poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

Blog Archive

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Three in Gold and Orange Tones

1
I come inside out of the shower of orange leaves/ their sound is dry
and their sound is falling/ I am a bell

or the sound made by two cut rocks that still fit together
hung from strings: architecture

I am constantly hitting myself in the same place
but everytime it makes a different tone/ so I continue to swing

I am a leaf stuck to the sleeve of a sweatshirt
I am wearing the sweatshirt/ the sweatshirt is wearing the leaf

I am the sweatshirt/ the wearer of the sweatshirt
and the leaf/ I am two orange bells singing to the sun/ two halves of a broken rock

each half needing the air and the strings and the wind and the broken place
to make afternoon music in gold and orange tones

2
and their sound is falling/ I am a bell
I come inside out of the shower of orange leaves/ their sound is dry

hung from strings: architecture
or the sound made by two cut rocks that still fit together

but everytime it makes a different tone/ so I continue to swing.
I am constantly hitting myself in the same place

I am wearing the sweatshirt/ the sweatshirt is wearing the leaf
I am a leaf stuck to the sleeve of the sweatshirt

to make afternoon music in gold and orange tones.
each half needing the air and the strings and the wind and the broken place

3
I come inside out of the shower of orange leaves/ their sound is dry
or the sound made by two cut rocks that still fit together
I am constantly hitting myself in the same place
I am a leaf stuck to the sleeve of a sweatshirt
I am the sweatshirt/ the wearer of the sweatshirt
each half needing the air and the strings and the wind and the broken place

and their sound is falling/ I am a bell
hung from strings: architecture
but everytime it makes a different tone/ so I continue to swing.
I am wearing the sweatshirt/ the sweatshirt is wearing the leaf
and the leaf/ I am two orange bells singing to the sun/ two halves of a broken rock
to make afternoon music in gold and orange tones.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

World of Pearls

Mark Twain makes hawk eyes at me.
His moustache is exactly the size of my left hand when it is spread.
Moustaches tickle mouth to mouth
I bet Mark Twain's moustache would taste like tobacco,
his scalp would smell sorghum sweet
and his voice would have it's own gruff music.
I can tell by his steamboat captain eyes, full of electricity.
(Twain and Einstein often get confused
these days, because they had the same hair.)
Electricity tastes like burning.

All day at work, she's chattering like a retarded bird:
He said I was pretty
He said I was pretty
He said I was pretty
(Well let me tell you something honey, if you don't know that you are pretty, you got something more wrong with you than throwing up in the alleyway leaning sway-backed out that door off the back room. YOU'RE PRETTY. USE THE FUCKING BATHROOM.)

His moustache is twice the size of my left hand when it is spread.
Sorghum is a grass that can be made into a syrup,
it is an angiosperm like magnolia and crab apple.

Walt Whitman slept over last night, she says
and after sex he began to weep. He said, I'm not crying
my eyes are coming.
Because she has dyslexia, she reads the word "scared" as "sacred"
dyslexia and a Catholic past
before Walt Whitman
the only one watching was God
he was watching all the time and he liked it when she
stuck her fingers down her throat.

I love you anyway, world of Mark Twain and car accidents
world of Whitman's poems, world of pearls and shells and wood beads and music.
Like the sound of the ocean at night, my love is all there is
to hear and the sound makes it possible to see
whatever you want/ in the sparkle of stars on waves/ I love you anyway.
My heart is blue and green, Earth-like in my chest/ there is room
for all of my mistakes, there is room
for your mistakes too.