Tuesday, November 16, 2010

You Don’t Know What Love Is

You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

-Kim Addonizio

The Venal Muse

by Charles Baudelaire

Muse of my heart, lover of grand chateaux,
When January unleashes storm and sleet,
Through the black dreary evenings when it snows,
Will you have coals to warm your violet feet ?

With gleaming starlight that has pierced the blinds
Will you reanimate your shoulder's cold Marble?
Your palate dry, your purse unlined,
From vaults of azure will you harvest gold !

To earn your evening bread you'll have to swing
The censer like a choirboy, and sing
Te Deums of which you don't believe a word,

Or, starving clown, show off your charms, your smile
Wet with tears that none see, to beguile
And cheer the sick spleen of the vulgar herd.

Friday, November 5, 2010

I have decided. My aim in life is to be a basketball.

You oscillate from one extreme to another. The high of scoring a basket to the crippling agony of being banged on the ground too many times. They call it dribbling by the way.

And,Life dribbles you. Constantly.

So, why not be a basketball,if only to bounce back?

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