And I was desolate and sick of an old passion - Ernest Dowson
It's got to do with America,
my love of music, my grotesque loneliness... - Henry Miller
I, Twitter, stutteringly remember in cyber chases
late-night sittings at blue screen scrabbling after
old grievances such are lovers, cheaters, jilts, and
those rare 'got-lucky' graces, unexpected shoulders
and shudders, when I finally broke open laid waste
for future flatterers and failures of heart.
Are not all summer nights born late in America
fading when morning glories fog draped at dawn
breach fairgrounds an entire continent long?
Pine perimeters encircle veiled hermetic tents.
Suspended rides now frighten.
Briefly carnies are relieved of their ugliness.
Cotton candy gins spin dry confections to cold crystal.
Sugared metals stick/stop, their precocious tongues
tuned too early for erasure.
Sniffing my fingers in revenant tents I recall,
sickened, the candy at every fair, handfuls gorged,
glutted, belly sore and wanting more, drowned
in the push-shove of fevered bodies intent on the
fast rides where one loses stomach for the ordinary.
Dizzy, I grab my ankles, confess instead,
I've puked my guts from excess, spun sugar
failing cart wheels chasing penny mechanical
distractions ghosting up Stillborn* nights
holding their breath well past bedtime.
At a window, counting railroad cars,
a boy thief sits, stealing circus hours.
~
*Stillborn Falls is the town the imaginary poet was born in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You have a startlingly original and definitive poetic voice though the subject of your poem is so sorrowful I wish you infinite healing. You are truly a serious, gifted and accomplished poet. Travel safe, my brother. God be with you.
I've edited the poem but such edits don't 'take' on p-hunter instantly, takes about a week.
Thank you, Angela. PHunter isn't allowing me to reply (tried 3 times!) . So, again, thank you muchly.