Written in honor of having seen Yevtushenko at the
International Poetry Forum, Pittsburgh |
Welling up from the existence of his prescribed poems i vanish into Women's i sit in the lounge a woman cleans carpet comes in says hi i ask f the day has been gd or bd and her answer, well it's been good you'all where have i been in my mind during the "stand" have been traveling to Moscow with a lament for Kara's eyes glowing like men's footsteps crossing the terrestial planets of their own loving a virgin's hiss knowing that i don't have you yet hearing your phantom voice i can't go back in there there is no-one I recognize that night no-one I know one travels and never really knows how a Russian thinks i cry that you are not there skimming my flesh with your royal pen in my dream it dsnt rain patterns of your skin on the pain anymore like it used to i am wondering when i was in bed with you and listening to your bee breath look at the time i am smoking a cigarette in the interlude of a full feature there is nothing but my tar breath my next cigarette you had purple sage passion postcards to sell I think as I flip the cover on the book by Yev I recall buying at The Atlantic downtown my sheltered dreams in an empty magic box of paper dragons i am free tonight Postnote: I had read briefly at The Portfolio Cafe in Pittsburgh myself, where White and Black Russians amongst other drinks were served. |