Fall In Love With The Great Abstainer
How to break this form- Fall in love with the
Great abstainer, two horns; ride the riverr too tough
To cross, pillow fight angels:
I still want to skip school, receive my degree from the
Greenwood,
Procure the golden bough, become some king before
The next knife fight,
But I am blowing revelries to a dead regiment,
The seashell cavalry trundles around the hips of burying
Children,
Average in the sand out of hotel rooms; mothers tanning
Their souls back in the suns shadows,
High school heirlooms, drunken goddesses who lost their
Bloom,
Rich and muggy- Should have gone to Harvard
Trailer-park; now the pay check is nothing but the next
Rum- car payment: Girls on the boulevard rollerskate,
Ice-cream, lick their rings around tourism’s runny; it doesn’t
Pay for it. The entire park is in need of a graveyard; and
What have I done.
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Ghosts of Those Things Now Thoughtless
I want to take you to that quieted reservoir where the
Twilight always plays its legs a across the lazing corrugations
As shadows bleed across given they pensive times, the lures
Of Florida Holly, or the bulldozed dunes; but you are busy playing
Those other sensory instruments which take off like thoughtless
Tracers after the desire of your eyes: You will not come with me on
My lonely walks, how many mountains I have summited alone,
Only to come down alone again, and bathe in that quieting dusk
Behind which the traffic passes just as insouciantly as you, without incident
Or sudden collision of unsuspecting bodies, like the required impact
Of bones framing organs and drowning blood, like I would have done with
You to seed such egos imbedded in the geometry of your movement,
You could never understand, but they would come wailing out of you,
Only to quiet, suckling on your tits, tugging out your creamy nourishments;
But you have walked away. Maybe you are moving to the Pacific, maybe
He is heavy bellied and red haired pubis and moving all upon you, his breath smelling of the food he fed you both tonight under the ambiance of a crowded, socializing restaurant. What can I say, but lie. I do not care. You’ve
Straightened your hair and look like an overweight snow white. No one should know that you are supposed to be out of the Ashkenazi forests and
Wind tunnels, except that you tell them with your jokes, and the subtle
Way you cross the street underneath the yet secular lights imbedded over
A lazy holocaust, the skin of your dead ancestors shading you, doing just
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Waves’ Tumultuous Cavalries
Sky enamel the cross with light,
Beside the highway without a savior,
You are for the tourists now,
For little children at their games,
Use you for a May Pole, and dissolution
Your somber dress made for the
Benefits of the wayward kings,
Who with their scribes pollinated
The latest continent, and divided it
By the highways of amnesiac business:
They are going so fast now,
And the possible directions are magnified,
Where the dead have more homes
Beside the tombs of blue and gray generals.
Some one of them loved you
Before the day, and held your hand
Even before the conception’s glow
In the park’s womb beneath the canopy
Until, into this graduation of crippled thought,
You came unpublished hobbling,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Nostalgia's Brutal Junk Heap
Yellow rainbows smile upside down from
Cheap liquor bottles
In those retired rodent neighborhoods where dogs
Take charge
And fleas hold circus; they are all in love with the
Gamy mermaid who takes her bath of tricks
Sometimes when right before
The ice-cream man perambulates with his cursing
Wind-chimes,
His balmy vanilla fireworks: She takes all the dimes
That would’ve been his
From the bicycles of adolescent kisses;
And then she swims away, swearing that she’ll make
It all the way to Spain,
But she never does- She just gets to Lake Worth
And then dances topless for bikers;
And I would have liked to see her before she was all spent
In a house of bruises underneath the palmettos,
Their suppliant cutlery that is peppered by cicadas-
But for these scars, they make me sad and agoraphobic
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Blue Collar Schizophrenias
If I could live forever somehow
Rectified as a psalm,
It really wouldn’t matter that all my
Best friends are dogs,
And that my latest complexions scribble worry
On my belly,
The stillbirth of my isolated karmas,
And that my poetic images are really not
Much more than blue collar
Schizophrenias:
I love you, I love you-
Isn’t that what I was supposed to sing,
To pull up next to her and rev these engines,
To put my eyes on the cherry sport of her
Jogging legs:
Her name is Erin, and sometimes there are
Storm clouds in the afternoon,
Which wet the equine bodies between the trees,
And I should have my own house sometime
Soon after July 4th,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Galleria of Nostalgic Senses
Love me when the show’s over,
When you have the rosy glow from
Walking barefoot beneath the lanky mangroves,
Teething on the saw grass, teething;
And when it rains over the service industry of
Well-calved stewardesses:
When the university is pulsing through
The young steams bowed in holy:
Love me, and put dried flowers in my book of
Blank verse,
Turn your head and cough,
Black-eyed in the shadows, put on injuries,
Dirty your nails and jog for me short-skirted
To the semi’s h*rny bl*ws-
Graduate for me in the lighthouse’s slender
Cathedrals on the land spit, spikenard
For alligators,
Defanged lions cleaning themselves in emasculated zoos
Of androgynous thunder.
Love me too in old picture books of the Holy Land,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Sun and Night
And sun, and sun, and sun, and sun,
And night, and night, and night, and night.
We get up and revolve, eat, make love:
Some of us go down to the park and swing,
Some of us cry her name in sleep-
The beauty we do all of this for,
The opposite body we do not know,
But wish to handle with devilish alacrities-
I’ve climbed a tall mountain in Colorado when
It was past my bedtime, and the little boy coming down
With his parents told me it was too late;
But I climbed it anyway, the rolling back of false summits,
To see the hidden threshold the sun runs through after her.
The plaque placed near the end by a weeping mother
For the dead skier,
The marble aspens at her shivering throat,
All the dark things which come into this world,
And are twisted up and confused, and utterly beautiful.
And she is confused, when she takes his hand and draws him to bed.
Made-up but hesitant, her legs open another time
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Witches
Nothing yet to do but to distill
My bone:
Sweaty on the concrete the young
Skeletons fart at their game,
Chewing on the soft candies of their conquest,
Out back on the basketball court of ruleless rusts
Wanting to nip their teeth on harder reservoirs:
Only freshmen in the gravities, they can see
Those swervey females about to graduate from their cleomes,
Their knowledge floating in sad bellied cloudbanks on the
Backs of woven broomsticks:
All the pretty witches awakened from their ditches,
Their long black hair, their dark swaying eyes,
Circling, circling, in their kind of spells:
The young boys can barely drive,
But they have a cherry red Super 88 Oldsmobile
Leaking fumes they fumble guffawing like loony-tunes
To the sea, to chase her down, the shadow
She left behind her moted over the waves like
The darkest complexion of a gaze inside a tent,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Further Away
I am in the right place for another glass,
And perhaps I will never write another poem tonight,
As today I have to explain to Antonio that there is no more
Work right now, for the horses are hungry
And eating up all the money garnered from our patriotism;
And soon it will all be gone, and they will still be hungry
And young and growing,
And the liquor in their legs spent in the egotisms of the racetrack
And the little men atop them like unified Napoleons,
And I will still not know her number, or the saccharine rhyme of
Her heart;
For I would like to take her to the zoo,
And notify her to each of the carnivores’ appetites,
And run against her like the bachelor otter in the falsified
Eddies of his plastered architecture,
The way higher mammals purr, and tell her now that this
Is how it should be, if she could remember,
The food I feed to her, the milk like fine liquor I take from her
Breast as I steal from our children-
But she is just the rhythmical fantasy stolen by the Indians
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Mother....
I am nothing, nothing,
And the bloom is broken.....
She has forgotten to check the locks,
And the monster is loose....
I am no more,
As he takes her with his will....
I am no more,
As my mother told me
The publisher was a lie,
An easy meal for the tiger,
The fanged stranger jumping on the shore....
Maybe it would be easier as a homosexual,
And more translucent as a nun;
The trouble-free men take her in the space
Of commercials,
Taste her like an effortless meal....
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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