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