Friday, November 26, 2010
The glory of an ivy-clad blood-brick profession?
The romance of a life that doesn't exist, that has never existed, not for anyone?
(See, a horizon was never something you can approach and straddle)
Let these dreams die hard as a triple-armored warrior
For how could I forget the children of my mind?
They have danced and sung and I have watched them grow,
in the terrifying pallor of the doomed young.
My kids and I never spoke the word among ourselves, never once;
I glanced askance of truth and simpered little false sentiments to them instead:
"I love; I will make you grow; you will make me alive."
I laid in love with the love and art and beauty and industry of this age,
and these offspring were born for a sickeningly insignificant death
not even punctuated
Like an afternoon comment from a teenage girl to a friend's wall:)
Surely someone could pull out a hankerchief and set up an exclamation point as a memorial pillar--
but no, the children of mine simply whimpered and fell silent,
and I never explained to them why it had to be.
One year I was to be someone, to have someone,
to make something with my hands that dazzled,
mature, supple grown versions of my children-dreams.
The next year I doubted; they were pale even in sunlight.
The next year they began to cough, and there was blood.
Then they were gone.
My heart, in shock, is beginning to understand--
I will sit behind this desk for forty years, married to an accountant from the south.
This, I know,
this is how one forgets the ambition of one's youth.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I found a man named Luxury
And climbed up on his lap, to see
what answers to The Question he
might have for Generation Me
For Generation Y
For generation Why, and How
For generation Do Me Now
We push the cart and pull the plow
We swear our freedom, and we bow
to painted porcelain kings
I found a King named Microsoft
Queens Google, Lexus, Davidoff
With smarter car, and higher loft
So while our minds grow Downy-soft
Our speech grows cheap... not free
Give us this day our low-carb bread
And do to us as Oprah said
Sell pills for demons in our head
And guides for books our fathers read
for roads our fathers walked
We'll savor loose philosophy
In coffeeshops where we drink tea
We're coffee-shopping for the key
to holes in Dad's theology
And maybe to his heart
So give us now our daily cleanse
And pierce us with Palm Pilot pens
Tell us our stories through a lens
Design a logo for our sins
And sell them to us cheap
One day we'll notice that we're old
we'll notice that our kids are cold,
Our marriages are green with mold
But as for now--no need to scold
History must repeat