little worlds

Vieille Dame au marché. Marseille, 11/09. By moineau. (Click to enlarge.)

my little world of pain and beauty
accurate words for a poem
yet false notes in a throat
in two languages or in tongues
unspoken, choked, or broken

little world of the beloved
who pleases, who makes music
for the fat lazy queen
half dead on her flower bed
drowning in honeyed tea

lost sons and lovers
who descend or do not descend
with or without kisses
i do not attend: i am sending
love signals on transparent wings

this little world of energy
thought, neuron, heart
experienced through the
velvet glove of lust and fear
the end flashing like neon

this world far away where
a woman bathes her children
with tears, feeds them rock soup
buries them in sackcloth
while pulling out her hair

this burning world alive
where bully rockets smoke out
terrorists, miss their targets
propigate gangling workers
and sex up invading empires

and as the world bleeds
we cleanse and cauterize it
with a media whose tongues
mix pig slop with caviar
and call it plat du jour

worlds in worlds out
unfurling flags and anthems
bee songs all, all a day and
no more, each with vapid strophes
and wings so fast, they are invisible

i in this little world
a deathbed with hope strings
storyboards and heavy quilts
i sweat from head to foot
i sleep, dream, weep and wail

one world away from disaster
one away from orgasm and creation
i might need a god if not for poems
my dreamy eyes half closed
my ears plugged with seamless notes

New Year's Eve, 12/31/09