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Poetry
by Stan Rogal
ONCE IN A BLUE MOON
(after Judith Fitzgerald)
“What I need to write I write around”
–Judith Fitzgerald
What makes suggestive more than all the tease in China
assumes positions reversed : stood alone
no dream in her heart, no love of her own
old maverick moon hung like an oyster in the blue
skirt hiked, panties torn, trousers dropped
taken up the ass with a stiletto heel
pale reflection : self &/or other : heartfelt
dreamer, beautiful loser, teenage wasteland
little or no desire to be a pair of ragged claws
scuttling this or any deeper salty bed
mind the gap
where blues train comes up short (again)
& every cowboy mouth blows homoerotic
in the re-mix, back broke by that distant range
Montes Cordillera
Spanish tongue slipped, & – not that there’s anything
wrong with that, just…
you still taste the boots, still get a kick, still two-step
that dance to the end of love. Bitter? Better.
Took a lickin’, went on tickin’
So long, sport! Adios, Kemo Sabe. Hasta luego, baby.
Don’t care if it rains or freezes, long as I’ve got my
plastic Jesus
we just want the facts ma’am
no CSI Miami gathering lurid skin particles
fingernails, semen, pubic hair
no yellow fog rubbed against the glass
simple testimony; DNA of word made stone; a life
measured in coffee spoons & cigarette butts
where what begins in the sack sniffing eaches privates
ends (finally) as a friendly foursome on the golf course.
Sure. Don’t we all. Too late to redress; to redefine :
“all you ever do is bring me down”
Blue Moon. You saw me. Sawed me.
Being, O, not what I meant, not what I meant at all.
Tears it.
–•–
[Distillate © HA&L + Stan Rogal | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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