The Sun's Homework
The dream in the enigma
Of unmolded sound,
Passing through the lips
Of the bullhorn
Where keeps the ashes of
A once great fire
The young gods sat
Around, telling the first
Stories with just their eyes;
When ladies were sometimes
Lakes and trees
Sneaking into the unpolluted love,
Like arriving late for class
Without an excuse,
And naked the phantoms walk
The courtyard made invisible by
The sun,
Who can tell them where to go
Now that their homework is done.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Corsages and Cul-De-Sacs
Slipping into the palmettos like a serpent
Going to see a whore:
Underneath the open wounds of airplanes
Bathing in their two piece swimsuits:
Languishing topside of the astral planes
Using wigi boards to say I love you
To ghosts who try to tell you their names-
Inside a house of diamonds
In the eyes of the crocodile who never smiles
But ticks like a clock, giving fair warning
To prepare the boys for their bar mitzvahs
In the corsages and cul-de-sacs of their
Immortality.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Windchimes of My Girlfriend
There she is like a seahorse attending bar-
Underneath the halogens of the football stadium like a
Lighthouse:
She trawls through the night laughing with her brown
Eyes, serving drinks to freshmen and
Poltergeists- while my wounds get out like zeppelins from
The rose bushes, and they pull themselves like
A red wagon across campus- the wind chimes of my
Girlfriend mutely perverse, and I sing to her
To the library and to the other places that I think do not
Want to let her in.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like Zepplins
There she is like a seahorse attending bar-
Underneath the halogens of the football stadium like a
Lighthouse:
She trawls through the night laughing with her brown
Eyes, serving drinks to freshmen and
Poltergeists- while my wounds get out like zeppelins from
The rose bushes, and they pull themselves like
A red wagon across campus- the wind chimes of my
Girlfriend mutely perverse, and I sing to her
To the library and to the other places that I think do not
Want to let her in.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Jet Planes
I saw my little cousin today:
I see them almost everywhere, at the movies,
Waiting at home in front of the television,
But I cannot hardly recognize them
They’ve grown like weeds is the aphorism,
And they’ve removed their pea green houses,
And their unicorns aren’t for real,
But lonely in their front yards with the tenebrous
Blue weeds:
You know, I see them on the swing-set and I want
To join them, but I am too old
For the sports of Christmas trees and young
Jet planes.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Afternoon's Swimming Pool
With your spyglass,
Burn the hyper-active
Centipede-
Create the leaping
Energy that
Makes words dissapear.
Roll up the tinfoil
Into a crude bowl
And smoke your
Mother's weed
While masturbating
In the afternoon's
Swimming pool,
In the tall green
Grass
Whispering beside
The blue canal;
There prehistoric
Alligators swimming,
The hazy shadows
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Middle of School
Pranksters of my boyhood still lighting off
Fireworks across the roofs of another school day—
Like all of Mexico laughing
As they propagated and made new streams into our
Beautiful delusion—and shot roman candles straight into
Our eyes,
Scarring us with the song that was in their loins:
Not afraid of airplanes, because knowing that, like the moon,
They could steal that too:
Until I found you safely under a bus in a rainstorm
And we made love forever right in the middle of school.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Chorus Lines of Jumping Jack
I only fell in love because I bought you flowers;
And I am alone because I drink beer,
But now we are together in state sanctioned borders,
Which greatens the odds of running my fingers
Through your hair:
Maybe we’ll meet on another planet in Disney World,
And I’ll use roman candles to divert your
Candy cart off the tracks,
And I’ll overthrow your knickers and unhinge your straps,
And eat all your salt water taffy while the munchkin
Automatons do chorus lines of jumping jacks.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Ethereal Turnstiles
Resins over the four corners of the earth, and
Mexican hands picking watermelons- supposing this was
Always where they were meant to show up:
Busses leaving high schools and disappearing down familiar
Roads-
Running through the smoke of chalk and seashells, trying
To raise up some god just to pass the time until they can get
Home to the trailer park of their
Television:
With the sky as rich as a snow pea: as slender and fragile,
With the airplanes smoking through
The ethereal turnstiles.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In A Ball of Kissing Dreams
Stillness in the river
In the unanswered season—pledges of
Allegiance to a classroom in
The summer—
And other ghosts—like the graveyards of
Kindergarten—
The television still turns on when you
Are not around—
Hummingbirds hover in the ether,
Propelled by the wishes of
Abraham Lincolns—
You are up in Ocala with the orange trees,
The horses,
And your husband—or you race above
The earth,
A comet who struck matches across my
Bedroom like rattlesnakes entwined
In a ball of kissing dreams.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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