Dug For Victory: Poems from RIP-TV, Page 4
Liz Mackie
36
Anneliese Marie Frank
B. 6.12.29 Frankfurt / D. 3.45 Bergen-Belsen
Typhus
Dear Earth
What will they say of me?
“Her last word was Whom.”
My fussiness. My whiskers.
Mid-day.
My hurry. My rented porcelain.
All at once I’m back in the ladies room of long-ago Filene’s
back amid the panty musks and methane plashes
safe, scentless girl almost afraid to emerge from my stall:
What poisoned ogres would be rouging at the sinks?
Remembering me smelly
remembering me jiggly, spotted, chapped, damp, frizzy
dear Earth be kind.
My beautiful eyes mine augen
beautiful. On the train
old men tell me.
2003-09-22
37
Luke Howard
B. 11.28.1772 London / D. 3.1864 London
Old Age
Now
Clouds
Now
varieties of late afternoon blue and bird
To be present is an effort
seagulls, swans, and cormorants
one young seagull trails a withered leg
to emerge from underneath the weight
over Sheepshead Bay
whose walking bridge is fringed with fishermen
all pointing out to sea
of losses, things undone, efforts gone astray
Now
clouds birds bridge bay
Now
like fall, the violet
outside the enshrouding shelter of my sacred yurt
hovers, banks, descends.
2003-10-19
38
Billy Preston (b. William Everett Preston)
B. 9.9.1946 Houston / D. 6.6.2006 Scottsdale, Arizona
Pericarditis/Repiratory Failure
When the joy goes out of being a Beatle
in the Beatles, one of four
you're standing on a windy roof in winter.
The presence of the same three glum brunettes
is swelling in your craw.
Their slurrings, their dilations
their exhausted mirror-trick gods:
you cannot utter; while
as dragons hoarded treasure in the hollows of their coils
a rumor-fattened crowd
encircles you, the rooftop, building, road:
its faceless scales puff cigarettes
waves of ancient faith rise with its shudders.
Your hair is leaving scratches on your eyes.
You're standing on a hollow summit in a rising pool of dread.
Joy expires by slow electrocution
as another vapid outcome readies, sets.
When suddenly, in tight formation down the ridge of an electric keyboard
Mercy! Saved the Day!
the squadron that your better angels summoned swoops
the treble executing pirouettes
bassline firing. You and your lonely
little well
you and your brothers.
2006-06-20
39
Harry Houdini (b. Erich Weisz)
B. 3.24.1874 Budapest / D. 10.31.1926 Detroit
Peritonitis / Mysterious Causes
I hesitate to make love to your astral body
as if that would be more wrong than to go on thinking:
which it is, much wronger, in the scales of sinning
that waver in the corners of my memories of your dancing eyes;
as if it were a step too natural or un-
between my thoughts and my your astral body’s taking
here, on the futon, so that me at bay I’m keeping;
as if it were a thing too drastic to be done:
the making of love, slowly, with your astral body
on a hot night while the cable television’s beaming
lesbian, lesbian love into the lockdowns of collective dreaming;
as if it were off-limits to do more than theorize.
2007-07-09
40
Nelson Riddle
B. 6.1.1921 Oradell, New Jersey / D. 10.6.1985 Los Angeles
Liver Ailments
Are we still dating?
I wish I knew, but since we’re not communicating
day to day
I don’t. It’s queer.
Are we still dating?
If not I can’t imagine why you’re hesitating:
“Go away.”
I hear you say it when you don’t appear.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I am alone
another night.
I wish I knew
a better cure for blue
than you.
Are you still internally debating?
I’d hate to interrupt in case it’s my side advocating
for its say
before the judge and jury of its peer.
What are you incubating?
Something scarier than silence, I’m anticipating
we shall see
if ever you’re no longer neither there nor here.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I am alone
another night.
Another night.
Oh woe is me
a tragedy:
Too free.
Are we still dating?
I must confess, if it were up to me we would be copulating
in “our” way
but it is not—this much is clear.
Does it need stating?
I’m very sorry that I made us lose our PG13 rating:
two can play
but I forgot that only one should steer.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I liked you so
you really might.
“For you I pine
and balsam too.”
It’s true.
Are we still dating?
This afternoon I thought of emigrating.
I thought you hated waiting—
or maybe that was only me projected onto you—I’m hating
your delay
in any case—oh, not hate but fear.
I find this enervating.
My face feels full of little after-happy smiles deflating;
with a sigh
each smile subsides and waits to be a tear.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I liked you so
you really might.
A word or two
would really do:
As in
“Adieu.”
2008-08-13
###
Anneliese Marie Frank
B. 6.12.29 Frankfurt / D. 3.45 Bergen-Belsen
Typhus
Dear Earth
What will they say of me?
“Her last word was Whom.”
My fussiness. My whiskers.
Mid-day.
My hurry. My rented porcelain.
All at once I’m back in the ladies room of long-ago Filene’s
back amid the panty musks and methane plashes
safe, scentless girl almost afraid to emerge from my stall:
What poisoned ogres would be rouging at the sinks?
Remembering me smelly
remembering me jiggly, spotted, chapped, damp, frizzy
dear Earth be kind.
My beautiful eyes mine augen
beautiful. On the train
old men tell me.
2003-09-22
37
Luke Howard
B. 11.28.1772 London / D. 3.1864 London
Old Age
Now
Clouds
Now
varieties of late afternoon blue and bird
To be present is an effort
seagulls, swans, and cormorants
one young seagull trails a withered leg
to emerge from underneath the weight
over Sheepshead Bay
whose walking bridge is fringed with fishermen
all pointing out to sea
of losses, things undone, efforts gone astray
Now
clouds birds bridge bay
Now
like fall, the violet
outside the enshrouding shelter of my sacred yurt
hovers, banks, descends.
2003-10-19
38
Billy Preston (b. William Everett Preston)
B. 9.9.1946 Houston / D. 6.6.2006 Scottsdale, Arizona
Pericarditis/Repiratory Failure
When the joy goes out of being a Beatle
in the Beatles, one of four
you're standing on a windy roof in winter.
The presence of the same three glum brunettes
is swelling in your craw.
Their slurrings, their dilations
their exhausted mirror-trick gods:
you cannot utter; while
as dragons hoarded treasure in the hollows of their coils
a rumor-fattened crowd
encircles you, the rooftop, building, road:
its faceless scales puff cigarettes
waves of ancient faith rise with its shudders.
Your hair is leaving scratches on your eyes.
You're standing on a hollow summit in a rising pool of dread.
Joy expires by slow electrocution
as another vapid outcome readies, sets.
When suddenly, in tight formation down the ridge of an electric keyboard
Mercy! Saved the Day!
the squadron that your better angels summoned swoops
the treble executing pirouettes
bassline firing. You and your lonely
little well
you and your brothers.
2006-06-20
39
Harry Houdini (b. Erich Weisz)
B. 3.24.1874 Budapest / D. 10.31.1926 Detroit
Peritonitis / Mysterious Causes
I hesitate to make love to your astral body
as if that would be more wrong than to go on thinking:
which it is, much wronger, in the scales of sinning
that waver in the corners of my memories of your dancing eyes;
as if it were a step too natural or un-
between my thoughts and my your astral body’s taking
here, on the futon, so that me at bay I’m keeping;
as if it were a thing too drastic to be done:
the making of love, slowly, with your astral body
on a hot night while the cable television’s beaming
lesbian, lesbian love into the lockdowns of collective dreaming;
as if it were off-limits to do more than theorize.
2007-07-09
40
Nelson Riddle
B. 6.1.1921 Oradell, New Jersey / D. 10.6.1985 Los Angeles
Liver Ailments
Are we still dating?
I wish I knew, but since we’re not communicating
day to day
I don’t. It’s queer.
Are we still dating?
If not I can’t imagine why you’re hesitating:
“Go away.”
I hear you say it when you don’t appear.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I am alone
another night.
I wish I knew
a better cure for blue
than you.
Are you still internally debating?
I’d hate to interrupt in case it’s my side advocating
for its say
before the judge and jury of its peer.
What are you incubating?
Something scarier than silence, I’m anticipating
we shall see
if ever you’re no longer neither there nor here.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I am alone
another night.
Another night.
Oh woe is me
a tragedy:
Too free.
Are we still dating?
I must confess, if it were up to me we would be copulating
in “our” way
but it is not—this much is clear.
Does it need stating?
I’m very sorry that I made us lose our PG13 rating:
two can play
but I forgot that only one should steer.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I liked you so
you really might.
“For you I pine
and balsam too.”
It’s true.
Are we still dating?
This afternoon I thought of emigrating.
I thought you hated waiting—
or maybe that was only me projected onto you—I’m hating
your delay
in any case—oh, not hate but fear.
I find this enervating.
My face feels full of little after-happy smiles deflating;
with a sigh
each smile subsides and waits to be a tear.
You do not call.
You do not write.
I liked you so
you really might.
A word or two
would really do:
As in
“Adieu.”
2008-08-13
###
