small poems & small plates
Dining with money inevitably leads to martini's and oysters, cold and sweet, while waiting for you.I know we'll hear poetry before our night is through--on the stage no one else knows this salt on my tongueAcross the room two folks with rich watchesknow their drill so oiled with timeHow she smiles at his choices, thinking maybe fat and boozewill knock him out when they get homeWhy do I think thatwhen she smiles sweetly in her wine?Perhaps because she was on her phone while he was in the men's?The ways of the rich are sloppy--hiding no disdain or goldHis cuffs, her choker, part of whatthey remove at nightEach other's bedclothesfolded on a puffy chair(Oh this is just a game I play...Maybe they are just friends, old friendsWithout the fragrance of bedclothes, or old soft goldagainst their well-oiled skin)Today some fresh new voices, ardent in their factsConstructing airplanes before the discovery of enginesJust because we can't see doesn't mean we shouldn't believeRapture, reason, and the collision of the twoOur century, so caught up in flight from one anotherFrom all that could hold us inAnd yet the moneyed seek out music, a rowdy night outsomething to undress to, throwing one's gold into the fireHow do the two commingle, savage and tamed,sweet smiles, and dismissal of the help?5/12/10 hayes street grill, sf, ca
Dining with money inevitably leads to martini's and oysters, cold and sweet, while waiting for you.
ReplyDeleteI know we'll hear poetry before our night is through--
on the stage no one else knows this salt on my tongue
Across the room two folks with rich watches
know their drill so oiled with time
How she smiles at his choices, thinking maybe fat and booze
will knock him out when they get home
Why do I think that
when she smiles sweetly in her wine?
Perhaps because she was on her phone
while he was in the men's?
The ways of the rich are sloppy--
hiding no disdain or gold
His cuffs, her choker, part of what
they remove at night
Each other's bedclothes
folded on a puffy chair
(Oh this is just a game I play...
Maybe they are just friends, old friends
Without the fragrance of bedclothes, or old soft gold
against their well-oiled skin)
Today some fresh new voices, ardent in their facts
Constructing airplanes before the discovery of engines
Just because we can't see doesn't mean we shouldn't believe
Rapture, reason, and the collision of the two
Our century, so caught up in flight from one another
From all that could hold us in
And yet the moneyed seek out music, a rowdy night out
something to undress to, throwing one's gold into the fire
How do the two commingle, savage and tamed,
sweet smiles, and dismissal of the help?
5/12/10 hayes street grill, sf, ca