Here are some experimental poems of mine that I like.
|Existential Reflections on ValuJet Flight 592, May 11, 1996, from Miami|
|While writing this poem I notice a large black ant|
|What must I do to provoke your love?|
rocks the cabin, the nose descends, then rises,
then plunges down. I am pinned
to the back of my seat, objects fly overhead:
shoes, forks, a plate of chicken. Screams
deafen my ears, the woman beside me shrieks
profanities, intermingled with sobs for mercy.
Choking fumes drown the cries in coughs
and frantic fumbling for oxygen masks.
I am silent, passive,
my mask in place, inhaling deliberately,
I feel my lungs expand, exhale, expand, exhale,
as they have done unnoticed countless times. I raise
my palm and observe how peculiar a shape
my hand is -- five flexible tubes protrude
which, at will, my mind can cause to curl
or extend, the skin stretching around
the knuckles and then relaxing. Beating arteries
enter through the wrist, dividing smaller
and smaller until they bring to every cell
the mystical gift of life. I glance
out the window, the swamp
is visible now, rushing as if
to greet me.
Or could I tempt your love,
One evening dining under roses?
I would wear a tuxedo with a bow,
A handkerchief draped on my arms,
And present a bottle of wine in my hand,
And we would talk together for hours.
Or might our spending ten hours
On a trip to the Congo awaken love.
I would raise you on an elephant with my hand
And place a garland made of roses
Round your neck, and bracelets on your arms,
And pin on your breast a ribbon in a bow.
Or maybe taking your hand with a bow,
I would ask you to dance till the morning hours,
Swinging under the stars and spinning in my arms,
As I seek to arouse your love.
Together we would waltz between the roses,
And I would catch you in my hand.
Or on a cruise, hand in hand,
Gazing at breakers crash against the bow,
Splashing us with silver roses
And listening to the sea for hours.
Might that evoke your love,
And bring you to my arms?
Or if I should hold you in my arms,
And grasp your tender hand,
Could I provoke your love,
With a poem I wrote for you entwined in a bow;
A wish to spend all hours,
Touching those lips of crimson roses?
But tell me now my love, if not this golden bow
Placed on your hand, will unite in ceaseless hours
Our hands and arms together like the petals of a rose?
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