Poetry Unleashed StarPoet Newsletter Vol. IX, No. XXXV | Home |
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| StarPoet Newsletter Vol. IX, No. XXXV |
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| Written by Lisa Jain Thompson | |
| Sunday, 31 August 2008 | |
 The StarPoet Newsletter
Vol. IX, No. XXXV Pray to your goddamn'd storm gods
Offer whatever sacrifices That may be necessary N'Orlins lives or dies come morning
And we may never see her again Lisa Jain Thompson c. 2008 C. E.
  Today is a good day for evacuation.
Run.
I never got to see New Orleans
Or hear her mournful sound Hear that singing through the doorways The tapping on the ground Dancing feet on Bourbon Street The jazz, the blues, the beat I never got to see New Orleans Or feel the Delta heat -- John Stewart and Buffy Ford
New Orleans My body doesn't like me. I will win out but it will be a struggle.
across, above, beneath the world
Street
I walk the streets,
Down starry boulevards Filled with dreams and memories, To capture fading glimpses Of reeling bits of rhyme That I can repurpose to my needs, Suggestive reappropriations That might breathe life into a medium Grown as cool as death and as forgotten As the losers in last year’s World Series. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 speaking of purposing
Lighting a Fire
If God came into the worlds
To light a fire, What am I here for? Should I gather wood To throw upon the blaze Or piss on the flames To put them out? I can make an argument for each,
But I’ve never been much good At ass kissing, Or felt a compulsion To tell people -- Or a god for that matter -- What they wanted. The best I do is poet
And throw the occasional Intellectual grenade Into the midst Of self-appointed experts. Perhaps that is what he wants
-- If he exists -- And what I’m here for. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 Yeah, I never got to see New Orleans
The parade on Easy Street When Mardi Gras was swingin' To the Dixieland retreat Voodoo Alley, sweet King Cake Confetti rain, for heaven's sakes I never got to see New Orleans Or feel the Delta heat -- John Stewart and Buffy Ford
New Orleans the aftermath
Full Mental Fragments
I don’t want my body found
Covered with piles of dirt and leaves; It’s bad enough there’ll be All these scraps of poetry lying around That no one will ever Make any sense of. CSIs will find the disparate remnants
Of full-up ADD correction reflexes Working close to optimal efficiency To make sense of the naked lines That rattle round and round Before slip-sliding here. My grasp on reality
Will be ill served by my death. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 all night awake, struggling
Daylight
Drifting sideways through the daylight
Into the long, dull tumble of night towards morning. Watching the rain wash over the air
As Grissom’s marathon runs around me, Body after body, effect and cause, Neatly identified before the next one falls. Listening to graveyard talk show hosts
Ramble on about Hillary and Obama -- Always the first name. always the last -- Guessing what McCain might do After the conventions end. Everything is drifting within the current,
I struggle to make sense of the shoreline. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 I never got to see New Orleans
Or the Gulf of Mexico And hear the old piano man Play the blues of long ago And feel the simmer, taste the sweets And hear the hum on Canal Street Will I ever see New Orleans And feel the Delta heat? -- John Stewart and Buffy Ford
New Orleans you oughta know
Satisfaction
All the young boys,
Throwing their star up the pop charts; I don’t know they can masturbate Let alone rock. Mom and Pop boys,
Seducers of parents and nuns; So quick to smile and slip inside A young girl’s pants. Such fey fanged sweets,
Following the biology To the nearest easy target To rock them good. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 late night, early morning, awake, alone and coughing
Some Girls
White girls, all blue as the Pacific deep,
Black ones, dark and sweet; Brown eyed men with unlimited text,
Gaunt sweating cowboys at days end; Aging rebels forged in heaven,
Ancient warriors in my bed; Wife, lover, friend and companion,
Now and evermore. If we could only tell …
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 I never got to see New Orleans
Ride the river to the sea Hear the muse of Louisiana Sing her heart to me Fats and Louis and Dixieland She is the river, she is the land But I never got to see New Orleans Or hold her in my hand -- John Stewart and Buffy Ford
New Orleans the inbox
The Email Millennium
Apparently you cannot be
A Democratic politician in the new millennium Without writing me long, personal emails; I’ve heard from the Kennedys -- At least all the living ones -- And the Clintons, Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea; The Obamas, of course, He appears to be a close friend, And any Senator jockeying for position Or my money. I’m certain Pelosi has invited me to tea,
Or perhaps it was a night at the zoo, And all my Virginia politicians, Who seem quite concerned about my vote; Lately some guy name Biden writes, Does anyone have half a clue why? Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 eight to ten pounds lighter in three days, I approach transculent
Organic Olive
The question before the floor
Is whether I am paler than I am wan. Wan can be a long slow glide But pale, for those of us with an olive skin, Is a rarer, more magnificent accomplishment As these things go. So, having achieved a nice golden pallor,
I will forgo it, And return to my normal first crush undercoat. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 And her waters may be rising
But Orleans is still alive and Forever she will sing to me The lullabies of used to be Will I ever see New Orleans And hear those melodies? -- John Stewart and Buffy Ford
New Orleans The Louisianna Shrimp and Petroleum Festival
Has been cancelled   © 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 ( Saturday, 30 August 2008 ) |
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