From The Ballrooms
Awakened into the orbit where they are
Without voices—somewhere shouting mutedly
To the remaining coyotes who have no dinner dates:
The circus and the fireworks tents
Are taken down and someone else writes a better
Novel and dreams of running away—
Ogled by truckers in the shopping malls of their
Heirlooms—as the Indians sleep downhill from
The flea markets of their gas stations—
And their dreams have no stanzas—maybe it is
Because they fought too long, and that they couldn't
Understand any of their numbers:
When they saw the goldfish in the wishing wells of
Their shopping malls, they just pissed on them—
And did not wait for the rain to leave to step outside:
They became too drunkardly for their girlfriends
Who left them for boys who could almost always be
Defined by their occupations—firefighters and werewolves,
As the lights fell away from the cities at the edge of
The world that no one cared about—far away from
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Songs of Dead Rivers
I lounge inside the songs of dead rivers
Where better women smile at me naked atop
The tufts greener than all Christmas trees;
But oh, how these lands are wicked, even
If calmed: The king is smiling even while
Possessed, while the traffic is heady and conductive.
I dress out for PE, but don’t work out:
I make laps around the basketball courts and take
Notes, while the Jewish students collect on the
Fiascos which they better perceive, which
They have been working towards, never mindful
Of even the soccer moms’ leggy tresses,
Their dun ring fingers and extroverted scents.
Now in the cacophony of Catholic churches the
Play strums: She is wearing the red dress, smoky and
Ethereal. From Canada, and a thief crawls through her
Window, and her eyes are for him and glowing
Something mythical. Like a fire in a horn up on stage,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Which Flower Is This
Which flower is this? They don’t have penny Candy
Anymore- They have plenty of dollar stores
With dollar candy, which used to be penny candy:
They aren’t accepting applications; they’ve got a stack
Of them so high,
The skyscrapers cause falls of shadows in the heart of
A Midwestern city,
But not enough time: I write this because I brag I
Gave a hobo all my pennies today,
Two fifty cent pieces I stole from home:
They were both worth fifty cents;
He can buy a little beer. Look at the scars on
This side of my face, mirror- Now look away;
And I haven’t been to visit your grave, I’m sorry;
I’m too depressed to get out the door- Its too long a drive
Now that you’re my neighbor, honey-
Those silent green neighborhoods they don’t make anymore.
Now its all cemeteries:
Like Viking Kings in their houses, what great dogs
And chattel rubbed together it makes for
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Pallet Of Your Burning Sun
The horses this time sleep standing up, Erin;
And my scars have switched sides once again like girls
Skipping rope,
Sending fibrillose and vibrant shadows once again over
The estuaries of their deep and rich
Graveyards: The sky above them is first blue and then purple,
The same way I saw you out taming your yards:
I saw you jogging like an angel floating like a fish beside my
Car, Erin; and it doesn’t matter if you do not love me,
Erin: I am not a boy to be employed by your love:
I am a vagrant and truant of love. While I have tasted the lips of
One of my muses, that’s all that she allowed me while
She returned from my swingset to her husband, and now where
Do you think I am standing, Erin, but out in the burning
Opulence of your son:
I am down in your opulent grotto with my toy gun, Erin:
And I don’t want to go empty handed on Halloween or Valentines
And you are the only one, E- E-
You are the only one and the sky is first blue and then purple
Underneath the pallet of your burning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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So Many Years Ago
Cigarette smoke undulating from my aunt’s lips,
And her boyfriend is coming down
On a bus from Tennessee;
And I am working so close to the smoking beach,
But I haven’t seen her in so long,
And still I do not go:
I want to be in Colorado secreted in the higher basins,
The important key-holes where the tourists
Are too weak to go;
In fact, I want to summit mountains that have never
Been,
Or have no right to be- for her, or one of my great
Great aught great forgotten grandmothers;
And her name is- just this,
Just a song happening in the night far to the east and
Under her,
Like a French man going down on a airplane,
Like a frog making love to an inebriated princess who
Just doesn’t care;
But that is all I have to say or even think about;
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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That Illusion
The night weeps its sentiment to us all, but oh how
Many lines have begun like that:
And I wish I could be more original for you;
And now I want to walk to your house again:
I want to be a flag on your body rippling and casting for gold,
Because now haven’t I seen you captivated high up in the clouds
In a house of giants:
Isn’t it a white man’s house: even further, isn’t it my house,
Alma:
I want to find you and stretch you out and ask your where your beautiful
Belt has gone,
And to which knight you gave it to, to save his neck:
I know you gave it to one knight on his lunch break, but to which
One I am uncertain,
But I want to be your king just so I can have the authority to find these
Things out,
And to feed my life-giving poultry to your children:
Alma, I dream of you walking your children to the bus stop,
And I dream of you walking through cut out snowflakes and paper airplanes:
I dream of you always on the move, Alma, because your body gives off
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Her Final Man
The firefly of sun creams its own shade:
It does this over the playgrounds, over the old hats of
Neighborhoods:
Its dance is on fire; its hemisphere running out of room,
And still it goes and swims, and turns;
As she tells me she can never have another husband:
She will only be single after this browny government should
Fail:
But she still shaves and wears miniskirts for me:
I call her my rainbow, and the butterfly to my soul: and we
Sell fruit together:
Like a knight, I eat habanero peppers to prove my love until
She blushes, or I tickle her feet when she is like
Cinderella overcome by the counter, cleaning, clean:
She asks me to stomp cockroaches, my Alma, the queen on
My soul,
But I let them leave, like a quixotic knight all flushed out
Under the windmills while the cats are milking
And the moon: and, oh the moon;
And then I follow her down the highway for just as long as
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Where The Super Heroes Fail
Coming swiftly towards Christmas while
All of the boats and their
Pirates swing-
And the oceans look so beautiful, whilst the rose
Bushes are all awash-
And the forts of your harems are always so beautiful
That their colors cannot even be described,
But they keep to themselves,
And keep flying their unsurrendered flags
Underneath the heavens whilst I search for
My own home,
As the sea swells and becomes too beautiful and
Doesn’t even care,
As my sisters travel further and further away from
Me,
As you keep your mouth to my ear, and keep
Wanting to promise me “promises, ”
Forcing me to spend the weekends alone-
Getting massages,
And losing all of my faiths as the sea swells,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Shadowy Passages of Another School
Coming swiftly towards Christmas while
All of the boats and their
Pirates swing-
And the oceans look so beautiful, whilst the rose
Bushes are all awash-
And the forts of your harems are always so beautiful
That their colors cannot even be described,
But they keep to themselves,
And keep flying their unsurrendered flags
Underneath the heavens whilst I search for
My own home,
As the sea swells and becomes too beautiful and
Doesn’t even care,
As my sisters travel further and further away from
Me,
As you keep your mouth to my ear, and keep
Wanting to promise me “promises, ”
Forcing me to spend the weekends alone-
Getting massages,
And losing all of my faiths as the sea swells,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Perfectly Pretty Rains
Filling up on the resin of god,
The hateful spiteful mouths out of doors,
When they could care less,
Because they have them some bicycles and some
Good hands of cards,
And the sky is never judgmental:
The sky is very sexy all the time,
And you can fish so far into it,
And it is like a great exhibit of Spanish women,
Or girls name Sharon,
But it doesn’t cost a thing to stand and sit beneath her
And imprint her to your tattooed soul:
The sky doesn’t give a care if you are not beautiful.
The sky is always a prairie,
And the sky is a dog lover who has perfect breasts
And commercial airlines as chalices
And necklace:
I wanted to name the sky after you, but you just
Laughed and stole my breathe.
While in a coffin I surmised that you were even
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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