On Pornography

Poem 3

On Pornography
©2009 by Raymond Daniel Medina

Frantic and langorous, decadent or abusive,
in office restrooms and empty beds,
on flat screens and wrinkled paper,
the access of demand fuels the denial
of rushed breath. of wanton lovers. I'm spiral-eyed,
starstruck, hungry for the anonymity of them,
now. Shamed by the perpetual taming, my own
lack of promiscuity. Emboldened by the risk and repetition,
spirited by the failure of imagination and control.

Mirrored in the determination,
the challenge of a proper fuck. I watch,
in adoration, as bodies bend to task.

The first time I saw pornography, I was nine.
My family gathered to help uncle move his things
from our shed. I produced a glossy image of woman
open-mouthed and expectant.
The adults instantly clutching for it,
I ran through a flurry of hands, careening above
the burned summer grass. The image crisp
despite the commotion.

When they finally caught me,
and tore the paper from my hands, I followed the skin
broken and wrinkled back into its box
and wondered what secrets there.

In hindsight, I should have eaten as I ran.
For tens of thousands of hours, I've searched from both sides
of pictures, film, the greedy disbelieving eyes of watchers,
my own half-lidded, even the memories of angle
or furrow or wince for the home of fascination.

I imagine this actress a train conductor,
or executive, this actor a deadbeat dad
or token booth clerk. I try to remember no caught bird ever flies
with the same grace as one flashing swiftly past a hungry eye,
that for all my enthusiasm, I'll end up caught and holding
my own empty hand.

April 2, 2009

For Sale or Rent
©2009 by Raymond Daniel Medina

Woven into future time
where the air will touch what we can't say
is a testament of what we've done
in the heat of heat and the wet of tongue.
We can justify our every day
but not our every line.

We have watched our loves from future past.
Our hearts, a rental property,
and we such demanding lords.
They couldn't pay what it affords.
They couldn't eat our pretty teeth
or beyond fascination last.

So the floorboards bend 'neath heavy feet
from the bounce and pace of lovers gone.
The paint is stained by smoke and hands
The silver stained by air's demands.
A home awaits for rights and wrongs;
ushered in by vacancy.

April 1, 2009

Wingspan

Neither morning person;
nor person
most mornings.
no lover to welcome the salutation,
she follows the rumbling to some other food.

Some memories serve her, others leave
her waiting at a greasy table with a glass of water,
drumming fingers, impatient for the need
to decide. Hungrier for the urgency of a waiting hand
than any other breakfast.

She fingers the silverware, wonders amongst the
downcast twos and threes
who eats alone.
Everybody likes the dull end of the knife
when cutting time comes, loves the thing
that hovers between noun and verb, wishes
for the luxury of a lonely discontent.

She drinks to the slow forgetting;
the privileged aphasia,
to flying kites with no wind.
Her eggs are underdone.

The most romantic thing about solitude
is being able to recognize a decent
conversation. The privilege of the
creator in the garden. The fleeting
thrill of naming.

As velvet yields to leather, she calls herself
a sweet demise,
pleads with the night to deliver
something more fulfilling than
yesterday's gristle.
In her mind, she is a falconer,
placing the dark hood over her head,
putting herself most instantly to sleep.

040308 30something/30 To The Residents

To the Residents of 318 Whitehorse Road,
©2008 by Raymond Daniel Medina

As it happened, Lexington lay directly
between Savannah and Asheville.
We saw in that a chance to visit
a childhood decades gone. I showed her my magic,
opening the car window as the song of cicadas
spilled from my mouth. An invitation to dance
with borrowing lungs the sweet humidity
of the Carolina pines.

We stopped for food and directions. A man dusty
with the day's work took in our story
with a thrill at the task. Called his friend at the
Firehouse
to direct us. A confirmation of Southern hospitality.

An exception I wanted to remember from
a childhood consistently betrayed.

As we pulled up across the street, the last film of
dusk
receded, leaving us in milky darkness. Me talking to
my aunt in Asheville.
She waiting patient, peaceful. Your dogs barking the
soundtrack
to a movie credited by our arrival. You and your wife
appeared
in bedclothes, gray hair mussed. Too much of
yourselves exposed,
you climbed the only fence on the block to find out
what we were doing there.

What ch'all doin' here?
Did ya car break down?
Are y'all lost?
Did y'all need directions somewhere?
I'd be happy ta help.
'Jdya come here ta talk onna phone?
Just want ta know what y'all're doin here's all.
So ya not lawst?
Don't need nothin'?
Just. . .sittin' here?
Y'all're just gonna sit here?
Don't worry, I'm not the law.
Just wonderin' what yer doin' here.
Just want ta make sure y'all don't need nothin'.
Sure I can't get y'all somethin' – a mountain dew,
a sprite, some gas – just. . .wonderin'
What - the - fuck - are – y'all – doin' - here?

As if it were scripted, the sound of a car's idling
engine
had awoken a thing in you that sleeps most days.
Somewhere in your small fenced-in mind
you forgot you were talking to your masters.
That southern gentility calls for respect, or at least
manners.
That Christ-loving folk owe the same debt of
compassion
your bumper stickers demand. That we were the only
chance
you'll ever have to eat your daily bread. You forgot
your life
is a car stopped outside our house.

Your wife told us this was the reason you kept guard
dogs.
I looked at the two small fluffy white things barking
in the pen in the pen of your yard. Smirked at the
country suburbs
where brick's replaced by gate. Agreed they looked
particularly
vicious. She told me if she let them loose they'd eat
me alive.
I thought of Roots and Kunta Kinte
and instead of German Shepherds
or Rhodesian Ridgebacks,
your tiny-fanged terriers yipping at my feet.

I thought of saying more as you both snickered
and heeled your way home having lost the trail
but wanting to walk in the way
of the man my momma raised me to,
I told you we'd be fifteen minutes
and wished you a good night.

And, well, this is an elaboration of that –

to wish you a good night
should you choose
to continue to sleep
through the decades of days
that invite you to walk
in a world where you're not
the only one who's upset
the neighborhood has gone
to the dogs.

____________________________________________________________________________________
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042006 Subterannean Homesick Alien

The breath of the morningI keep forgettingThe smell of the warm summer airI live in a town where you can't smell a thingYou watch your feet for cracks in the pavementUp above, aliens hoverMaking home moviesFor the folks back homeOf all these weird creatures who lock up their spiritsDrill holes in themselvesAnd live for their secretsThey're all uptight, uptightUptight, uptightUptight, uptightI wish that they'd swoop down in a country laneLate at night when I'm drivingTake me on board their beautiful shipShow me the world as I'd love to see itI'd tell all my friends but they'd never believe meThey'd think that I'd finally lost it completelyI'd show them the stars and the meaning of lifeThey'd shut me awayBut I'd be alright, alrightI'm alrightI'm alrightI'm just uptight, uptightUptight, uptightUptight, uptightUptight, uptightUptight

042006

seldom planned, usually inspired

Song by Superchunk

Art Class (song for Yayoi Kusama)

here we go in spurts
the colors nearly burst
and you may notice a shaking in your eye
metaphors the worst
but are you being driven or do you drive?
on a trip between two points in your infinity net
obliterate yourself from the scene but please do not forget
cover me with spots - black and red dots
until i'm crowding up your visual field
bare assed and beautiful you're climbing on your art like a shield
now i want - i say sang - i do
everybody dance now

welcome to art class
forget your acid-free paper and glass
welcome to art class
be a bride stripped bare of the past

why so serious?
why so serious when it's only your life thats at stake
why so serious
when your life is the art that you make
life is the art that you make

sell anything you want
but it's worth no more and no less than a kiss
try not to represent even that
cuz this moment is all that it is
in a garden of glass theres a red plastic tree
so shit in a can but your art is not free

i sang - i want - i do
and everybody dances with me

welcome to art class
and yes it does involve shaking your ass
welcome to art class
always keep your face to the glass

why so serious?
why so serious - when it's only your life thats at stake
why so serious - when your life is the art that you make
life is the art that you make

why so serious?

Song I like

Been listening to the following album and song lately.

album: If You're Feeling Sinister (1996)
by Belle & Sebastian

Get Me Away From Here I'm Dying

Ooh! Get me away from here I'm dying
Play me a song to set me free
Nobody writes them like they used to
So it may as well be me
Here on my own now after hours
Here on my own now on a bus
Think of it this way
You could either be successful or be us
With our winning smiles, and us
With our catchy tunes, and us
Now we're photogenic
You know, we don't stand a chance

Oh, I'll settle down with some old story
About a boy who's just like me
Thought there was love in everything and everyone
You're so naive!
They always reach a sorry ending
They always get it in the end.
Still it was worth it as I turned the pages solemnly, and then
With a winning smile, the boy
With naivety succeeds
At the final moment, I cried
I always cry at endings

Oh, that wasn't what I meant to say at all
From where I'm sitting, rain
Falling against the lonely tenement
Has set my mind to wander
Into the windows of my lovers
They never know unless I write
"This is no declaration, I just thought I'd let you know goodbye"
Said the hero in the story
"It is mightier than swords
I could kill you sure
But I could only make you cry with these words"
get me away i'm dying