More than ten

There are ten poems everyone needs to read,

there is always the one missing that makes my heart bleed.

Read Daddy

since feeling is first,

if you forget me,

or still I rise,

and forget J. Alfred Prufrock?

Who comes up with this silliness?

articles of futility

poems one cannot hold on to

read them over to change direction.

Bring that handsome face over

fill me with your surprise

it appears that every day

is a special one

for those who never carry a gun.

Use those hash-tags

for today to promote the crap we buy into.

They need to find reasons to love

and weep details

not even skin deep

it’s not a shovel they need

but a tractor

to dig up all the days that mattered

to create new ones

to crush depression.

My guns are so far

and only your hands will do,

oh yes,

they will feel the night

through my soft skin,

my handwritten notes

yes, their gentleness will definitely do,

do Us,

do Them,

do Both,

just tell them to leave us alone

you’re better at delegation, direction, distraction, damnation.

my triple d’s will knock you over

can they not see?

how our thoughts submerge

under the salted bath water

under their microscope of past lives

(in public, among the sheep

in private, among the wolves).

It is five a.m

and words wake me up from my slumber.

I have secret morning passages

to my soul

and I wonder

how you have

always held the key

before I willingly gave it to you.

Did you skip to the best parts

of the poem? did you vote?

(did you run far down Broadway)

I am your pretty downtown girl

with suburban angst

who is feisty to the core

and you are my cute blue eyed boy

who is such an actor on many stages

and beautiful to admire from afar.

Tuck me in with a poem

kiss my forehead with a rhyme.

I hate that place with fake accounts

and writers I chase down Park avenue.

do You really care to see my pictures

from last night’s shenanigans at The Rialto?

Keep some love private,

some pictures to myself,

can’t show all my flaws

point them out and act like some kind of fucking star

I’ll meet you at the famous bar where all the poets go

the one at Hotel 10

drinking wine and acting like groupies.

It is what I do best. Pretend.

And tonight another night of Book Club

love affairs under five star restaurants

trying Indian, Mexican the latest trend.

High heels and poetry

tight jeans and coquetry.

So much more than ten measly poems

to read. So much more than ten. So much more

than this.

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20 thoughts on “More than ten

  1. it would have been nice if you’d gotten the title of Eliot’s poem correctly. It’s “J. Alfred Prufrock,” not “Alfred J. Prufrock.” Or did you mean that intentionally? If so, sorry I missed the joke. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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