Two Days After the Berlin Wall

Overcast morning – Gray clouds
Berlin Wall fell two days ago now

– such adrenaline …

Oh how easy to love a Russian girl
Even without her young sister
and the Borscht
Even without floats of ther souring cream

~

I stared at the ceiling fan — dead, dusty

Contemplative — like Stephen King on a book jacket — dyslexic?

But nude — I am
I light a cigarette – crinkle and glows

What now?
That’s what I want to know

~

The girl stirs in light slumber
Nestling her sharp angled nose into my left rib
Her arms clinging to me

As she had clung to Lenin — yet a limp malnourished — tentative clinging
Feeling the cement divide — cold, impregnable …
Would outlive it

~

Scratchy pubic hair grated
‘Gainst my thigh, up and down
Itchy scratchy — lovely steel wool
But forgiven for the smooth wet
Slit
Whose thick lips parted
Hot and syrupy warm
Hungry and salivating on my thigh in this nestle

For the rationing was still
And I was the black market ham

~

Stirring and sleep talk mumbled
Russian play girl kisses
Her thumb rubbing
The egg nog white cream
Into the shaft neath
My head

~

She batted a lazy eyelid
A becoming smile
A smile that could be a lie?

“I …” she began

~

“Shhh… Don’t cheapen it with words”

Poem – I Once …

 

I once knew life outside of poems

Now life — my libido

Is pent up to be poured

Ev’ry midnight

Into them

 

–

 

I once knew a girl outside of pictures

Real skin, warm hands

A liveliness

In her eyes

And in the heaving motion

Of the rise and fall of her chest

 

‘T is a pity

That was years ago

 

–

 

I once talked of dreams

Of becoming a somebody

Until

I realized I had some ‘body’

But time was running out

To use it up

 

–

 

I once had a friend

Who was worth more to me

Than seven billion brilliant shining stars

And now,

I have poems

At Midnight

Remembering the 80′s

Air of mold

And mother’s aerosol parfume cleaners

In basements worn

In the cushions of the pull out sofa

I slept in

In my youth

When we were young boys

We were happy

We were not self conscious of

The games we would play

Now

Old and tired

Aching back declines

A dim hue meets my midnights

And loss of focus asks:

“What happened to simply having fun?”

For the inventions of youth

Are most singular and pleasing

I shall not forsake their memory

The 2 AM Angst

dark walls

safe enclosed

dark streets

quietude

in pieces

puzzles of heart

dizzying height of

an intimate memory

so sweet

so sweet

a tear held back

by dawn

i admit to the biographer

all was sour

but he does not know

nor will he conceive to write

how sweet it was

at 2 AM