“There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” (W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM)

Monday, December 26, 2011

another collaborative poem

This one was done with Paul Enea and Steve Pump(2 guys from my poetry group). If you know them and their work, enough said.
If not...well let me just say, this one kind of took on a life of its own and got a little crazy. Steve  did a revision of this one that turned out great, if I can find a copy of it I will post soon.
In the meantime, do not try to "understand" this one, just enjoy it, it may make you laugh or cry or experience some other deep-seeded emotion.

a star, trying to speak
blinks like a stuttering neon sign
before giving up. give us
gibson, give us gaga on a glitter stick!

a rave girl dancing in a vacuum, shouting
more please, more surd than word,
heard only in math dream deeps, drums the floor.

save your wishes for the unextinguishing
exorcists in your family. pledge
to continue from where they expire.

purple plasma embers caught in a jam jar, kept
beside pickled onions in gaga’s dressing room
-a grandmother’s cryptic gifts. give us
Keith’s open G - libretto for a blues opera

and grandma’s guitar all day long. deliver
us into song. speak, star. or at least
light my way to the stage, before
betelgeuse outshines the moon
(it may be sooner than we think).

raise a glass to the cross-dressing cousins, married
then murdered for diamonds on their honeymoon. the killer
left behind a clue:  a chord that hung mid-air,
resonating for a sharp-eyed, noir private dick
whose pain-tuned ears detected a whispering music box
in hell.  hell, raise a glass to anything.

I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number...
there are no answers here, but if you stay  
where you are, an outline may appear, a ring
of light, but try not to look directly into it, unless
it speaks to you.

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