Orchestrated Spontaneity

 

Over the buzz of noise pollution

That assaults our tender ears

Every moment of our dew drop

Lives I yelp my

Sonorous affirmation-

 

I am a madman and a mad dancer!

 

I swirl feverishly across the dance floor

And into your arms

(c’est vrai mon ami-absolutment)

and I’m tickled to discover that

                                                            you don’t scurry away,

                                                            you don’t call the boys in blue,

                                                            you don’t throw your beer in my face-

You laugh.

You join me in dance

And sway organically, charmingly-

We’re butterflies sauced up on honey

And I’m loving every minute of it,

Every second that you smile,

Every dip and spin that we execute

Without breaking a damn sweat.

 

Effortless-Orchestrated Spontaneity!

 

For me its now inevitable-

The moment of troubadoric truth,

The torrent of undiluted sincerity

That’s been held at bay for months,

Gnawing to break through that concrete dam

Of collegiate tactfulness.

 

Are you listening, my cavorting partner-in-crime?

Are you prepared to witness such unabashed nakedness?

 

I don’t care if this is only a dream

And I’m only an insect imagining I’m a man-

I’ve accepted that, the whole absurdity

Of existence-

I’ve accepted that we are just phantoms

Stopping off for a bite to eat before

We hop back on the Greyhound and continue

On to some backwater valley city-

I just can’t accept watching another day pass

Without telling you, waltzing wildflower,

That I’m mad about all that constitutes you

And that you are the tangerine sunset

That I dream about

And you are the verdant meadow

That this lonesome wolf wishes

To rest in.

 

Oh, alcohol is WD40 for these rusty jaws

(tu sais, mon ami, tu sais…)

and if this is just another dense layer

of noise pollution that offends your senses-

well, I humbly bow and ask for mercy.

But I think that your emerald eyes

Are telling me otherwise

So I propose that we dance

Until we collapse

Or we’re politely asked

To leave.

 

 

Infinite Thrashing!

punk rawkers
clog the stairway by the pacific,
mohawks glistening
in the santa cruz uv rays,
arguing, shouting,
bellows of laughter.

tramp stamp
woman,
spattering in the water,
teal enveloping her thighs,
kid near, frightened out of her wits,
-i wonder how wild she was three years ago...avant le bebe...

infinite thrashing!
follow nature's patterns, physics,
chemistry, geology,
chipping away at the earth,
shark bites stretched over
the centuries.
soft earth, drawn to the sea,
a desperate lover,
hopelessly drawn to the sea,
like uslysses' mother.
i always think of her when i walk
down and greet the ebb and flow.
i think of all my favorite poets,
cannot help but
muse that we are the ebb and flow,
chipping away at the mystery, consciousness,
sadness,
spewing long stanzas of driftwood, sea-weed,
kelp-
haikus of jelly fish, bits of trash
that commutes every day
to venice beach-

old as time,
rushing, sacking,
welcoming all rivers, no prejudice.
hugging the out-of-towners, the locals,
surfers, gliding on the crest of our visions,
swept away by the onslaught of the currents,
currents that surge throughout
verses that are drenched
with salty tears,
opaque nights,
big sur hangovers,
a glorious sunrise,
rum sundays,
skinny dipping midnight-

i think these thoughts as the water
plays hard to get
with the sand
and i glance
once more at tramp
stamp woman.



the jungle book

tiger in india.
what do you long for?
why the nocturnal prowls?
you're the quintessential night owl,
observing,
hunting,
out stalking
when all of your friends are passed out,
counting zzz's,
lounging beneath the whispering
jungle trees,
far below the
canopies,
where bugs murder each other
and copulate like crazy.

silent paws,
burning eyes
(i burn too-my eyes burn on my night prowls)

what did ya catch tonight jungle cat?
i couldn't see ya
but heard the riffraff-
the last yelps of some impala
or an unlucky big-game hunter,
maybe a sick zebra,
hooked on prozac,
silently wishing for the gory end-
he's seen discovery channel,
sharp with his darwin,
up to date on biology, genetics, manic depression.

tiger in india-
play it cool this time daddy-o.
no point in gettin worked up-
dont attach too much significance
to every lady cat you meet
out on the jungle streets.

don't give me that look-
man i can read ya
like a book!
i know what's on your mind!
you are sensitive, refined,
who says a lion is the king of the jungle?

your fangs-
they could do horrorific
things
to my man-body.

 

 

© Dan Guerra