out tattooed and runny like liquid
Throws,
Who know the cries of unbowed rebels,
And who sing once they have their Christmas tree decorated
In their tin cans,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Where Your Gold is Buried
No honey on the lake of concrete:
A yard of concrete costs a buck, and you can
Cover all of the beautiful vineyard
For a penny,
And the entire hills will roll like a marble
Arcade,
But I still wish I was in Colorado,
Stealing a beautiful mother,
Going to get laid;
And I loved- I loved a bird.
I loved a salamander, so long I loved:
Atop the apexes of rotting houses,
I loved,
Alone: Mermaids and naked creatures undressed
Of exoskeletons,
Screaming for the pot and without guns or
Belt buckles;
And nothing but the night is still waiting for me,
And the swings are waiting to take me nearer
The pine trees’ ankles,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Women Who Begin With Letter S
Never published majorly,
But far beneath the sea, while I
Wake up on Tuesday after a holiday,
Holding my breath as a school of
Fish waits at the bus-: stop underfoot from
The lion,
I am surprised that I have arms and
Hands extended,
And a history brief and not well planned,
But sure,
And there are women who oppose my sex,
Who I am supposed to fit into,
Marry, love, support and reproduce into,
To eventually drift away every night
Our togetherness of the coital bed only
Highlighting how different planets we are,
But now I should move my fingers
And swim upward,
For there are bills and car insurance,
And naked speckled swimming in the shadows,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Persevered
Well then I fought the monsters
And then I fought their
Young:
So like tattooed stewardesses with
All of their body scars:
And they were so flexible,
And they were gymnasts—or then they
Were entire constellations
And we were hanging around until Christmas
Across the easements—we were
So easily hung up—mouthless—song-bird less,
And I swore that you could not describe
My last monument towards you:
But the way to you turned out to be in echoes
And skateboards while the alley cats
Were cleaning their mouths of fried chicken and other
Uncertain forget-me-nots—
Dastardly awakening upon the frontier between here
And Mexico,
And why won’t you awaken—muse with my better
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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