Thursday, January 19, 2012

Poetry underground.

I found this mural in the Westlake Tunnel and I loved the poem.

Hold my hand she says, take me higher.
Be my love supreme and my rolling stone.
Put me on the A train, strand me out on Blueberry Hill.
Time buckles and sways, dreaming in color backward and forward.
He is sunny side up when the sun goes down.
Dark alleys are saxophones, he says, not muggers.
He wakes her with a tulip between his teeth.
She loves her body when he loves it, what are the limitations of allure?
She mirrors his highs lights his lows and loses his interest.
His hat is his halo.
He leaves to escape trouble and to bring it on.
She sings the blues and plucks the dead heads off the daisies.
He is a moth the size of a small bird who has eaten his way through her matching skirts and sweater sets. She sews her holes and moves forward.
He pauses and looks back, remembering her compilation of cool curves.
He imagines turning her upside down and pouring her out, backward and forward, like slow syrup.
He says "Mama dance with me. I'm a fool for you baby."

-Gene Gentry McMahon

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