Two Poems

 

just because he’s standing don’t mean he’s dancing at night

soft hard notes behind spanish
spoken here, workers wait
for a boss to open the restaurant
in this wealthy city, they sip coffee
in the same place as…

streaks of red on black hair
orange makeup and a fushia
witch’s stroll, she cackles
a call for a restroom, the same
tap tapping foot judging
rain. she blushes in true
tradition. he scowls perfectly flat,
sagging hippie stands on
his feet and it don’t mean he can
play piano or kneel to pick up the debris
of autumn swept into his guitar

skeletons hang on so many windows

mother teresa for sainthood and a leaflet
left on a low table by a local astrologer

who is feeding the emptiness?
where are the grasshoppers, echo bridge,
public restrooms?

the persistance of childhood in a world
strawed-up, waving a white flag

 

coming to understand the father of dada

without places to turn,
too small to maneuver,
the seats swivel

wide petal from a juniper
stuck between her hands
in fold position, the good girl
communicates about ‘those’
people inside, who open the top
of their heads and always allow
edible nights to feast on styrofoam,
briefcases full of shopping bags
full of titles full of lucid documents,
digital music. a sentence ends.

trying to fill this bag, exactly. here are
a few words to flatten the bottom, to make room;
evaluate, atoms, ruse, jargon, abstract, cliches
and to end or begin to fill bags, competence. hours
capture this converstation.

“i had a dream last night,” she tells her mate
“no you didn’t,” he says

the end of a stack of newspapers
stacks of fruit juice bottles, bagels,
where is the integration of what is known,
even hugo ball, the father of dada, ‘took
flight out of time.’ a jar of tips. a basket of limes.

her hands in movement, he continues to pontificate. who
are they. they sit by a window sipping gourmet coffee. social
democracy, snippets of their being in a democratic
process, indian gestalt, cultural cretans, a bicycle decorated
with empty cans. no paper shopping bags here, only cloth sneakers.

the adulteress covers her head with a proverbial
container. she is not by a pond. it is not raining. a typewriter
clicks. a woman who works at the thrift store walks by
every morning at the same stride. an accent of bleach. we lose
control over impressions. no place to turn around. we bag it

Irene Koronas is a US-based multimedia artist who writes poetry and essays after hours of earning money doing something else.
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