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[from September, 1999, workshop:]
Oh the Italians
We can't forget the lusty Italians
We can't forget the flavor
the sensual projection of latin love
the bubbling roma
tomato paste
to dip to smoothe to smother
my fingers
I lick I suck I smell
the scent of your garlic
too close
my face reveals how many
cloves were eaten
soft mazorella
my fingers my palms
hunger to squeeze to press
to smooth
the olive oil
baste and bake
caress and dress
the parsley thyme oregano
Oh Rosemary
te amo mi amore
* * * *
[from April 21, 1999:]
Y2K Strikes
Please, the email says
Please let me tell you
how impossible to say. . .
Please let me tell you
Please the email says
read the words, and
know how I look at you
know how I feel for you
Please let me tell you
how I long for you
how I'm wrong for you
yet you feel so right to me
not afraid of me
my shadows reveal the
truth of me
Now alone only
half a dialogue
I can tell you now
how I feel
How beautiful you are to me
How I think of you night
and night
and how in the
dark, alone
I pour myself to you
display for you
reveal for you
show you what you
are closing in for
what you feel
Shut out from
Now alone with
My PC
I can be
the open
loving
effusive
woman
you project me
to be
Please, the email says
read me
read me
read the words
You long to hear
and someday we hope
I reveal
read as I say to you
as I type to you
read as I try to. . .
and the screen stops
and the words stop
and the screen stops
it stops. . .
Stops.
* * * *
[from March 17, 1999:]
One Potato, Two Potato
Potato eyes to see
Black '47
and the list goes on.
Sing it Sinead!
I know how to pronounce
your name.
And from 6,000 miles
and a century away—
Everyone wants to be Irish.
With the Romance of
corn beef and cabbage
and pretty eyes Green
She's a Catholic with a
vengeance
And she's singin' to me, lad...
"Ahh St. Joseph! Ahh St.
Joseph!!"
Rememberin' when every
criminal
had red hair and freckles
pickin' pockets on the isle
(or so they claimed)
but we kept 'em hid
And now we shine 'em true!
Here's the proof ya lass!
Look at them spots!
Now ya know I'm Irish!
And the cop on the street
we call Patty and claim
he is my da-
Da with the whiskey
and the tune "feckin' eejit
whore!"
and the drink comin' with
every deal a toast
every bride a toast
every boast a toast and I'll
drink to that!
"FECKIN' EEJIT WHORE!!"
I practice day and night.
"LONG LIVE JFK!!"
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
Red faced and vigilant,
I claim the Bastard!
"Love 'im like my own, I
do!"
No one wants to be more
Irish; more black than the
Blacks of Europe;
more green than the
gold turned to cash in the
pot;
more lyrical in our laments,
more cuss-like in our
torrents;
No one wants it more,
than those who are not.
* * * *
Idolatry: the Green ones
Green Green Grass
with happy smiley faces
Wishing me some luck
Green Green Grass
with long flowy stems
And why not touch me?
Subliminal Subversive
(talk to me in subtext)
Tell me the green means....
Oh! She so horny!
She so green
so fresh so chaste
so unsoiled so clean.
Green: She so
P.C., so
Perfectly
Charming.
She so blue so new to me;
so "how can it be" to me.
So tell me the truth of you;
the red black and blue
of
you.
Tell me the darkness
the desire the fear
tell me your needs your
deeds
your "I'm still not here."
Then the rhyme breaks,
dissolves.
(Discordent keeps me
afloat.)
Rhyme is passive.
Resistence.
And now the sense stops
making
but the pen keeps moving .
And who's to stop me ?
Who's to say no?
And why not kiss me when I'm
so god-damn cute!?
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