Jim Trainer

A Fortnight of Poetry in the Years of Prose

In Uncategorized on April 8, 2013 at 8:43 am

Taking the digital back to analog
and the analog back to black
purging this here and now of scenes best left
on cutting room floors
The hoping machine grinds to a halt,
its whirrs and hums drowned out now
in a sea of simple stoney silence
pirates camp on the fringes of reason
on the outsides of chance
plotting to rob the graves of the
ville des lumierres
at today’s midnite
horses gallup into the blue night
chasing venial sins back to the canyons
fortune’s wheels seek the simpler times
of wasted nights and puzzled glances
carrots and sticks, those needed prods that both
winners and losers
cannot do without
new songs played for the first time
their choruses loud against trivial pursuits
and poor choices
Sweet Emmylous of the night
the sweethearts who choose clowns
over cowboys
and grams
over ounces of pain
the fortnight’s steady barrage begins
weeds and bran, cats and dogs
animal instincts and inconvenient truth
new eyes that see what could be
what could never have been
poetry and prose, the good money of good work
hides skinned
drinking slowly from parting glasses that now hold nothing but
sorrow, wisdom, resignation
and shame
The ever-so-sleight of hands, changed plans
dinners rolled and cream soured
leagues above, leagues below
gallic tongues whispering from Northern hills
poor men with few options
they make decisions without emotion
with only the need to get it right in this one moment
charm and candor’s limits
the warm embrace into a world never known
never seen before or since
hands of fate cosmically turning back rhyme
and reason
slander and treason
true believers of kismet, of dittoed facts
shared sentiments and scarlet sediment
ears playing proverbial tricks
hearing what they want to hear
believing what they know could never really be
remembering the we,
the beautiful rides of fashion moving ever forward
contraband passed with knowing glances
in darkened parking lots and shadowed coves
express buses never slow
so never does a waiting man dare do anything more
than simply wave and nod
deadly sinners with dead fish handshakes
acknowledging the lustful sloth of sick puppies
Was it four, was it three
does it even still matter?
was it you, was it me?
Was it the fear of flying
the fear of crashing
or the burnt melodies of shook up mixed up worlds
long drinks of sweet tease
proffered by waiters who could not wait
the ancient river beds are still there to lie in
or are they simply made of long ago lies
scouring the transcript for smoking guns
for evidence of complicit kin
Waco’s winds buffet complementary musings
Poetry is fucking hard, its noted prosaically
10ccs of a needed drug
the drug of choice for this cold April night
when Indian squatters shiver and wish
they’d never left the warmth of grandmother’s quilt
Heads bob, fingers pop, moves are busted
and melodic BBs hit their mark
the sharper focus begins its fade
the clouded streetlights show themselves once again
the pasttime game, past its prime and past its time
of Leo and Luke and Leopold
ten years between twins is long enough
the sad-eyed mother wails
and the albatross of the once betrothed
sits idle in its glory
hands that should be folded
in resignation
or in prayer
because the ante cannot be met
theory and practice
banging fists on flimsy doors that do not hold
idol threats, litmus tests
Pogo thoughts of both enemies met and history’s
great loves
Johnny and June, John and Yoko,
Sid and Nancy
their cheap sunglasses offer no protection
from the white hot burns of a distant sun
It’s 405 miles into the future world over back roads and potholes
that will never be filled
It’s tenacity
It’s audacity
It’s ten things and great aunts with even greater secrets
It’s yellow and white
It’s hoards of plenty and pastures of dusty collectibles
It’s a man who no longer jokes, he’s fallen out of favor
It’s unknown icons and beautiful wreckage
from which one must crawl away
It’s number four on the charts
It’s red letter days begun to fade
It’s rubes and sweethearts
It’s street views and street legal senors
driving, driving, driving onward
It’s smiley faces, shuddered grins
It’s good fridays turned bad in a fortnight
It’s the latest – and last – temptation

It’s bonne nuit, alors
fais des beaux reves

by David Charles “D.C.” Bloom

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