The Laundry In The Clustering Aloe
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
Aloe,
And Alma is somewhere close to here,
Gossiping to conquistadors while the
Airplanes fly so low to listen;
And the television breaks the news, and the
Kidnappers don’t look so bad:
So soon it will be Christmas, which makes all of
The vanishing children very, very glad.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Vanishing Children
All over the yard, I’ve placed my
Guns in the snow:
My mother is drying the laundry in the clustering
Aloe,
And Alma is somewhere close to here,
Gossiping to conquistadors while the
Airplanes fly so low to listen;
And the television breaks the news, and the
Kidnappers don’t look so bad:
So soon it will be Christmas, which makes all of
The vanishing children very, very glad.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Calls of A Sunny Winter
Laughing through the calls of a sunny winter:
The sun is leaping like a pony, rambunctiously stealing away
From any gods that it ever knew
In its young life, while last night I saw the brown reservoirs
Of your body sleeping underneath the Christmas tree,
And underneath the television;
And laughing, as it held a child on the couch of the Mexican
Household- so freely as if it was ours.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Or The Mail Man
Builders for these castles get their hands wet
And then sculpt the necks of parapets and heron:
They burn around the shoulders
Growing freckles like periwinkles as they step
Over the jelly-fish—
Their mother leaving them to be watched over by
The sea so she could go
Shopping with another man or the mail man—
In its innuendo the sun will burn,
The cloud with disappear—and the birds will turn.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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On A Birthday Cake For Dying Rabbits
Storm clouds laughing over bowling alleys where
No one spends any real time in-
And the jaundice east blowing out the sick
Candles on a birthday cake for
Dying rabbits:
And this is my toy sent spinning out onto
The concrete field,
Covered with so much graffiti, like tattoos
Around your neck,
And the airplanes coming across you
Carelessly every night, but never having the mind
To look down and see.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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To Be Awakened
Write in a cradle of luxury:
And wait for the traffic to pass by like
Beautiful lures
And housewives in their mouths:
Now I do not know which way I am going—
The concrete is so singular—
Airplanes touch-down maybe fifty feet
Away from me—
It is the year of the dragon, and she is my wife
As the angels fly into her,
Burning themselves—wishing to be freed,
As her hair darkens
Until it is finally time to be awakened.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Without Prestige
I am through performing
Grotesquely muted
Against this voyeuristic
Wall
As clear as a shallow sea
Prostrate before a
Warlord star.
A gift
For your casual soul
Window-shopping.
My heart is hung around my
Neck with your name.
Your pet,
My only trick is to
Disappear as you
Walk away
Holding whoever’s hand.
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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On Their Soft Brown Skin
It seems real that my joy is drunken:
My heart burns like peeling glass, the dogs run underneath
The overpasses and after class:
The cars motors purr, stamped by housewives, swaying in
The caesuras of their dreams,
Shopping, bearing the negligee that is hardly even there,
Like the spit of rainbows on her brown skin,
As her children come back home from school again;
And I wonder how her soft brown kisses feel on their
Soft brown skin.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Airplanes Coming Indoors
Then there is a womb opened in a new
Holiday,
Bright with her children and blind snow storms:
All of the wolves make a surplus
Around the orchard of her
Little house,
And the snakes hang down from their
Christmas trees,
Tired from their gossiping,
And her father’s car, and her husband’s car
Wait outside—
The day is equally beautiful, and she lays brown-
Eyed with her children
And never has to worry about the airplanes
Coming indoors.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Of Coins And Of Flowers
Unicorns in the soft meadow
Fogs,
While Alma is letting off of making
Love,
Dousing her steams and elated
Screams,
She will increase again into
Shopping malls,
Deciding again on the
Garments who will
Jubilee her pitch perfect
Skin,
While I will work for her
All day long,
Working over the genii in his
Brown bottle,
Until I have done something right,
And so deserve to call her home,
To play with her the lucky games
Of coins and of flowers
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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