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The Morgue File

Does anybody else keep a morgue file? For me it is a folder in which I keep the poems that, for whatever reason, I finally decide do not work, do not stand on their own. Usually for me the final decision is that the poem's conception is too slim, too small, not worth another felled tree or even the electrons needed for transmission. Years ago I would throw into the trash such poems, reasoning there is no point in keeping them around. But I came to regret the practice, in one case especially when I tossed out a trilogy that, in retrospect, amounted to my first ambitious project. Oh I do wish I still had that '74 set.

So now when the culling occurs, mostly when I am finalizing a collection, I send the rejects to the morgue file, which has grown pretty fat. Every so often I'll dip down into the file out of curiousity. I'll read a poem, remember what incited it, think maybe it isn't so bad. I think it is right to say I've not once resurrected a poem from the file.

But I feel like having fun. And things are pretty slow around here. So at the expense of a few electrons and protons here are six (mercifully) short poems that still kind of tickle me. Oh. In advance I accept any charge of sexism that might be levelled against them. Here goes.

Boy Toys

When she says
"Give us a memory,"
I get confused, suddenly
thinking of mammaries.

The first are best left alone.
The glorious other(s),
now that is worth a poem.

"On second thought," she says,
having given it pause
and some deliberation,
"Jesus, Jesus, come and squeeze us."

The Day We Laughed

Always a quick one,
even on her back,
there was the night when
the underhunger
pressed against her hard and
her itinerant out of town.

She remembered, then, her husband.

And just as he brought about
the arc in her secret spot,
she forgot, she called my name.

Naturally startled,
the man must lift his head,
he said, "Who is Victor?"

Without missing a beat,
or even the thoughtful pause,
she buried him back, replied
"My soap opera fantasy."

On the Demise of Nylons
(or why I miss Mrs. Robinson)

Speaking as an
unrepentant follower of form
what I miss the most
is the cinammon shade
beneath the swing when
she rhythmically walks to own
city or suburban street;

and, yes, the dinner, then,
the phone call, the visit, and
the single signal in her voice;

then, at last, that
first sheer feel, the
long shapely peel of her legs.

Statistical Reasoning

There is some advice
the delight in giving which
slants, resides in the fact
it has never been heeded.

When that first quarter lady
who sits across the table
in diner, cafe, or
the scene of haute cuisine,
when she, just she,
with what her eyes take in,
goes focused, pupil pointed;

and certain it comes to her
the savior, errant prince, or
the dream dark one, fecund,
in you, just you,
who will lead the way
through dragon field, through
sea and sky barrier
opening onto
her interior city;

there, right there, right then
starts the glorious detail
and the detours ahead.

No need to tell her that
you, like her, look for
the perfect passion in
texture this side of
vanishing perspective;
that you, like her, have too
some idea for proceeding.

It isn't you she hears or sees
after all. Guaranteed.

Her Foyer

Have you ever heard of
a true woman who
did not want more
than she should ask for?
If so you must be

Some days I think this
tender time thing
is grossly overstated.

Wish I could do without
what I cannot do without
when I touch her face, or
graze her chin,
when her eyes seize mine,
when she parts her lips,
when she signs for more
than I've yet to give.

In Motion

If I ask for the next slow dance,
you sign the way, say it's okay,
show the sense of what you want
and your coal eye glance comes across;

if I negotiate front line space,
present my petition and there
the bar stool man who broods, is sullen,
who cannot comprehend the loss;

if I ask for this time's turn
on the lovers' worn floor with you,
there is Friday night cause to think
nothing for us will keep the same.

And the local boys on the band stand
who play, in ritual, who play.

Man. Talk about sophomoric huh? All I can say is ta ta dum.

Jul/11/2010, 4:57 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
pjouissance Profile
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Re: The Morgue File

Lots of fun! I especially liked the one about nylons.

Jul/11/2010, 5:20 pm Link to this post Send Email to pjouissance   Send PM to pjouissance
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Re: The Morgue File

That one tickles me too, Auto. Especially since it was written while living in the capital of grundge fashion, the Pacific Northwest where the wet wool look is still in. Oh they would have so strung me up.

Jul/11/2010, 5:51 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson

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