Tuesday, April 24, 2012


1. Stuttering

He. I-I do-do no-not know
how to . . . to . . . ta-a-alk,
how can you if tha-at, that
you-ung you can’t lu-ove?

Hush. Start over,
go slower. There’s more time
than you know.
You talk fine, inside.

She. Say after me:
you see her, she sees you,
love being made.
You see her,
she sees you, you make love,

you see her, she sees you,
she’s making love,

you see her, she sees you,
you’ve made love,

you see her, she sees you
taking her love, you see her,
she sees you seeing her love . . .

Before love blooms

she knows he must say
what freezes his tongue
and frees his eyes
to look upon her whole. 

2. Juice

Now the poets, beatific all,
juiced and smoked,
their talent dangerously
hovered near some edge,

innocent. Kerouac, Ginsberg
required the dithyrambs
of Cassady, moving as fast
as Charlie Parker’s chords,

perpetual-motion style–
Apres nous le deluge:
Hendrix, Joplin,
Morrison . . .

You believe you survived.
At thirty, you had it made
or you didn’t have the juice.
Make it, baby, with me,

so many don’t come this far
without losing, but not
your life, not your life . . .
You do begin to age now,

a little less fiery in burning
your body’s bridges. Here
you work so well
time flows like a long poem.

(16, 17, 24 April 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

No comments:

Post a Comment