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Solomon Sestina
4/29/02 10:19 pm
King Solomon at his lover smiles
She must have been flattered as he, being
The wisest man alive,
sang how like pomegranates
Were her breasts, as he searched for humanity,
Turned over with his hands every pleasure
Though
he found existence meaningless
All things under the sun, a meaningless
Chasing after the Wind, who cynically smiles
At
such inconstant temporal pleasure
As comes from birthing and breathing and being
One cell in the body of ever-dying
humanity
Amid the smoke of rotting pomegranates
He found himself building a garden of pomegranates
To see if
maybe it wasn't so meaningless
He wrote volumes of maxims for foolish humanity
Looking to wisdom, work, or smiles
For
lasting purpose for his being
Beyond the mortal touch of pleasure
Finding Work brought about the purpose of pleasure
Rather
more than the taste of pomegranates
And surely more than the headache of wine, being
Certain however that work is also
meaningless
He turns from humble pride and the smiles
Of forever restless humanity
Would not even his own humanity
Be
ready to bring Another pleasure
Another whose more eternal smiles
Give new light to jewel-like pomegranates?
Still,
knowing his words are Solomon, Meaningless
Sits in the king's hand, being
As if he were the only Being
And a
matrix of sentient all humanity
Merely in existence meaningless
For his experience and pleasure
He eats monochromatic
pomegranates
And smiles
Little knowing his name is Meaningless, smiles,
Sits in throne of pleasure and pomegranates
While
Solomon finds joy in being humanity
mangoes for breakfast 5/29/02 11:47 am MST
~e
remember the other day
when
we had mangoes for breakfast
and I was so carefully moved by the thoughts in your
head
though i couldn't tell you
what they were
though you know I know I am making this up
and I'm certain it was a dream from you
though not as lucid
as a real memory
it is no less pleasant
no less maturing my anticipation
which lives in my hand in these "how long?"
moments
days when the land cannot be denied
to be thirsty and dry
and I couldn't possibly be called
anything other
than shameful and wrong
and you call me lovely anyway
and your saying it makes it true
not just in our minds, but
in
the realer world enwhitened by the power
in your red blood, which exists more absolutely
than anything before
or since
because you were older and younger than all of it
and it is true
that we ate mangoes together the other
day
night, lost 5/27/02 11:00 pm MST
~e
brown
rain churns down myriadinous concrete walls
tasting of stone
long coat weighed down and pointing to the sidewalk
very
much alone
gray eyes probe the city's starkened curves
recklessly thrown
stretched-out heart strains against the
last straw
inside desperate chest cavity
as beauty searched for you
a soft voice was lost to -
you were
looking for a casual shape
to hold you through the night
untitled
The beautiful hippie girl is pregnant.
Not that she was ever some flower child
Or sunshine, or California.
No,
she came into the restaurant where I work
Here in the middle of Nebraska.
She came with a guy I knew, Josh,
One of
the friendliest tokers I know.
She had her grateful dead shirt,
Her long, light brown, curly hair
Her distinctive,
lovely eyebrows
And a pissed off look on her face.
She was captivating, and angry,
A circle of hemp around her neck.
She
was beautiful, and bored;
She had that "I need a cigarette" demeanor.
I saw her again the other day.
She was
walking up the sidewalk
To the front door of the school,
Her hair pulled back, her eyebrows checkmarks on her
face.
She was wearing windpants, and a gray coat,
The bump of her belly button ring
Visible on the surprising round
under her white
tshirt.
My eyes followed her past me, still a little
Intimidated. I bet she still could beat me up.
I
bet she still could talk me down.
School's over in 5 days.
In 5 days we will all disappear.
I bet I still will
never
Learn her name.
Invasion of India 6/2/02
I'm breaking bangles everywhere
With
my big American hands
all works on this page are copyright 2002 Ember Schrag
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