Fish Supper
so much has been lost along with our Sunday best / we now have different types of
Christ tricks / and 60 second flicks filling the hole of us / all the new revivals /
prequels and sequels / are stories we stopped caring about long ago / tiny images
of insurrection / like all small things / pull on the heartstrings / for a techno second / yet we are more harpy than harp / and can treat the drownings as a
conversational starter / served with salmon / and the old white man sauce / give a
man a fish / blah, blah, blah / better the sweet words of a woman / instead of
letting them swim with the fishes / give any one who needs it / a fish / and then a
rod / so they can eat first / and fish later
Watching Dr, Zhivago With My Daughter
How you loved Dr. Zhivago / but I told you there was no poetry in snow / and you said it was a space to fill with other things / angels / and men whose reasons to leave you understood /
You told me I played tragedy like a balalaika / the same three strings over and over / a haunting melody of loss / so you went / dancing with the snowflake people / babbling they were made up of everything that was not here / not me / yet when the rent was due you nailed the stars / fixing them as a slipped cross / so I could find you / I put your bloody fingers to my mouth / a gesture that tasted oh so old /
Now the cold scolds my bones / and I choke from the ground up / like a snowflake I am made up of what is not there / and you are spinning rings far away / beyond the illusion / of stars / or redemption / still I always look for you / in the chaos of shapes leaving a bus / in every doorway / and at every special showing of Dr. Zhivago