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Stacy Lynn Mar's
Conversing in a Black Cadillac
Cover art by Stacy Lynn Mar
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Girl,
Unknown
I watch the girl
With the red notebook,
Saunter in uneven footsteps,
Ghost of forty second street,
I watch the girl
With the red notebook,
Saunter in uneven footsteps,
Ghost of forty second street,
Park at noon, corner bench
Where her weary sneakers rest.
She says the world is fading fast,
Vast empty nest of illusion
Where the writers fall into
Dead wells of cynicism,
Too many rejection slips,
Said she once decorated the
Walls of her room with
‘No-thank-you’s.’
I asked her what she wrote about,
She said dead presidents,
The speeches they never gave.
Sketches of conversation,
Seemingly falling into the open wound
Of the universe, she said
She grabs all the lone, used syllables
Before they are swallowed.
She said some nights
She cuts the stars loose,
Watches them fall across
Roofs of shingle and trailer tin,
Just to have something to write about.
Said Anne Sexton would have been proud,
Her poet hands maneuvering the scene
Of Vincent, gluing Sylvia back to the scene.
And when I asked her
Why she wrote, she smiled
And said the words of her notebook,
Though obsolete as they may seem,
Were the threads that stitch
The world together.
Where her weary sneakers rest.
She says the world is fading fast,
Vast empty nest of illusion
Where the writers fall into
Dead wells of cynicism,
Too many rejection slips,
Said she once decorated the
Walls of her room with
‘No-thank-you’s.’
I asked her what she wrote about,
She said dead presidents,
The speeches they never gave.
Sketches of conversation,
Seemingly falling into the open wound
Of the universe, she said
She grabs all the lone, used syllables
Before they are swallowed.
She said some nights
She cuts the stars loose,
Watches them fall across
Roofs of shingle and trailer tin,
Just to have something to write about.
Said Anne Sexton would have been proud,
Her poet hands maneuvering the scene
Of Vincent, gluing Sylvia back to the scene.
And when I asked her
Why she wrote, she smiled
And said the words of her notebook,
Though obsolete as they may seem,
Were the threads that stitch
The world together.
Conversing in a Black Cadillac
This is the moment
When everything in my world
Boils down to one car ride.
All the lights of the universe
Were slowly disappearing,
The Gods of the sky
Turning the stars on,
One by one.
You turned to me,
Silhouette boy of night vision
And too much grit between your fingers,
And asked me what was in a poem.
How can one verbalize
That words are a juxtaposition
Of moods, memories, stolen moments
This is the moment
When everything in my world
Boils down to one car ride.
All the lights of the universe
Were slowly disappearing,
The Gods of the sky
Turning the stars on,
One by one.
You turned to me,
Silhouette boy of night vision
And too much grit between your fingers,
And asked me what was in a poem.
How can one verbalize
That words are a juxtaposition
Of moods, memories, stolen moments
And hidden life streams, inaccessible,
When a strange boy has her knee
Knotted between the crook of his palm,
Kneading the flesh like dough?
This is a sort of moment
When all those unmarked postcards,
The parties you never got invited to,
The presents from friends who never came,
Knotted between the crook of his palm,
Kneading the flesh like dough?
This is a sort of moment
When all those unmarked postcards,
The parties you never got invited to,
The presents from friends who never came,
Graduation programs and county fair pamphlets
Twirl down and about like unnecessary graffiti.
Tears, words, impalement of moon girth,
Like little white checks on a chess board,
All the important things I have to say
Stick themselves in the mud,
A playground fort of unshed annihilation.
Twirl down and about like unnecessary graffiti.
Tears, words, impalement of moon girth,
Like little white checks on a chess board,
All the important things I have to say
Stick themselves in the mud,
A playground fort of unshed annihilation.
2 comments:
Black Cadillac love story hehe
I love the threads that stitch the world together...both poems seem to complete a cycle....
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