Why 'Abstinence only' is the best advice a parson can give to a young couple.
Downstairs,the lobby of The Grand Hotel,
nuptial preparations, after invites and denouncements,
White calla-lilies, perfectly maligned, the china split
Polished, a champagne fountain in the hallowed
Background. The preacher arriving early, the smiling
Mother not to be escorted. The groomed John enters
thinking about Eggs and burnt coffee and chilling night.
Ten years ago, I am right back in that Grand apartment
over whom the Kevorkian first whispered. Jack and I
corn-fed city dwellers, with only one bag of bagels,
Each warm, good-fruitful, and koshered with love,
Humane, brandy-legged adolescence, what children.
With an iron bit in two starring, as one's eye is widened.
'Whose apartment', I asked,
Over whatever sat, floated, or sneezed.
In a carved marble studio wrought with gold lace,
We huddled in green corners like freshman,
At that first taste of scotch, or worse the smell of Milwaukee.
We ran to taxi's and rushed from the late shrieking emblem.
Reach the brown-step, reach the damned step.
I lost my lunch somewhere. That gay smell of cancer,
Surrounded the swell of my stomach like nectar gone black.
I am supposed to fear, no be kind, not perfect but, kind of like fear.
Considering his image or her image or his/her image,
I must have thought, that he or she or he/she, it, is not, nor longer awake.
Distance is grand. I realize how grand it is to be at a distance
from The Grand. I walked around my own studio, wondering
what, shot, why shy, no one ever lay (that particular) text at my pelvic.
We got the name wrong. and so sleeping came many, many more,
While we were sleeping', these forever slept, now I am;
Downstairs in the lobby of The Grand Hotel,
Jane and John are about to be for life,
Marred. Jane is happily going over her final
Fates, while John is busily reciting the pledge
Made to himself to never
Forget what he learned
The Last time he was running
From her, no here.
Jeff,
ReplyDeleteAgain, lots to admire here. You really are quite accomplished at the uncanny phrase, the strange and unanticipated combination of language.
It's quite easy, really, to ratchet up the logic a degree or two in your writing. Below, you'll see one particular way of doing that. I've left some blanks for you to consider, too.
Good work.
In the lobby
White calla-lilies, perfectly maligned by the china
spit-polished, and a champagne fountain left unplugged.
The groom enters thinking of eggs and burnt coffee
and a night chill enough to ____________________
__________________________________________.
Ten years ago, and we’re right back in that lobby,
corn-fed city dwellers with only one bag of bagels,
each warm, good-fruitful, and koshered with love,
humane, brandy-legged adolescence, what children
with an iron bit in two, starring, as one’s eye widens.
In a carved marble studio wrought with gold lace,
we huddled in green corners like freshman.
And at the first taste of scotch or, worse, Milwaukee,
we hailed taxi’s and rushed from the shrieking emblems
of _____________ and ______________________.
Reach the brown-step, reach the damned step.
Am I supposed to fear? And what? Not perfect, mind you,
but a kind of fear, like ________________________
or _________________________________________.
Distance, we know, is grand. Downstairs in the lobby,
two people are about to be, for life. She’s happily going over
her final Fates; he’s busily reciting the pledge
to himself never to forget how I walked around that lobby,
wondering why that particular text , that specific slant of sun
through the shattered blinds. Maybe not shattered.
I got the name wrong and, so, sleeping, came many,
many more. And these forever.