Tuesday, May 26, 2015

I Never Had a Drink with Lou Reed.

I Never Had a Drink with Lou Reed
by james bezerra

We’ve spent so much time
with the Velvet Underground
that sometimes I forget
I don’t actually know
Lou Reed.
Haven’t split a drink with him.
The only man alive
whose voice makes me think
of women’s thighs
pale and white and
which should be describable
as either supple or lythe
but never are 
when I sober up
and look up
those words.
But say those words,
sexy as all fuck
on the tongue,
and tell us it’s a coincidence
aural and oral sound so similar or
that they each linger on
so long.


My whole plan tonight was to finish reading these poems. It doesn't look like that's going to happen.

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Free Nachos.

Free Nachos
by james bezerra

My closest bar is a Mexican restaurant
not too far out of the way
on my walk home.

For happy hour they have free nachos
made without love,
under a heat lamp.

I never eat them.
Or the dry burritos
or the rice like desiccated ants.

The universe is a cosmic karma engine and so
I never eat the free food. I’m banking my right to it
for leaner times.

It is far too easy to imagine a future me
paying for drinks with change counted from a cupped hand.
He will need free nachos more than me.


Alpha Centauri.

Alpha Centauri
by james bezerra

I seem to have reached
that point in life
where wanting
to love someone
contains a kind of sadness.
Grain of oyster sand or
speck of cosmic dust
catching pale gold light
from Alpha Centauri,
bounces it back to us
down telescope tunnel
through lens of eye
then optic nerve
then brain
then mind
then heart.
I seem to have reached
that point in life
where a sad smirk
like a worn leather jacket
worn like a leather jacket,
will never wear out,
go bad,
or let the cold in.
I seem to have reached
that point in life
when I know the roads I'll never see
will never be outnumbered
by the roads I've seen.
When the I love you-s come
slower, calmer.
When kisses carry all the memories
of all your other kisses.


To Carry, To Care.

To Carry, To Care
by james bezerra

I often think
on all the other men
you’ve loved,
who I know you loved

less than me,
but with whom you were -
somehow -
endlessly more free.

It is a terrible weight
to carry
to care
about anyone.

Their fingers in your hair
and you kiss their palm
just because
its nearest to your lips.

And what do you whisper to them
in the dark, about me
with a bead of sweat
in the nape of your neck

quivering just a little
when you speak.
I wonder if they’re gentle with you,
or if you ask them not to be.


Friday, May 22, 2015

Look at these meters I found! I just think they look neat.

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Because the Internet probably needs another picture of a sunset. #nofilter

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Sunset as seen from the road.

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Dirt and Sweat and Pickaxes.

Usually when I post poems I like to begin by posting an apology and explanation (like this one). Normally I go with explaining that most of the stuff on this blog is VERY FIRST DRAFT-Y.

Today though, instead of doing that, I am going to play with a metaphor.

I’ve previously said that good poets (i.e.: not me) are like diamond cutters. Poetry is about making tiny gestures with words and space and the lengths of breaths. They have to consider the clarity, the cut, the color, the setting. Poets will agonize over a single line. A single word. Drive themselves to desperation over a syllable. I admire them a lot.

Obviously though, I ain’t one of them. As a writer I am more like a busted water main. But if I’m going to learn how to be at least a proficient diamond cutter, then I am going to first need to go mine some diamonds, and remember, a diamond ain’t nothing but a chunk of carbon.

And just remember, there are no diamonds without dirt and sweat and pickaxes.

Brownout Summer.

Brownout Summer

by james bezerra

One San Joaquin Valley

summer of brown outs

we bought

inflatable kiddie pool.

Yellow weed back yard,

chemical-treated blue plastic,

borrowed green hose,

bright clear water.

When thrum of swamp cooler cut out,

and cheese plant next door went quiet,

the swelter indoors was thick.

Someone stole a wooden picnic table.

We put batteries in a radio,

sat outside sweating,

drank Keystone,

took turns in the pool.