From It’ll Never Be Over For Me by Mark Lamoureux

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From It’ll Never Be Over For Me

by

Mark Lamoureux

YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE YOUR INTEREST LIES

after Dana Valery

A green veil on the bird,

serrated lightning on the perimeter;

into the milk afternoon flies

the big Wheel, it barfs rain

onto the flagstones.  Like this,

this is another city—now

buds open with alien colours.

You should be in a pink

6-wheeled car, it would have been

so Technicolor, a death match

to the quick divan.  Jewels

of bright Bugs in the grey

climate.  Shiny skin up to here,

the walking hinge.  What lies

within is terror.  So far, Penelope,

a jumpsuit of shrinking veins.

Wait for the last switch.

You thought the light was on,

but now this hurts your eyes.

 

Natural Harmony

As far as I can tell, something like a modern hedge witch, all the chakras in a line, kicking up their boots.  Couldn’t you have guessed that’s where this was headed? Milan to Johannesburg to London to New York.  Ed Sullivan & disco & the most original softdrink in the whole wide world.  Yes, you’re going to love Lenny’s Steak & Chops—lay your hands on me, Dana Valery.  What’s left to do but set wounds, set to spinning the music of the spheres: vibrating Virgo, pulsing Pisces, spine arumble with hot water through the pipes?  Radio, television, peeling back the strata of the spiritual onion.  Big bright eyes, all that energy—the future right there in the past, what we forgot about as the dirty water rises to chins,  wrong energy a cloud of black ballpoint ink above this shuddering firmament.  Set us free, Dana Valery.

 

DON’T LEAVE POOR ME

after Big Maybelle Smith

Advancing blacktop, always

at the behest of

shrinking leaves, the last

of whatever came

before—                what falls

chaos pink & white of flowering

trees, scattered

wounds puckered on rock

turf.        Don’t green to grey,

sail away the ripples

toward shore, banking waves

a klaxon.  Always vectored

continuity, a pointing arrow a sword

like macaroni overhead

that points at sag & fall,

gelatinous jowl

of tentacles. To lord

over just groans. Who once

struck the silver gong

for me                    now going

habitually into

abyss mists           Miss so-&-sos

who were               the greyscale

actresses

now dust.

 

May Queen

In another time, you’d have been a Queen.  Big Maybelle Smith, the Queen of May, The Queen of the Bells, ringing out across those post-industrial badlands.  Orson Wells’ last gig was as a planet in “Transformers: The Movie,” & likewise you should have had your own atmosphere, but instead you did “96 Tears” & left with a question mark, a mystery when everything about you was plain to see, like a tree, thick with magnolias like the one that peeked out from your shimmering hair.  Even a young Johnny Coltrane could not attain escape velocity; you both proved the body wants what the heart can’t have: some sweetness, a moment’s peace, beloved anodyne.  Sunday’s still gloomy & you’re out there, way past Pluto, waiting to swallow the sun at exactly the right moment & to thunderous applause.
I’LL DO A LITTLE BIT MORE

after The Olympics

Transom, what was—

I’m no good.

Does the movie

still play

when there’s nobody

in the audience?

Projectionist, long gone

like the lighthouse-

keeper.  That was then,

etc.  What is

a book? A slab

of grass.

Shrinking & mundane,

what grows from

last light, the clock

the highest fascist.

Grey that supplants,

irrevocable

voice, still singing, stinging

the Sibyl.

A million records, good

only for breaking,

the hungry stylus done.

Prodigal, digital,

has no leverage in this the 5th

world.

 

The Olympics

U.S. champions in “Good Lovin’.” Walter Ward got gold in losing your girl to fake cowboys & gunshots.  Eddie Lewis got silver in the 500m Hucky Buck. An army of judges agree.  Walter Hammond bronze in “The Bounce.” Charles Fizer failed to place in the 1000m run from National Guard guns in Watts, Los Angeles.  Melvin King got gold in losing your only sister to an accidental bullet.  Trigger slipped.  On account of they can’t all fit on the Wheaties box, try a milk carton, the obituaries instead.  Have you seen these men?  Not since 2006.  Angels arrived with chariots full of gumdrops & lemonade.

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