Sunday, August 20, 2006

eight great american poets

I’ve been reading
eight great American
poets of the past
half century.

Theodore Roethke
an alcoholic
a schizophrenic
was found drowned
in a swimming pool
face down
at age fifty five.

Elizabeth Bishop
whose mother spent
most of her life
in a lunatic asylum,
hid her alcoholism,
bouts of depression
and her lesbianism
all her life.

Robert Lowell,
a manic depressive
took electric shock
treatments to his
head all life.
in delusions of grandeur
he thought he was
the greatest villain
and attacked others
with physical violence.
He was married 3 times.

John Berryman’s
father killed himself
putting gun to his head
when John was very young.
he heard his father’s shot
and never forgave him.
a believer in monogamy,
was married 3 times and
lived an adulterous life.
a chronic alcoholic.
on a wintry day
when fifty-six
he killed himself jumping
from a bridge on the Mississippi river
onto frozen boulders below.

Anne Sexton, a walking
encyclopedia of mental disorders
was addicted to alcohol,
tobacco, barbiturates
and tranquilizers.
she called herself a witch
and abused her children.
when hardly forty six,
she put on her mother’s fur
coat and died in her car
in the garage, the car idling.

Sylvia Plath’s husband,
Ted Hughes started fucking
his friend’s wife and she
committed suicide gassing
herself from her kitchen stove
when hardly thirty one

Allen Ginsberg was profane
in his use of tongue.
he celebrated homosexuality
and used psychedelic drugs.

James Merrill avoided
women being a homosexual.
and celebrated homosexuality
like Allen Ginsberg.

these great American
poets for the past half century,
so full of insights of life -
their verses so admired –
were what a great
bunch of people in real life!
perhaps those who can
see order in disorder,
can’t see disorder
in their own lives.

she loves me but a little too much

she loves me
but a little too much.
I tell her I like
quesadillas for snacks.
she spreads a ton of cheddar
cheese, a ton of chopped
onions and jalapenos
peppers on a flour tortilla,
warms it up in the microwave
till the cheese melts,
rolls it up and says to me:
“darling, I love you,
you’ll love the quesadilla
for you I made.”

salty like a dry salt lake
hot as my tongue on fire
I suck air to appease my tongue.
I run to the kitchen for
ice cubes to put on my tongue
I run to the closet for a towel
to wipe the torrents running
off my eyes and nose.
it’s good but a little too rich,
the best quesadilla she
ever made, I tell my honey.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

when you send me a bouquet of flowers

darling, when you send me
a bouquet of flowers,
I think of you and
play with them for hours.

I love the anthuriums the most,
though I love tulips and roses too.
I slide my fingers on the stems
of anthuriums, moving up gently

to reach its pink petals.
then gently I move the tip
of my pointing finger to its center
and touch the long yellow projection

loaded with pollens fitting into its center.
O darling, I miss you so much then.
I feel like embracing you tight and
digging my fingers deep into your skin.

I feel tightening sensations in my groins,
goose bumps crawl all over me and sharp
electric current sparks rush down my spine.
O how I miss you my darling.