the lone prairie countdown
i'm asleep when awake and awake when
her skirt rides up sober when drunk
or the likelihood of straight on two
one two no i'm drunk on her thighs i'm
the shopworn nut the ending you see
coming three four on two
i'm drunk when awake asleep when
her thighs' likelihood's around
when coming awake i'll admit
her taste in underclothes rides up
the shopworn nut like one two lihood
straight on to under over her thighs
i'm in i'm in five
ONE two three four FIVE
FIVE FIVE the mind is made for dying
so must be real
mind soul spirit aura
CLAP ON CLAP OFF
the body is made of the mind
and eyes are fountains
wet in my dreams of her thighs
i'm under over three four
her drunk thighs must be the words
i'm missing to fill my sleep
halfway down her ass and rest
and sleep sober dream drunk
look at the text freckles swallows
high in the dream
drunk on nuts that's why
at home with residual smoke
merlot taste mouth fuzz
panic of drowning bodies made for
death "the whole planet is a graveyard"
bury me not on the lone prairie
carve my face in your snatch on the stone
attach a roachclip
tag the sucker
i just want
to have a sore tongue
taste of sushi sangria
ritual melons bury my face in your
will shit on my grave maybe i'll have
a grave desperate prairie aura of
a shopworn nut we know time
we know CLAP OFF
and it is against us
not in the way my body is
yours meant against yours
meant anything but mine
her tasty underclothes
fingers is a dream
bar at closing time
go home alone and chuckle
desert prairie call it my life
will i see you again?
whole planet asleep
drunk on mind
and love so ghostly
it musk bee
I can clean the bathroom tomorrow,
today I'll get stoned and watch movies.
Silly pictures of retirement in NYC --
as others might think to retire in
someplace like where I am now,
where I work and watch my sons grow,
live without touching the outside,
women, anything urgent
except my own prick.
There's always noise in the City.
After a while each distinct sound becomes
as flat and lifeless as this poem,
the perfect place to retire. I'll get stoned
tomorrow, today I'll write. Maybe
I'll call Sonia, fearful world-wearied traveller
living in a small apartment in the Bronx.
She worries, keeps her men
somewhat at bay, as I my world.
Ah call, not because she's woman,
but friend. I sense the years we've lived apart
as nothing save what made us wrinkled and slow.
All else would flash inside youth's fervor
remembered if we spoke, hispanic chants
rising high outside the wooden window,
flattened out so we could walk upon,
becoming less than a street of dreams.
The other who lives by water,
more to me than she knows,
she there, here keeping me
from being as flat as this poem,
as the noises I imagine outside.
Shorthand: she is hope
and love; she has faith
in me. There is no more than these
There's always noise in the city.
No here though, and not by water,
only of here and of the water.
I can clean the bathroom tomorrow.
Today, I'll drift.
©2005 by John Eivaz
John Eivaz was born in New York and lives in California. He loves to
write, because it is the cheapest thing one can do for fun when one is broke. He has
been included in a bunch of past issues of Slow Trains, and its
first print anthology. He is the poetry editor of the
Erotica Readers and Writers Association Web site, and still
works at a winery. Read more of his work at the Web site he shares with P.J. Nights.