Monthly Archives: January 2015

Preventative Care

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Preventive Care:
you will down a few
but she will still love you
and you are too careful.

Post-Headache Care:
you call her
what is the point
of being trapped in this house?
you need to see her
mistakes happen
or so they say.

Magical Evening Description:
you went out
and drank approximately 1 gallon of air
because food makes you sick now
but really she makes you sick now
and you said it tastes like bourbon.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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Infancy Crib

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I’m taken
to the womb
(as they say)
when embalmed
and entoumbed
by that
smile
o
yours.

someone
tells me
they
“come less
threatening
in packages
that resemble your infancy crib”
so I
laugh it off
and I shrug
like it’s nothing
i can really hold
but i know,
it’s really all down to
genetics, thousands of years old.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Mind to Mind, Eye to Eye

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mind to mind, eye to eye
whats the difference nowadays?

he took her to see the buildings
he took her to see the farmlands
he led her across the library
he took her to see a lecture
he took her to survey the wildlife
he took her to see the hubble

mind to mind, eye to eye
we saw everything the same way!
same glasses, same books,
we had a share of cocky looks we had a
basement full of words we had a
chock full of absurds
we were
just barely skimming the surface (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

you really think you have the authority to guess my age, to get in a rage, over what is right and what is wrong and who goes where

I told him I was small, I told him that the linguistics made it impossible to soften the blow, but the old age was going to show if i didn’t make the right impression, and i was down on my luck that day. i told him that we would always see mind to mind, eye to eye, I told him love at first sight was impossible he said statistically that’s correct and so we had fun and it was goodbye

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

On Museums and Freesias

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The MOMA guarantees
that you will see
at least one new piece
every time you visit:

I’m looking at a blue stained
miniature marble house on a pedestal
it looks like my childhood
It smells like Copper and wine

I’m looking at some nude paintings
filled with apples and pears and a tabby
I am reminded of my virginity
and the solidity of touch.

he takes me into the main art gallery
and the attendants scold us
we’ve been trying to eat french fries
where they won’t let us
we’re trying to do something different.

there’s a homeless girl who just walked in
and who doesn’t know
what art is.
the man who composed “living trash”
is visiting his own installation
and volunteers her to stand
in the center of the room.

she thinks they must want her
as a part-time employer
or the janitor
but I wanted to tell her
to run out of the doors
and save herself
before they make an excuse
to call her greasy hair
a tragic masterpiece.

so we ate our fries in peace that day
out on the front steps,
not inside the museum,

we kissed and
held hands in a simple sort of way
our foreheads touched and we smiled
at the innocent reminder, because
we new what we really wanted to see,
the freesia smell of comfort was by my side
and it was enough for me.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Literal/Figurative

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figuratively
your dog could have been run over that day
by the heat wave that was threatening the gloom
and maybe she could be
contemplating last night’s supper
and his face stained in her memory
she was contemplating
putting it to an end,
all over and done with.
(figuratively)

literally
she’s choking,
as lightening thunders to be
the special middle child
he’s the one with the napoleon complex
you saw him with flame throwers
setting the acre of macintosh apples on fire
and you lost the house
but the boys still got their christmas presents
wrapped up in a nice tidy bow
(they gave them what they really wanted)
and they never seemed to grow up
they stood by the porch
begging for food with their wives at their side
lapping up milk like cats from the saucer
lazy but doubtful,
easfully resting in the garden
still giving grandmother
the share of what she wanted
even though she was dying
(literally)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Train Paradox

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i)

Oh I don’t care if i get caught
running down the train station
as my heels fall off mid sprint
(ill pick it up again
in the hour)

oh i don’t care if i get caught
saying things I shouldn’t get caught saying
I love your eyes I’m crazy!
i have a sort of daydream I’m nuts!!

you really gonna catch me in?
you really gonna
call it a sin ?

ii)

“i will say the only words I know
that only you will understand”

I say words, I know only you
say words, I know only you
words? I know only you
know only you
only you
you

iii)

now,
as I witnessed the
golden, double sided sunrise
of the raised corners of your auric mouth
you’d say,

“oh that explains
the long hours you took by the train
sulking in a book,
keeping a page reserved for my face
like an artist’s trace,
making me special in an instant.
how pretty”

but you weren’t impressed
and I wasn’t pretty.

I saw your train leave
at the same time as mine arrived
and I was suffocated with
our near perfect syncrinicity
yet struggled to touch
the right words
or your hands
too small to close the gap
forever trapped
in an unresolved infinity

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry