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| Fiction: XenErotica |
| Starpoet Newsletter Vol. IX, No. XXXI |
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| Written by Lisa Jain Thompson | |
| Sunday, 03 August 2008 | |
 The StarPoet Newsletter
Vol. IX, No. XXXI This body betrays me
Pain by pain Telling me the girl Will soon be trapped In aging flesh decayed
Each week and year I walk and breath
If love were less than precious
I would still choose These moments beside you Over eternal life in heaven I would not exchange
This slowly dying corpse For a thousand bright years Without you Lisa Jain Thompson C. 2008 C. E.
 This is late: Bloodwork, dental work, acid reflux, and this friggin' headache. This is a no frills version.
Ozone
Ozone,
Canine nose, Restless Intensity. Lightning,
Thunder rolls, Full metal watchfulness.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 the mirror
Mascara
Mascara to mascara,
Face in the mirror, Twenty-four hours Between applications. Or is this still yesterday
Lost in a fugue, My mind adrift Unstuck from time? There is comfort in routine,
Repetitive rhythm,
Uncertain of reality Or the direction of the arrow. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 folkish humor sort of stuff
R. catesbeiana
Dead bullfrog in the middle of the road,
Belly up like Biology Class; I half expected a guy in a lab coat To be doing his dissection thing, Pointing out the ovaries and the heart To students who’d rather be most anywhere But a classroom cutting up amphibians. ‘Twasn’t near any water that I could see,
But it look more froggy than a Mr. Toad: Its legs flayed spread and still not flattened, Lying dead center in the right hand lane, Avoiding all those cars who did not wish To do the final road kill squish And confirm the frog had croaked. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 that damn mirror again
Everything Will Turn Out Alright
Putting my face on this morning, I wandered back
To when I was fourteen and barely makeupable, Looking into a mirror and thinking it would be two years -- An eternity it seemed then – until I would drive a car. This was California, where the only question was always
Whether the car would be new or a parental hand-me-down; Some of the boys bought old Ford Fairlanes, Working on weekends to make them run; The girls, we all borrowed one of our parents To drive to school or cruise the hamburger stand After telling our parents we were studying with friends (I could walk to the library -- the Beach Boys misspoke.) By the spring of my fifteenth year,
The country had survived the Cuban Missile Crisis, Watched our president taken down in Cried as his mahogany casket was drawn to We lost ourselves in our music, chasing the dream Across the beaches along the Pacific Highway, Filling the Sierras with out bright shiny cars As we scurried between Tahoe and the rocky sands Where the river slowed, then back through the passes Above Jackson to walk among the big tree groves Or down the Calaveras foothills to Angels Camp and Twain, All the while searching for our prince and finding only Shot filled frogs who could no longer jump worth a bean. Eventually both the sixties and my virginity passed, One very much more quickly than the other; I left Some times I wonder what the memories might look like If, sliding back without pain, the world and I were young again With everything I have seen still intact behind these poet eyes. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 possibilities unknown
The Stuff of Legend’s Foul Work
In another world, another planet,
I could have been Joan of Arc, Well gilled and sleek of body As I lead the great schools Against the dolphins. Or the mother of all, generations past,
Whose womb has born ten billion souls, Whose DNA fills every last cell and vein With the birthright of all humanity. And yet, I may be the missing link
Between who we are and shall be, A historian of unintended talent Fated to drift unrequited Through spacetime. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 archetypical rant
Down River
Take that cake and shove it,
I don’t want to play revolution anymore; Take all your righteous demands and indignant slogans And march right back to whatever classroom You sprung from. We’ve all lived on the streets,
We’ve all been in a war, We’ve all hated our parents And been abused as children: Dysfunctional is the species’ middle name. Get over it.
Wash dishes or wait tables for a while, Work on an assembly line, Get your hands dirty And get a real education. Little that you learn in a college classroom
Has any application to the world outside, Where bullets fly in anger and people die Without the right to appeal, And if you miss a suspense date
Or make the wrong decision, You might be fired, or dead, Rather than be asked to go see your faculty advisor. The world is not run
As a non profit corporation, Life is not a federal grant, Academic honors will not put An ounce of food on your dinner table Or keep your children from thinking
You are as dumb As you thought your parents were, Or as irrelevant As you think I am. When the sun rises come tomorrow,
I will be here: bring it on if you can; But always be prepared to execute Plan B When you lose out here in the real world Where all us grownups play. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 light verse
The Worm
Gray worm rounding down the tracks,
Slipping through the mist on the curve; Fog rising over the shallow run While the sun remains hidden Between clouds and horizon. Railway Express on the track next over,
Racing the metro train for the Pentagon, Both of us will stop at Before descending into the District Across the Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 looping
All The Rainbows In The Sky
Golden days before they end
Whisper secrets to the wind -- Roy Orbison, It’s Over I wrote you a poem I never sent,
So I doubt if you have read it; I published inside my thoughts And scribble its remains on paper That I have long since misplaced. I promised you my love forever
Until rivers dried and suns grew red; Then our paths slowly unentwined, You went your way, I went mine, And our love was put aside. Now we sit before our screens,
Passing rigorously neutral notes That skirt both memory and feelings, Scrupulously avoiding any suggestion Of what was and might have been. The music of the bright midway carousel
Still echoes in half-remembered dreams; Walking away proved far more difficult Than anything we have ever done As we surrendered our star-dusted love Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008   © Lisa Jain Thompson 1995-2008. Further distribution of this newsletter in its entirety is authorized. Email your letters and postcards or visit her contact page at the Starpoet website |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 05 August 2008 ) |
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