80's Bamboo
by JR
A thought occurred to me at the riverbank,
trading kisses with Samantha
and her friend Angela,
the one with the thin smile,
all of us shoeless.
My back and Angela's
crept up and down
the trunk of an Oak tree,
the one with thin branches,
soggy sneakers dangling from them.
Ornaments, Sam called them, of Freedom.
Imagine the Promises made amongst such arms,
hammocked by two lovers in long blue skirts
they bartered for with Vegan soap.
At a pause, I let my eyes, the honest ones
I keep to myself, especially in crowds
or on boring coffee dates, roll forward.
Green shoots of bamboo rose stately
from the still, cerulean water.
The sun had set itself at some edge,
the waterfall beyond,
tucked below the furthest green bamboo.
80's colors lingered on the lake,
a landscape I had seen before
in a 1985 MTV music video,
the band walked on water made of mirrors
and wore silly hats, of course.
Birds like children draw,
little black V's with yellow outlines,
broke from the lakeside forest like firefly clay-shoots,
like a hundred little pixie strippers
from the pine green frosting of the forest.
Push, push, push went their delicate wings
against the darker half of heavy sky.
We ended up in conversation,
Samantha explaining to us
Elections and Governments,
the ones she said we didn't need.
This, we agreed, was Self-Evident
and swapped more kissing,
around and around we went
in a quiet, wet halo.
I thought, How nice to feel
like my face is my own and
not know whose hands
are holding mine,
and to still feel safe whichever way,
whichever way they fly,
perhaps that's where we'll go together next.
Have you ever had a summer
when jealousy was more remote than home?
There is precision in the coercion of a workday grin.
Perhaps I will write a poem for office-dwellers
of the hollering red-faced Baptist
who interrupted us,
his fat jowls blocking my view of the bamboo,
and how he tripped in the tall grass,
plodding his fat television
pork ass away, covered in mud,
all because Samantha stood
and took one step forward,
enough in the small quakes
of her bare, bold feet
up on her tan, uncoiled legs,
to knock the bastard down,
all her little rings ajanglin'
all his little gizmos strewn about the grass.
*****************************
Return to Bamboo Lake
by JR
I was with Angela and Samantha again
at Bamboo Lake, when a fire erupted
in the east woods.
A church congregation, old ladies,
mothers with swaddled babies
and the type of men you see at Kmart
in the middle of the afternoon,
shuffled from the fire,
panicking behind their Preacher,
for some reason
in the red robes of a Cardinal,
turned to us all hollering,
This is what you get,
This is what you get for your sins,
Our village is burning,
and you're to blame.
Let's beat it, I said to the girls,
The fire is gaining.
We must retreat to the other
side of the water.
As I turned to gauge the flames,
Angela and Sam, arms flailing and
blue skirts behind like kite tails,
plunged into the lake.
Tan arm over tan arm,
they swam towards the bamboo.
No, No! I yelled, but it was too late.
The crocodiles began to eat them.
What I meant to say,
was run around the water
to the western path.
For once I wished I'd had a gun,
but what good would they have
done me in wheelchairs?
Oh mother, I am sick as hell indeed.
Imagine the possibilities of crocodiles!
Think of rolling the dice in the moonlight
and losing so horribly,
you pace from room to room even now,
bartering with nobody.
Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!
by JR
A thought occurred to me at the riverbank,
trading kisses with Samantha
and her friend Angela,
the one with the thin smile,
all of us shoeless.
My back and Angela's
crept up and down
the trunk of an Oak tree,
the one with thin branches,
soggy sneakers dangling from them.
Ornaments, Sam called them, of Freedom.
Imagine the Promises made amongst such arms,
hammocked by two lovers in long blue skirts
they bartered for with Vegan soap.
At a pause, I let my eyes, the honest ones
I keep to myself, especially in crowds
or on boring coffee dates, roll forward.
Green shoots of bamboo rose stately
from the still, cerulean water.
The sun had set itself at some edge,
the waterfall beyond,
tucked below the furthest green bamboo.
80's colors lingered on the lake,
a landscape I had seen before
in a 1985 MTV music video,
the band walked on water made of mirrors
and wore silly hats, of course.
Birds like children draw,
little black V's with yellow outlines,
broke from the lakeside forest like firefly clay-shoots,
like a hundred little pixie strippers
from the pine green frosting of the forest.
Push, push, push went their delicate wings
against the darker half of heavy sky.
We ended up in conversation,
Samantha explaining to us
Elections and Governments,
the ones she said we didn't need.
This, we agreed, was Self-Evident
and swapped more kissing,
around and around we went
in a quiet, wet halo.
I thought, How nice to feel
like my face is my own and
not know whose hands
are holding mine,
and to still feel safe whichever way,
whichever way they fly,
perhaps that's where we'll go together next.
Have you ever had a summer
when jealousy was more remote than home?
There is precision in the coercion of a workday grin.
Perhaps I will write a poem for office-dwellers
of the hollering red-faced Baptist
who interrupted us,
his fat jowls blocking my view of the bamboo,
and how he tripped in the tall grass,
plodding his fat television
pork ass away, covered in mud,
all because Samantha stood
and took one step forward,
enough in the small quakes
of her bare, bold feet
up on her tan, uncoiled legs,
to knock the bastard down,
all her little rings ajanglin'
all his little gizmos strewn about the grass.
*****************************
Return to Bamboo Lake
by JR
I was with Angela and Samantha again
at Bamboo Lake, when a fire erupted
in the east woods.
A church congregation, old ladies,
mothers with swaddled babies
and the type of men you see at Kmart
in the middle of the afternoon,
shuffled from the fire,
panicking behind their Preacher,
for some reason
in the red robes of a Cardinal,
turned to us all hollering,
This is what you get,
This is what you get for your sins,
Our village is burning,
and you're to blame.
Let's beat it, I said to the girls,
The fire is gaining.
We must retreat to the other
side of the water.
As I turned to gauge the flames,
Angela and Sam, arms flailing and
blue skirts behind like kite tails,
plunged into the lake.
Tan arm over tan arm,
they swam towards the bamboo.
No, No! I yelled, but it was too late.
The crocodiles began to eat them.
What I meant to say,
was run around the water
to the western path.
For once I wished I'd had a gun,
but what good would they have
done me in wheelchairs?
Oh mother, I am sick as hell indeed.
Imagine the possibilities of crocodiles!
Think of rolling the dice in the moonlight
and losing so horribly,
you pace from room to room even now,
bartering with nobody.
Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!