Betrayal

ascorpio027@aol.com — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 19:00:00 +0100

Things,
she calls it…
Things,
as if she knows it didn’t just start with one string
of lies,
and now there’s no beginning
pulling an end to it,
and no more room to avoid it either.
And I wonder,
aren’t all our roads paved on a path of lies?
Perhaps, we fabricate
unwinding blindly
these silly truths in our own time,
are but a stone’s throw
from loving bo [...]

Chagall's Bride

jtlangwitch@gmail.com — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 19:00:00 +0100

(First draft. I'm thinking of writing a small collection of Mark Chagall poems. I'm not sure that will be a viable project but it should be fun getting lost inside it.)

It takes $5 million to save Mark Twain�s house & half a trillion dollars to bail out ...

jtlangwitch@gmail.com — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 19:00:00 +0100

Guess who’s not getting any government help soon...

(I wrote this almost two years ago. Anyone any idea how things are with the Mark Twain house...?)

(The Mark Twain house)

“It was here in the third-floor billiard room where Americ [...]

Happy birthday, Ray Bradbury! (Or: Fuck me, it�s Rilke�)

jtlangwitch@gmail.com — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

I posted this a week ago but I just watched that clip at the end again and it's really funny, so I wanted to share it with you. It's rather rude but really very, very funny...:

< [...]

Where Shakespeare comes dancing with John Sergeant to a medley of ABBA tunes, selected by Hitler

jtlangwitch@gmail.com — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

Brilliant:

“Viewers want more access to interactive TV in the future incl [...]

the difference

rapursley@netscape.net — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

between You
and Every One before You,
is how well, and
how completely,
You love me;
such that I feel
unworthy,
and daily am thankful,
for such an amazing woman
to yearn, to burn, to turn
to me.

July 26, 2010, for the Wifey. From the forthcoming collection, For the Wifey: Lessons in Love, Passion, and Laughter.

certainty

rapursley@netscape.net — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

not at all certain
if there is a Hell,
but I am most positive,
that if there is,
I am saving you a seat.

July 24, 2010. From the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage 2.

fight

rapursley@netscape.net — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

the sounds of You sleeping,
so rhythmic, so sure,
lull me like little else,
and make me want more:
to cuddle You,
and feel You, like an infant,
as You mold Yourself
to me;
I am blessed,
even as I am distressed,
loving You now,
but dreading Tomorrow,
when You will be taken
from me;
I want You to live,
and thrive,
to shine,
to be alive,
and yet I know,
that without Your miracle,

storminess

rapursley@netscape.net — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

the storm rocks the sailboats,
gently at first,
but as it gathers strength,
with more violence,
more insistence,
that the boats give way
to its power,
several of them
seem in danger
of swamping;
but the rhythmic rocking,
I find quite soothing,
as I try to focus
on the storm
inside of me.

July 23, 2010.

The Book of Ruth

rapursley@netscape.net — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

Jane Hamilton's first novel
really deserved its
PEN/Hemingway Award in 1989:
Ruth's voice is simple, but strong,
and every sentence
pulls the reader along.

July 24, 2010.

reversal

rapursley@netscape.net — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

the irony of once again being
homeless,
just after learning that
my first poetry collection,
"Songs from the Road,"
written while I was last
homeless,
will be published soon,
is not lost on me;
on the even of having
my first poems to be published
in "Notes" magazine,
I ought to be celebrating,
eating well,
and sleeping late;
woulda, shoulda, coulda,
and a little more misery< [...]

My Dear

rapursley@netscape.net — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

memory fades,
and then comes into focus:
a few shots of whisky,
and more than a little
hokus-pokus,
and I remember You and I,
and a bright August sky,
and my nerves rattle
and my heart does battle
with my head,
and I remember how glad
I am that neither of us
is yet dead,
since there is so much more
to be absorbed,
so much time yet
for You to be adored;
I could stand on the highest
mou [...]

where hardly anyone dances

rapursley@netscape.net — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

Thursday night
at the town wharf
the day's heat sucked out to sea,
taking the humidity with it:
good riddance;
the 200-plus
teenagers gathered
for the dance
suffuse the air
with newly brewed
estrogen
and testosterone --
birds with new feathers,
learning how to
walk the walk,
much less fly --
the air hisses
as the music
makes everything
THROB,
while the not quite full moo [...]

Stuart Woods

rapursley@netscape.net — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

it sure must be nice to be Stuart Woods;
here, in the fiction section of the public library,
he has a whole shelf -- three feet --
of his books, all shiny and coded with
the little white tags on the spine in the
secret librarian language,
thirty-three of them in all,
nearly as many as Buk;
not as satisfying to be Janet Evanovich,
though -- only nineteen -- but hey,
maybe she's still writing.

July 23, [...]

electrifying

rapursley@netscape.net — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

the clouds do battle mightily this night,
with lightning flashing
across the whole horizon to the east,
crashing into each other
like hell-bent lovers reunited;
ah, the bolts and sparks
that do so fly, I know them well;
the negative
and the positive
smashing the air
in between them,
setting it on fire,
just to watch it burn.

July 21, 2010.

lone man, in a harborside gazebo, late at night

rapursley@netscape.net — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

where the day has been most surreal:
dispossessed of the roof over his head
by the Authorities, brought by
the mother of the only child
through a large prevarication,
to send him packing
in ten minutes;
and vocabulary fails
to capture the monstrosity of such;
best left for another day,
with dictionary at hand;
the sights of the day, ludicrous,
all of us and each one of us:
grown men trying to fly kites,
[...]

my blood

rapursley@netscape.net — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

could run brown,
for Grampa's Pico,
or orange for
Daddy's Tennessee,
or gray, for my mother's
Massatwoshits,
or red, for my
Ol' Virginny;
but it runs true blue
for You.

June 29, 2010, for the Wifey.

a short one

rapursley@netscape.net — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

just pass me by,
since you don't want
to see me cry;
I'll help you out
tomorrow:
I'll just die.

June 29, 2010.

bloodstains on the page

rapursley@netscape.net — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

the page of my pad
on which this pome was
written: stained with
my own blood;
no, not from a self-inflicted
wound, from the bite
of one of those plentiful
blood-sucking little bastards,
the Massachusetts
mosquito,
the latest mutation
of which are the size of
butterflies,
and they attack your face,
especially your eyes;
screw Al Quaida,
these skeeters
will finish us off first.

< [...]

just You

rapursley@netscape.net — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 19:00:00 +0100

mosquitos and spiders sleeping,
and the sound of my heart leaping,
when I see on my phone
that the call is from You,
You who among all, are alone
enough to sustain me
indefinitely,
with or without
a loaf of bread or a jug of wine;
promise me, mi amor,
to forever, siempre,
be mine, as I am thine.

June 29, 2010, for the Wifey.

Posts

Betrayal

Chagall's Bride

It takes $5 million to save Mark Twain�s house & half a trillion dollars to bail out ...

Happy birthday, Ray Bradbury! (Or: Fuck me, it�s Rilke�)

Where Shakespeare comes dancing with John Sergeant to a medley of ABBA tunes, selected by Hitler

the difference

certainty

fight

storminess

The Book of Ruth

reversal

My Dear

where hardly anyone dances

Stuart Woods

electrifying

lone man, in a harborside gazebo, late at night

my blood

a short one

bloodstains on the page

just You