The Aging Boy
I'll have my coffee and chocolate
out on the veranda.
Say, isn't that a woodfinch?
If I had my pellet gun
I'd be twelve again, sissy with an
aim. Now, the days pass
unnoticed, except for the mail which
arrives with a surliness
previously forbidden. I slit open
an envelope like I'm gutting a gull.
Inside is a missive from you,
from years ago. You
used to love me, I am now reminded.
Back when I was young,
before the war took my resistance.



For V.W., with Exaggeration
I'll have an entendre,
make it a double.
The things I used to not
fathom I can now stand
for short periods.
An ellipses of the moon,
phases I recall from
Bartlett 's, or maxims
we learned at lunch.
All these things seem to
me now to be glittering
spectacles, glasses
to be seen through darkly.
On the plain face of it
I guess a word or two
here and there can pep
me up. But, you, with
your wit and your backhand
are not courtly or wise.
I refute your reputation.
I resist your moony pull.
I sit up now and take
notice, twice daily,
with the rest of the barbiturates.
Then I lie, down
like poor Virginia , after a
novel. Death to all
tyrants, amends to all whom
I have armed. And, in
the end, nothing but love,
that empty vessel, that
primaveral pop to my step,
that slap-in-the-face freshet




Slow Life Ahead
This is all happening
at the speed of sound.
The crack when the house
tilts. The sweetness
of mouth on body part.
The love we invent other
names for. Friends, it's
all happening at a speed
we didn't intend. Our heads
are spinning. Our
eyes are on the lookout
for more time, more time.
Because it's all happening.



About the author:

© 2011 Word Riot