Saturday, March 28, 2009

Radomir Luza


cinema is not film
cinema has no actors braying like rabbits for background work

all those performers looking for vouchers and membership in the
screen actors guild so many mouths at the trough

the tender red blanket of black daisies suicidal steps and cold knuckles

the cinema i know is more
cinema you haughty toidy toy you live in the transparent galaxy
film noir paintings bridget bardot sliced wrists and at times a great contradiction

heroine reversed the sky and hand grenaded wedding rings and picasso paintings

please saint film do not come to me with dying agitators using to use to
get a point across or a movement or a silly silly catholic kaballah vegetable soup

or actors studio or est or no money down or even scientology buying time on screen
to hype everything but film

saliva on sale

and engagements rings cut like steak on a gurney below hell

cinema lets the autumn leaves take care of themselves
film turns them into wet pillows with no halos

film turns thanksgiving day piles into nasty memories of studios and electric shock of garland taylor and monroe and how they slowly faded into 20 foot faces and one inch hearts into the morning rain

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Enrique Souffle


It was shot in black and white,
but it would have looked the same in color –
the gray, fleabag motel
chosen by the young film maker
for his desperate robber.
A night on the lam before skipping town.

He had a suitcase of money,
a gun, dark sunglasses,
was trying to break out,
and you could clearly see across the street –
the Triumph motorcycle shop
basking in the California sun.

On Washington Boulevard
I found that bike shop
and looked across the slick black street –
empty lot,
motel gone,
the mud in living color.
I had a suitcase of ticket stubs,
the Ray-Bans, was trying to break in.

Damn! Where was I going to sleep?
Joanne Merriam


If God did anything,
He invented comedy, so
you could take her hand, maybe make love,
maybe make smaller versions of yourselves,
watch the breeze flip the hem of her dress
and then she goes off with a man with a mustache.
You're on your fire escape in an undershirt crying
and it's the end of the world, I know.

If God did anything,
He threw away the plans.
We had to figure it out for ourselves:
plants using their bright stamens as tuning forks,
mammals using their thighs as spark plugs.
You can't help but imitate Him,
but whatever you throw away of yourself
you're still left with yourself,
everywhere, stumbling beauty, interconnected.

If God did anything,
He went away.
You take a walk by the old river,
ignore the whores and pawn shops
in favor of the soft fog making the bridge's arches
look like a world war two postcard of Europe.
You're just tired. You pretend you're in a movie,
an old movie, tipping your hat in the rain.