Rudy Baron

I don’t like

poetry
anymore
it doesn’t seem to satisfy
my needs
straddle a sensitive fence
balance and juggle
look down in perpetual fear
at alligator moat filled
words
anxiously await approval

will they look back
will they respond in a chorus
of halleluiahs
will they bury themselves in
selfish states of simplistic
mediocrity
will I be healed--

I write blankly
coil behind a dark curtain
of closed eyelids
wait for some majestic painting
to unfold
tapestry of skeleton
my bones woven cloth

in letters
can I be read
someone please tell me
what those images on the cave wall
actually mean

that stain on my shirt
bleeds from left
to right
vivid expression my emotions
rarely return
its novel state
an island
floats along
complex strands of thread
appeared one day
suddenly burdened with the task
to watch vigilantly
over
sterile fields

I want to do something
I want to do something
for you
I want to explain
the taste of tomatoes
and the taste of your tongue
I want to lick the lines
of your hand
swallow the fortune
of your
future

I’m sorry I said those things
I apologize for my meandering
excuse me for spontaneous oral eruptions
pardon that verbal misgiving
forgive that last moment we were together

will I wander back
into useful language
should I tell friends
appropriate
notes of encouragement
hoping that last salutation
will suffice for a sign off
or should I heroically
wave at ships
that have left the pier
succumb to previously
heard vibrations

Rudy Baron © 2019

Lines

The craft show in the park guarantees it will rain this weekend, dog limping on sun baked slate sidewalk, water becomes a valuable commodity on days of premature summer; let’s arrange our children in order by height, cower under a shroud of leaves.

The last conversation has been reduced to subdued discourse, a gardener collects an array of cacophonous sounds, on an arid cheek a tear is stranded, her fever eclipsed one hundred last night, the sound of beeping signals the end of an event, crowds head for tents ahead of rumbling thunder

I think I’ll dress my child in stripes today, watch her skip over horizontal cracks and explain why pavement is black; maybe she will pause for a moment and stare at my perplexed view; maybe she will stare at my perplexed view and question its existence; maybe she will stare at me and question my existence; maybe she will stare and question whether my existence necessitates a perplexed view.

The rain falls tonight in seemingly straight lines. It is cold and wet. The lines the rain makes are cold and wet and are seemingly straight. If I stood in the rain I would stand straight. My arms would be stretched out above me, they would reach the lines of rain, they would be cold and wet, and they would reach towards the sky.

Tonight discussion is pressed keys. Letters are touched and caressed aren’t they? Can we discuss our possessions in caressed moments of touched words? Touched letters? Can we sell them by description? Can we sell our lives by simply describing them in simple phrases? Six feet tall—loves poetry—likes blue jeans—is old and fading. Will you spread your life on my body like a classified ad on a naked newspaper?

I want to talk in lines. I want to be seen like ridges in a desert. I want ridges on a desert to explain me. I want the desert winds to create my lines. I want my lines to create desert winds.

Rudy Baron © 2019