December 20, 2009 coothoots

Sarah Wilson 12/20/2009

June Promises

Marriage wades like a big black-and-white dog follows,
sometimes growls, sometimes smiles.

I’ll not lie, I am told three strikes and you’re out,
but I collect wedding dresses like memories.

Here’s one:

Husband number one stands at a gas station,
stretches upward on his toes,
his eyes reach down my backside pumping gas.
I am wearing cutoffs, legs, lean, sharp lined muscles,
and his tattletale looks make me feel naked
in ways a smile can make a face seem bare.

Another:

Number two reads our license,
forks out twenty one dollars,
states I am bought and paid for. That is all.
The sound of laughter means nothing.
His profile flutters below my eyes,
the tip of tongue curls inward,
and I learn about large, quiet, letter-listening eyes.

A third:

Number three likes to eat,
slips around me, whisks flour of my butt.
Mouth open, he laughs aloud,
the sound, hard and forceful,
bright as smell of fresh grated orange.

The final:

We watch two red birds in flight,
and sadness stalks me,
crawls up my gut, and I know what loss would be
to lose one you’ve ached for over thirty years.

Each of us is passionate and detached like them -
the way one can take what comes, love it fully, and let go.

Bad Fucking News

A soothing glow of the neon sign maker’s shop
blinks messages; its strawberry color flames
the hungry to invitations of peril.

The walk past windows frames intervention,
mixes with photos of molded hamburger,
the need for more Hazmat training,
and typewritten memories
of my fingers kneading
“Young Doctor Who’s Searches For Love Voodoo Doll”
from stored wheat grains that promise to rise.

Views parachute, and a parallel universe spreads open
to night club scenes, a man eating blue pills,
ensuring the fountain of youth,
Maestro-entertained ladies,
balance in worlds of lawless order,
the carved inlaid table
(designed by Gurka),
and Bud’s Clydesdale images trampling snow.
Even the shadow boxed cat angles his head,
and whispers, “Wash window.”

Gut feelings of sadness full throttles,
growls a snake-bottom groan,
reflects on young NFL comeback star
who raved to his death,
and the wonder of Krispy Kreme
no longer being open 24/7.

The lights flicker in an on/off M.A.D.D. head
like night a repeat offender hit the car head on,
or dreams I read about in poetry post thread.
It seems anticipation wakens you
to the amazement you survived one more night.

But more often than not, it’s about fat quarters,
and husband with odd sense taps
impatient step, grass that only grows in winter,
glade scents that fill rooms, invading cow ants,
and visions of arresting man [butt-naked],
except for his stethoscope,
scribbling on his pad about how I’ve been fucked
by Throck Morton and slowly mouths BFN.

Snow Upon Snow

Loraline outside again
says and does things,
when she thinks no one can hear,
and confides to a lonely wren;
a clear head braided and bowed.

As hope pushes will
and will pushes shovel
she still vows to move
snow upon snow
proving she can set the flowers free.

Now, I see through Modigliani’s eyes
knowing the girl with braids,
is disguising a wistful poetic charm,
and, realizing his style;
her life remarkably tragic.

Loraline, a dark outline basks
against blocks brightened by white
color signs chiseling the pathway wide,
and deep inside she remembers,
here on ancestral tasks she treads.

Her feet soon frostbitten,
hands gloved and snow shoved,
so day and night she’ll be able
to walk ahead, beyond the future,
and the past that weighs heavy.

Mumbles for peace,
Loraline outside again
says and does things
when she thinks
no one can hear.

Her primitive tongue
creates a spirit
sung in ancient voices,
she remembers versed ways
just this once reliving choices.

Boogey On Down To Broad Street

Could the groovy woman in orange be named Liska,
and puckered up to toke away her afternoon?
It’s hard to tell when John Lennon’s sitting on her bridge,
hiding cat eyes.

I want to be prey in the middle of street doings,
spew fire, strut the catwalk,
and inanimately pose
in hopes of slipping across some action.

It’s true – look: It’s not a falcon; it’s a fox with stand up hair,
in the background imitating Louis Vuitton.
Inside the hood he’s camouflaged, gangster tats,
pierced nipples, plying plausible excuses
of whether to bump bones or not.

A little on down there’s this guy in blue,
maybe late teens, mid-twenties,
somebody that might see through white lies.
He rocks, back and forth, reminds me
the doctor is on my case.
It seems sexual fantasies cause my sneezing.

Poking out holes tertiary looks cloud puzzled skies.
Her coat’s okay, but momma’s in my head,
repeating only three colors to a scheme,
and that wouldn’t be blue, pink, yellow, and brown.
It shocks my socks off that she has the look on her face
of a girl you could trust.

But she could be a hooker mom like me with that fashion toboggan
or a mugger ready to bang somebody, strip them of their money,
and clothes. She kind of looks like the friend I had that left
her two-timing, married, ex-boyfriend at the Motel 6 butt-naked,
depositing his clothes into the garbage dumpster upon exiting.
My shrink needs to help take back that nightmare
or refer me for hypnosis.

But it’s clear the old geezer ahead in off-white hot pursuit thinks
she’s the new kid on the block selling secrets
for the oldest profession on earth.

New coats capture eyes of the only woman walking
the straight and narrow line.

See the folly!

A winter land downy coated, camouflaged in doubt,
and galloping the imagination wild.

I’m sure there’s at least one bare skin holding out for mink.
Somewhere – like how frost glitters diamond-patterned,
a bell ringer seeks salvation,
the elderly badmouthing a president
for fucking with Medicare.

The riddle of life or maybe it’s irony -
we’re not all wind up robots
holding auditions for cold weather gear.

Enjoy a picture of my little Dicken’s Snow Village:

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