Month: April 2021

Love In The Robopocalypse

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If you and I were transported
to a land where robot overlords
enslaved the human race,
I wouldn’t worry;
all we’d have to do is run,
ducking in and out of
crumbled shopping malls
and parking decks full of
abandoned cars, together,
uninhibited, free.
So what if they have buzz-saws
and optical laser beams?
If we get caught, just kiss me:
your every kiss is
an electromagnetic pulse,
a white-blue crackling shockwave
and our kisses will overload
every tiny circuit in their
cold positronic hearts;
they’ll fall like broken toys
under the smell of burnt ozone
and fresh love blooming.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Locomotor

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I am trying to stoke a fire
inside this engine
of muscle and bone.

It once trekked mountains.
It once carried them.
It danced, it leapt,
it whirled, it stepped
swift and sure and strong

but I have not used it;
I have let it laze and linger
and now it rusts.

The gears grind
when they turn.
They protest and pop,
they groan and grumble.

I have let them learn to ache
when the sun crests,
when the rain rushes in,
when the chill pulls it blanket up.

No more.
No more.

I have been swallowing tinder.
I am coughing sparks already,
I am knocking off the burrs
and oiling the joints already

and will soon be under way.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Love Letter To An Astronaut

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Today, I sat by the river bank
and sunk my toes into the silt.
I docked with the Earth,
but could not find you on it.
You are no-where,
in daylight invisible,
but the stars will come out
in a few hours and I will
search among them for you.

Twinkle, twinkle.

You are the only star I want
from these dark heavens.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Little Gardens

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In every city,
there are empty lots
that dream of being gardens.

Some of them
want wildflowers to grow
just because they want someone
to call them beautiful,
and some of them
want to grow peppers,
and bright tomatoes,
and long orange carrots
because the thing
they want most
is to nourish someone,
and some of them
just want water and light
and don’t care what grows,
scraggly weeds or tangled brush,
anything at all,
so long as someone
is there to care for them.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Like Lemmings Leaping Off A Cliff

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You followed your heart.
There’s nothing I can say
against that. You followed
your heart back to the shark
pit, like it was a hook in the
side of your lip and it hurt
too much to not go along,
even if you’d be snapped up
in the end. The water’s
already got the scent of
you in it, and I don’t want
to watch the feeding.

You followed your heart
into the boxing ring, only
the gloves are off and no
one’s cheering for you.
We’re just stunned,
mouths hung open,
drying in wonder,
wincing in anticipation
for the bruises his fists
give like gifts. They’ll come.
They’ll come.

You followed your heart.

I just wish mine had not
toddled after you.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Go Quietly

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I know you must wake
and go to work,
but do this for me:
go quietly as you can.

I am selfish and
I do not want to be
disturbed by your leaving.

Dress with the lights off,
underwear and blouse,
the black skirt you laid
on the dresser last night.

Your heels are beside
the door, your earrings
in the bowl with your
car keys. Go quietly.

I am selfish and
know I’ll wake up
and find you gone.

I would like to put
that off as long as
possible.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Giftbox

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Your mouth is a gift
box I’d like to fill with
words: poetic
libations poured
from (the cup of) my
self, poured til you brim
with them, til
they seep into your seams,
til they seep into your dreams,
til I leave your lace edges
dripping.

I’ll rush to seal them in
before they gush out,
seal you with ribbon
before they spill
from the spout
of your rosy red lips,
of your come-to-bed lips,
sealed with a bow
on your kiss-me-now lips.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Galatea

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Things your father gave you:
Eyesockets. The bones that frame
bottles full of the grey white ocean.
Black hair. Tangles like kelp.
The shape your foot forms in
the wet sand beside conch shells.

A sand dollar, a fish hook.

A memory like fog: cold salt,
wet hair on a man’s long legs,
white teeth in a black kelp beard.

A nightmare: a ship on the horizon
that never comes to harbor,
even during storms.

Especially during storms.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

How To Have A Poet’s Heart

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She asks me, “Is there any advice
you can give to someone who
wants to have a poet’s heart?”
First, find the poet of your choice.
Subdue them. There are many ways:
drugs, perhaps, although be sure
to choose ones that won’t damage
the various atria and ventricles
of your poet’s heart. If drugs are
too illicit for your tastes, consider
seduction, an abundance of alcohol,
or what my father would call
ball-peen anesthetic.

Next, you will need a cardiologist
with a questionable ethical character
and a mostly-clean operating room:
I hear you can get a great deal
on them in Brazil or maybe Colombia.
And of course, you will need a
very sharp scalpel and a jar.
You will need a large glass jar
to keep your poet’s heart in,
so you can pull it off the shelf
from time to time and admire it.

Incidentally, you might give some
thought to what you will do with your poet
when you have claimed his or her heart:
a heartless poet tends to sour
and really isn’t good for anything at all.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.

Shiver

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It runs from neck nape
to tailbone –
a ripple, a tremor,
a shudder and shake –
and your kiss
the pebble that skips,
the faultline that slips,
oh my oh my
your kiss
the zip and the break.

You run right through me
every time
every time.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.