With the Sun Going Down With Nowhere To Go
With scars adept to traffic,
I go sideways: The dogs want out.
They are very needy, and the days are needy
Too. Another one has eaten the world,
My soul is joyous- but my face tired-
If I sold wine, I’d be beautiful,
I’d have a little family, and a house in the
Snow- I’d play with my daughter under the
Tree, and I wouldn’t listen no matter what
The serpent sang to me;
And my soul is joyous, it has nowhere to go.
Maybe tomorrow it will follow the sun outside
And around the world a bit;
Maybe it will visit you and crenellate your daughter
Like a good luck charm, and influence more
People to consummate you- They consummate you
Already with the sun going down,
The cars swirling down the mountain as if in a
Clever, automated dream; their faces winding down,
But I should think that their souls would like
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Slave To Baseball
The weather is brave but a slave to baseball,
And I like that kind of weather for this
Time of year,
Because all the aspens are naked, opalescent
And free of the charms of most birds
And tourists-
I can see you there ghostly presumptive,
Making your free-form rounds;
And it is beautiful to think of you disconnected
From the corporeal sounds:
And I wake up more disjointed- the dogs
Have been howling all night,
And I suppose I dreamed of your high-school-
It’s my greatest, most tremulous sin-
Those dysfunctional adolescent currents still
Ripple in my head,
Searching for your illusive resins this way and
That between classes,
But in the here and now I develop new obtrusive
Scars and aren’t you well-situated,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Public Places
Sometimes the sun sets sideways
And pushes outdoors all of your hopes,
Like Cinderella is sweeping
Her eyes so beautiful but no one cares,
And her lover comes with candles in his beard
All tide up in nooses for little dreams,
Somnambulant toddlers culled from the waves,
And now they say that they have no backbone,
But even Satan has a backbone,
Even when he is lighter than the clouds
And caracoling the moon,
And the traffic sings his praises and dances
Every which way it can,
As Evan comes down from the uninhabitable
Mountain sideswiping with his brother,
As Sharon is in her little joys and her little stores,
Mopping up with all her eyes,
And I would just like to be as beautiful as her
Shadow
Coming down the mountain trying to make friends
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Problems of Green
The problems of green have their own colors:
But they all together only cost five dollars: like the stripes
On the Mexican flag:
And Alma making up her own excuses for whatever she does or
Doesn’t do:
And the roads to and away from her are being used,
But her children are doing good:
And I am in my own house in my own graveyard inebriate and
Scarred:
And maybe she will read this, and maybe she will go down
River and find more beautiful boys and read them,
Her brown skin getting goose bumped over her brown and
Perfect skin;
She is the only female I ever think about or try to smell:
And I come to her in the fruit market and then drive away, as my
Life recesses, grows frantic from its lacking amusements,
Or doesn’t exist at all:
And the green planes frolic in the green clouds;
And the hungry green foxes leap for the out of reach grapes,
Vermillion in their over abundance and in their virginal aptitudes,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Who's To Say
Cars pull in beside tombs and who should
Get out but the silhouettes of movie stars,
And soccer girls from high school,
And the night is so heady with their atmosphere that
It sways as if being tugged like a table cloth,
Like the sea by the moon:
And even the souls of the dying radiate like the flagella
Of maypoles,
And the water near the shore is so shallow that it brings
All together such wildlife in rapacious harmony;
And Amanda has been to Africa,
But I have seen the corpulent tortoise under the bus,
Tugging out the engine of orchids like a child who is
Not bashful,
And even though I leapt away like a little girl over the
Heads of the disinterested alligators,
Who’s to say now that I don’t care, or that I wont once
Again be beautiful,
Or that my mother isn’t weeping over the walky-talky
Because I am bivouacked so far up I diadem
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Virtues of Believing
Foxes with pretty smiles competing for badges:
While the final battle looms nearer- as death has its way
Over the pretty chariots and the purple wedding
Processions,
As I proposition my heart for her, and the maggots turn into
Flies, smiling so many ways in their eyes:
As my parents’ home is repossessed by the bank:
As the mountain is repossessed by the sea- and it all flies away,
As the strata grows deeper and more mystifying:
While upon the birthday cake I watched Alma blow her wishes:
And for a moment they all must have seemed to come true
Until the dreamer arose
Accepting the inevitable absence of belief: the dead were dead
And un colorful, and the moon had arisen but was a thief:
And the light it was giving to the holocaust of languishing sailors
Was sending them the wrong way,
And shipwrecking the righteous upon the petulance of reef:
The baseball players were harpies, and Jason never found the fleece:
And the virtues of believing were all beyond belief.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Altogether Too Beautiful
It doesn't take so very long to surrender
Yesterdays echoes the very tit teaming at the very gates
Of another echinopsis of Disney World—
While then, all of the boys are already dissolved
And making a Peabody out of our very own imaginations:
Here is the very strange swill that they are left to
Suspect without the nights alone or the admirations of
Anywhere;
It is a very beautiful journey across a void where the
Voluptuous ships seldom often have to correct themselves,
And that is why that out of anywhere I have to end of here:
Even if it is strange, enveloped in the graduation of-
Your young night—it doesn't always have to end up
That way—a million volumes of echoes mean the same
Thing—that the baseball team or the football team
Has won, eventually—and you are so busy,
Enveloping yourself into the echoes that fall so far
Beyond my fingertips, that the other world also all of
A sudden awakens and spontaneously
Becomes altogether too beautiful to be explained.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Only A Nameless Genera;
Oh, there are so many many casualties when
We can only talk about
Giants and football, and even now none of any of this
Will survive:
While I and her maybe survived for a month or two:
It was always what I was good for, and then to falter again
Like a really fabulous plane die,
Like a superhero out of sorts, and like the triple crown horse
Braking down again before super time:
And I have cleaned up again and talked to myself before
The broken yards:
And children are playing football and going inside again
Feeling happy about themselves
Down the donkey strips of dirt roads; and even while I suppose
This is beautiful,
Like the failing end of Christmas, none of this eventually
Will survive;
It is pretty in its bloom and it does its time- Alma,
While you make love in your room, and the world spits out
Its jubilee and turns around again,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Only A Nameless General
Oh, there are so many many casualties when
We can only talk about
Giants and football, and even now none of any of this
Will survive:
While I and her maybe survived for a month or two:
It was always what I was good for, and then to falter again
Like a really fabulous plane die,
Like a superhero out of sorts, and like the triple crown horse
Braking down again before super time:
And I have cleaned up again and talked to myself before
The broken yards:
And children are playing football and going inside again
Feeling happy about themselves
Down the donkey strips of dirt roads; and even while I suppose
This is beautiful,
Like the failing end of Christmas, none of this eventually
Will survive;
It is pretty in its bloom and it does its time- Alma,
While you make love in your room, and the world spits out
Its jubilee and turns around again,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Gravedancers Union
They’re modifying you in your sleep somehow;
While you sleep they’re milling around
And studying, rubbing their legs together making
The eerie chirping sounds;
They’re shedding old shells for you,
They’re coming unwound….
They’re modifying you in your sleep somehow
They’re passing you around
They can’t figure out what to do with you,
How to handle what they’ve found
They can’t figure out what….
They’re modifying you in your sleep somehow
They’ve removed the top layer of your fleshy gown,
But they cock their heads like curious dogs,
Because they still don’t know what they’ve found….
They’re modifying you in your sleep somehow,
They’re digging you a home in the ground,
They’re digging your hole in the ground,
But they’re still not quite sure what they’ve found….
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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