EFRAYIM LEVENSON'S new chapbook, Dances With Tears, will be available for general sale March 20. (Photo by Hobobob)
JONES
by Efrayim Levenson
The record climb
the record fall
Don't look now
There go your balls!
The next ball up
can't come too fast
Yolanda Vega
won't save your ass
La-la-la-la
la-la-la-la
la-la-la-la-la-la-la
BURDEN OF A MAN
Adrift in time
at peace with space
the love in this place
sledge-hammered into his head
shatters all levels
of dissonant rhythms
He cannot sing what it reveals
The chorus in his disturbed quietude
is slapped across his face
left, then right, then left again
"Please let me breathe", he gasps,
"just for a moment to regain my composure
in the maze. Perhaps the auto-tracking
on the VCR in my mind will accomplish
something soon. A swirl of nausea reels me
as I dance between the city people during a
brief furlough from the numbers game,
the calculator's click-clack not far away."
If only for a little rain
to soak his disposition
in the rhythmic splashings
of his long walk home
Perhaps tonight he can write this poem
if only the day would end
"If only the day would end", he thinks,
"I could lay down with you
to feel my rhythm in your pulse,
look into your eyes that always lure me in.
I love the song your trigger finger sings."
Good morning!
Back into the fitful grind
to ride the rails once again
rattle shake squeal of brake
back to the rustle of purple paper
the CPU click again, again,
again the stiff roar from the humorless
Only a few know the size of the real picture
Is the clock friend or foe?
All he knows is smallness in the world
but they keep knocking on his door for answers
"Just a little comfort with you in my arms
quiets the incessant buzz. Hold me down
while there's yet time for peace."
For soon the morning light rages
with the burden of a man
in search of a place to stand
So many discordant pieces to assemble
for the walk up the battlefield's hill
where the images are never concrete
His final rest lies at the top
He feels the pull of a new day
while he awaits the rattling shatter
of the vice that flattens his head
Pound the drum
Scrape the string clean
Shield yourselves from his burden's burst
Have a good laugh at the clown's expense
You'll feel sorry when it's too late
Tick, tick, tick, adrift in accelerated fading time again
Wake up!
We're not done with you yet.
Your egg isn't scrambled enough
The shots fired are just your synapse snap
Relax.
It'll be fine in the morning.
Adrift in time
at peace with space
the love in this place
sledge-hammered into his head
shatters all levels
of dissonant rhythms
He cannot sing what it reveals
The chorus in his disturbed quietude
is slapped across his face
left, then right, then left again
"Please let me breathe", he gasps,
"just for a moment to regain my composure
in the maze. Perhaps the auto-tracking
on the VCR in my mind will accomplish
something soon. A swirl of nausea reels me
as I dance between the city people during a
brief furlough from the numbers game,
the calculator's click-clack not far away."
If only for a little rain
to soak his disposition
in the rhythmic splashings
of his long walk home
Perhaps tonight he can write this poem
if only the day would end
"If only the day would end", he thinks,
"I could lay down with you
to feel my rhythm in your pulse,
look into your eyes that always lure me in.
I love the song your trigger finger sings."
Good morning!
Back into the fitful grind
to ride the rails once again
rattle shake squeal of brake
back to the rustle of purple paper
the CPU click again, again,
again the stiff roar from the humorless
Only a few know the size of the real picture
Is the clock friend or foe?
All he knows is smallness in the world
but they keep knocking on his door for answers
"Just a little comfort with you in my arms
quiets the incessant buzz. Hold me down
while there's yet time for peace."
For soon the morning light rages
with the burden of a man
in search of a place to stand
So many discordant pieces to assemble
for the walk up the battlefield's hill
where the images are never concrete
His final rest lies at the top
He feels the pull of a new day
while he awaits the rattling shatter
of the vice that flattens his head
Pound the drum
Scrape the string clean
Shield yourselves from his burden's burst
Have a good laugh at the clown's expense
You'll feel sorry when it's too late
Tick, tick, tick, adrift in accelerated fading time again
Wake up!
We're not done with you yet.
Your egg isn't scrambled enough
The shots fired are just your synapse snap
Relax.
It'll be fine in the morning.
Efrayim
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