Love at a Reasonable Price

I’d tell you about the hurt,
but you don’t care.

I’d tell you that I can’t take it,
but you’d gather the soundtracks
proving I’ve said that for 20 years.

I’d tell you it is too much for me
but you’d say that I’m lucky
to have so many good things
and such support.

I’d tell you that there’s
no one to talk to,
but you’d tell me
everyone feels like that.

I’d tell you it screams
so loud inside,
but you’d tell me
we all have our struggles.

I’d tell you I need
a helpmate,
but you’d
pass the window
in the mall,
looking through
the inside-glass.

Whatever!

I just want some money
and some time

Then I’ll take
the fuck off

I’ll skip
across the world
like a stone
across the pond.

I just want to quit
working and jiving
driving, striving.

I want to take off.

Don’t talk to me
of poverty, of race,
of inequalities old and new.

Don’t talk to me of
strife and reason,
of madness and pleasure.

I don’t want to pretend
I’ve figured it out
or that you have,
that my shoulders
or yours
shrug
with the definitive
insight.

Leave me alone
reformists
and retrenchists;
all I want is a roadtrip
and for the place
to hold together,
to give me

road side diners
in the sun-baked
asphalt
new cityscapes
to wander
a creek where
the minnows
dart beneath
light-flicking ripples.

All your reforms,
your Truths,
your progresses–
but I just want
innocence,
to forget,
to travel wide,
to find a woman
and accept
her thighs
her ideas,
her pride.

Author: Lou the Low-Down Minstrel

You know that I know
that I’m not the chosen one.

You know that I know
that I’m not going there.

You know that I know
that I’m just another round
of chump change for the mill.

You know that I’m lonely
and I talk to myself
all the time
like the madmen
and the prophets.

You know that it is over
for me
as I walk along the
sunny pavement

Down the steep hill
along Glenwood
walking to work at
McDonalds in the
space of fast food
parking lots.

I rose again
only to fall again
into parking lots
and other cement that
glints
and to ducks
shaking their rumps
in brown ponds.

You know I can’t win,
can’t lose,
can’t do anything
so grand so big
so wonder-rich.

Another boy
walking along the
curving edge
of another white
cement dam
holding back
the deep
frigid waters.

How many times
must I confess
what no one
listens to?

I am lonely here.

She kills his hope
(Goofing with She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

She kills his hope, like children would
of blameless smile and snotty nose.
And all that’s torn in heart and eye
Stretch across her body burning bright;
So fallen in her stubborn thigh
He catches the cold and a fright.

I’m not your baby, not your friend,
Not fodder for your pointless march
had passed the edges of our skins;
But who will hold your upward arch,
And who will fold your sweet crease in
When I must admit I cannot?

Her outlines perk his and capture
what we no longer remember;
Forgive us God, if you can find
within your infinite soul space
A place and path for us lil rinds.

AMW/BW

She walks in beauty
by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Alright.
So you did it.
How do you feel?
Any closer?

We’ve already spent the money on babes and booze.
We don’t even remember what desire feels like.

BW et al, the crew who slew the monster in the dark by the gas lamp with fog all round.

Politics.
The give-up.
race in america.
the girl for me.

Whirl me around the block. I’m gone. Nothing left. Whirl around the bend and back again. I’m all out of love.

[Originally accidentally posted as a page on June 3 at 23:07]

So it goes.
Nothing to say really.
Walking on spinning plates.
Nowhere to go really.
Anyway.

[Originally accidentally posted as a page on June 3 @ 22:03]

I live in the city. I go to the market.
I walk up the stone steps by the spreading roses.
I hear the sunshine in my brain.
In the morning an espresso with twist of pastry.
In the evening a red wine with a thin-crust pizza.
Every day up and down the stairs overlooking the city.
Every day stop and sip from the bubbling fountain
within the lion’s open mouth.

Who will stop the evil? Who can keep it from winning?
The monster crouches low and slowly churns its great stone mane upwards.
Eyes flash boredom and contempt; coming to hurt us, for no real reason.
It doesn’t care about anything; it just needs to crash and crush, dominate.
We have no hope against it. We scatter like leaves and snap like twigs.
Dry sounds of crunching and snapping. A vigorous laugh pierces the air.
My how soft and light-blue the sunshiny sky feels down here!

AMW/BW

Tis time, I think, by Mystic town
By BW/AMW;
a poem-exchange with Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town by A.E. Housman

Tis time, I think, by Mystic town
The lolling ships should dip;
The linen masts curving round and down
Should puff and start to skip.

Summer soon drifts past loiterer’s here
Who line and range and hope;
So others split the waves and slip
Beneath the saltspray lope.

Oh vanish late on Mystic Way,
Heat that I never see;
Fingers rising faintly gray
From sidewalks fronting me.

AMW/BW/Whatever

Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
by A.E. Housman

’Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.

Spring will not wait the loiterer’s time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.