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THE DELUSION OF CROWDS
his is an unquestioned right
to
be liked
he's entitled to be pleased, fed
clean socked
and
expects to get
blow jobs from fit long legged dolls
who
appreciate his athletic car
also his trains are said to arrive
with space to sit down,
and
they also depart on time,
his
garbage is picked up quietly at night, electrons
&
water gush to him at close to no cost
and
without harm
the
security forces are on guard
to
serve & defend
his
mouth
as
he dashes about town chewing a rewarding life
perhaps the weather could be just a tad more
dry
and
waiters and gardeners
need to be straightened out, once in a while,
somewhat,
but,
all
in all, he surely lives in the best place there ever
was
at
the precise best time in history
and
he clearly deserves
&
most assuredly has earned
whatever he's got, and
he's got quite a lot
his
kids have their own tree house
he
is, in the main, and largely through his own adroit
designs
evolved himself into an upbeat caring guy.
his
clones & drones all of them
a
quarter of a billion
by
some flash counts
are
trained to feel they also are individual and smart,
amplifying the same timeless vampiric assumptions he
does
disregarding nonconfirming feedback
filtering data if it doesn't fit
even if it takes a permanent war to keep his peace of
mind shielded
cities of children to put inexpensive sneakers on his
feet.
124
RETURN OF THE MUSE
I'm
late, but you're later
this is a NYC poem
a gallery on 37th & 6th
push the 4th floor button
in an industrial elevator
the room is full of gray men
in beards & sweaters
and young women in leather
this is a NYC poem
book launch reading of
Touched By Eros
an anthology of poems
that celebrate the physical
side of betrayal & love
this is a NYC poem
but i outplay you
i only read after you come in
and stand near the wall hair held by satin
ribbon next to an Asian girl with a nose ring
in a Matrix long black coat
you seem shorter than i remembered
no makeup & your forehead is lined with money woes
this is a NYC poem
i start out with a joke
you're such a good-looking audience
wow them with 2 matched genitalia odes
based on jingles & ad copy
this is a NYC poem
then I hit them with the poignant
we are all in this thing
this beautiful flesh colored world
yearning for contact with the physical
devoid of fucking souls, we are alone
all ultimately alone
this is a NYC poem
and when the sustained
and heartfelt applause
first splashes me then
pulls away, I look
hoping you will smile, kiss my face
hoping you will want to go for a drink downtown
& you are gone fucking vanished into midtown
there isn't even a trace of perfume where you stood
later you send me an email
Good seeing you, enjoyed
being Touched By Eros
and your clever words
bad ass, bad ass muse
snotty & bitchy as hell
this is a NYC poem
this is a NYC poem
this is a NYC poem
118
she
has an exuberance of energy
like an electron jumping over rings
muse likes to live dangerously
running thru lightning & downpour
her blood pumping, hair soaked.
I watch her from the south window sprint back
Her flashing feet white & blind as deep sea fish.
She hasn't gleaned yet
all the important and fatal perils
Are indoors & alone.
I'm thinking of blindsiding her
When she, out of breath, comes home.
I like to surprise her, grab her & ravage
that confident yoga hard little body of hers
with asymmetrical behavior.
130
MONEY
we
don't have enough
as an impresario of art
my muse is underpaid
she lives in a cluttered mouse-
holed apartment above a bar
where workers & white cops hang out
in a seedy downtown block
that hasn't been gentrified
yet. I live near Gun Hill Road.
enough said. I'm a postal retiree,
she's an office temp.
I work in a restaurant so at least
i eat. she works for Doubleday
so we have stuff to read.
what should I do for money, she asks
"you could marry someone wealthy," I suggest
I would never marry anyone I didn't love
now she's sulking because I've insulted her
"you could start your own bizness honey"
doing what?
"women's erotica, or non-fur muffs for vegan teens
with 'tude." now she's really pissed off
why don't you tell me to waitress like everyone else?
"waiting is an honest profession," I lecture,
"we have a waitress who dances at The Joyce
and another, actually two who sing like birds"
I see me more as a bartender
"bartenders are tall"
i could wear heels
now i see it's true she will do
anything for money, but
only if she thinks it's her idea
how long will it be before I see muse, my sweetie
in a nude picture magazine on the racks at LAX
or doing a Brittany Spears bellybutton routine on MTV?
well, a lot of your poems sound like ad copy!
she stabs. she's got me. we're more alike
than either of us cares to admit.
127
do
you want to get married? she flirts me
five minutes after we've shook hands
made eye contact for the first time.
I say Sure and we
both smile. Why
are some people
eager to tie up
knots while others
shudder at bonds?
Put "ropes" in your browser and watch
what happens to your search engine.
in
life the perfect is the enemy of the good
the search for the perfect woman or man
won't get you anywhere productive, the impulse
to shape a perfect child will be comedy
or tragedy depending on luck or car accident
in personal affairs it's best to give way, get along
but
in poems what fucks the great, the truly amazing primo
shit
isn't the frequent dull & bad which can't do much
damage
but the occasional glimmer of good borderline really
good
that's what's wildly dangerous and will blind you over
time
a steady diet of the merely fine will block the
appetite
for poems that explode the top of your head off
change your life, make old lives impossible
like that first hit of methamphetamine after a long
drought
or a kinky soulmate that makes other OK dates
seem Canadian, even repulsive
we've only just met, she re-thinks herself
don't get conventional on me, don't revise me, i
pursue
first thought, best thought, a great soul said
either you love me or you don't, don't go cute on me
well, i really don't know you very well
and when you do will that help you make the leap
risk all for a shot at beauty
or is result & process
the same shimmering thing
every time?
honey, if you don't surprise yourself
how can you surprise anyone else?
*
take those poets who know where the poem is going
ahead of time, but can never quite figure out how to
get there
check out the academic prizes, you'll find them
some people never get the inner joy
of walking on the wild side, not knowing
how it will end or why
maybe we can just be in love, she negotiates
not for long, sweetheart, don't bet your life on
compromising with the fatal and sublime
Angelo Verga, born 1945 in NYC, curates and hosts
spoken word & poetry readings at
The
Cornelia Street Café in post-beat Greenwich
Village. He has had two small books published and his
poems have appeared in scores of journals and
anthologies, including Massachusetts Review, Rattle,
Home Planet News, The Patterson Literary Review,
Hanging Loose, Mudfish, The Temple, Blue Mesa Review,
Graffiti Rag, Greetings, Parting Gifts, Poetry Motel,
Pearl. His work appears in a comprehensive & highly
regarded new anthology of 20th century American verse,
Birthday Poems (Thunder's Mouth @2002, edited by Jason
Shinder).
A postal worker for 30+ years, now "retired" and a
full time writer, editor, teacher, and promoter of
poetry in public spaces, Verga is married, has 3
children, 2 grandchildren, 3 as yet unpublished book
length manuscripts, bicycles & drinks wine but not at
the same time. He is also a founding member of Against
the Tide: Poets for Peace. Given America's global
hegemonic tendencies, his anti-war efforts might go on
for a while.
More of Angelo's work may be found at
Poetz 2000 and
Poetz 2003. |