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Poetry by Ronald Oliver
Re: Anderson Ballesteros
( Inevitable Turbulence )
TABOOS
Have you any idea
how I long for your brother -
your browner, less handsome,
sweet mango-lipped brother?
If he could speak English
he'd tell me to stop.
If I could speak Spanish
I'd say I will not.
After kissing your photo
( "be strong mi amor" )
I meet him in bed
- he inhabits my quilt -
and I burn and I yearn,
hold him tight with my legs,
praying not even God
can interpret the fraud.
Indeed
your brother's a tropical gem
and I can't deny how I ache for him,
yet I can't accept
the predominant truth
of how deeply I long
for him to be you.
UNSHATTERING SHELLS
Yours is the basket in which
I put all of my eggs -
irrelevant
the warnings to guard against
such lopsided logic
when,
before we met,
I settled for shells.
After all,
your bewitchment
transmuted debris,
reinstated life
and elevated me -
maybe your intention /
maybe not
( magic is impetuous )
- but without doubt
my salvation,
for prior to you
I made do with memory.
_
Yet the resilience of life renewed
depends upon
the prevailing
disposition of two.
So please -
let's take a breath,
and with the miracle that is us,
make love once more
from the consequence of our carelessness
and reassemble
these shattered shells
that I will of course
entrust to you.
PAPER CUTS
Unpremeditated
incidental injury
like paper cuts
- bad luck -
superficial wounds
stinging disproportionately
yet over
and over
and over
and over again
until a vein is struck
unleashing torrents of blood
a flood
expediting the inevitable scar
that,
regardless of reparations,
may be forgiven
even forgotten
but never again
be pristine skin.
( Extreme Turbulence )
X = YOU + ME
We are surrounded
by impostors -
false mathematicians
certain that they've solved
the problem of our hearts,
when,
in truth,
their calculations
are superficial supposition.
Indeed they have deduced
nothing at all -
every solution offensively false.
Bigotry, fear and distrust
cannot compute
the equation that is us.
X = exploitation?
No
X = sex?
No
X = love?
YES
The GARDEN of LOVE
Is there a fresh way to write
about a broken heart
- a breathtaking metaphor
that will impart
to every new reader
intimate empathy
and sacramental sympathy?
A unique analogy
invoking the Web or DVDs
to reinvigorate
such pedestrian tragedy
- original words
whose poetic bite
will deflect cliché
and with liquid eloquence
combine rugged relevance
with delicate insight
( ensuring their elevation
into the literature of love )?
Who gives a fuck?!
When it happens to you
words are pure piss
and what matters is this:
the nausea,
the dizziness,
the massive fist embedded in your gut
- the breathlessness -
the need to isolate
and cry intractable tears
as you listen to sentimental songs
and refuse to heal
- would rather hate / would rather die -
and swear that this time
you will never again
attend the garden of love -
fertilized with shit
and irrigated with blood!
WITHOUT YOU
I want to be drunk
or stumbling stoned,
- silently nodding on white heroin -
or better still,
morphine will create a space
where past and future
have no place
- the back path of being /
synthetic reality -
ageless, genderless, no sexuality
- beyond hurting myself or anyone else -
a neutral zone
/ a deconstructed home.
But there is little doubt
that I will do without
- too flat on the floor to actually score /
too full of fear to rise from here -
will simply roll over
and go back to sleep,
a sleep so deep it will last for years.
( Love and Determination Triumph )
RADIANT
You are the essence
of luminescent tail lights
penetrating impending night
- entirely too intense,
emitting a preternatural glow -
mesmerizing, hypnotizing
those left behind
to comprehend this trick of twilight.
You are incandescence
defying distance,
seemingly too close
- the perfect red radiance
of blood at dusk -
the transformation of receding dreams
into advancing beams
of phenomenal possibility
like you, me, and us.
DELECTABLE LOVE
Our love is a magical meal -
the culinary equivalent of
all that we feel!
Yet the elements of
this extraordinary stew,
while unique to us, are hardly new.
Indeed ingredients often resemble
those on any menu of intimacy –
inspiration and caprice,
intoxication and need,
elevation and release,
gratification and peace.
Yet no specific list exists
for the patent preparation of this.
Each dish will be a special mix
of individual chemicals -
recipes written in genetic code
from which hearts alone can render love.
And my heart has no doubt
that our sumptuous stew
is perfectly rendered -
you to me / me to you.
THIRD BILLING
Juan David
- my other Latin lover -
muy fantastico
yet underexposed
for our friend in La Virgen
seemingly "stole the show".
More talent / magic / glamour?
Absolutely not!
Anderson's a diamond
refracting every source of light
while you are an opal
reflective from inside.
Anderson's the headline -
tragedy / brutality / celebrity / obscurity,
while you are the text
- a more common tale
of a normal ( beautiful ) boy
who,
given a drop-dead opportunity,
refused to fail.
And now your career escalates
while for our friend it seems too late.
Absolutely not!
I love you both
but,
my naughty little charmer,
you merely need a hand
while Anderson needs arms
to be carried onward,
where we will meet you
in Madrid or Hollywood
- and this time
he will be billed beneath you,
which,
beloved Juan David,
is something we all
look forward to...
( Briefly )
The ALTAR of YOUR DISREGARD
I'm an inadequate saint -
unanswered prayers
diminish my faith.
I have too often
knelt at the altar
of your disregard.
My heart is devout
but my mind
given to doubt
the authenticity of
a modern god
oblivious to mortal need.
_
So is self-centered silence
suitable cause
to really renounce you -
my devotion
dependent upon
individual "rules"?
Of course not.
You’re merely being a boy
- as am I –
a man
who has anointed your feet
with tears of fear and inordinate greed.
Indeed I am not a saint,
nor you a god.
Yet the love that we share
is sacred.
So hear again my simple prayer:
call me, just call me!
LOVE is a LIE
Trust is a lie
lust is a lie -
loyalty's for sale.
Wealth is a lie
health is a lie -
peace is a fable.
Faith is a lie
grace is a lie -
so's heaven and hell.
Hope is a lie
life is a lie -
likely death as well.
The heart is a muscle /
a soul underlines shoes /
spirits are alcohol /
God’s self-serving rebuke.
Love is a lie
you are a lie -
and I'm a lie too,
but I swear on despair
that I truly adored you
"ARDENT ASSASSIN"
What tidy prophetic irony
this self-scripted warning
from a future all but bleeding
with inevitability.
Ardent Assassin,
the ideal title for Anderson verse
- insufferably smug -
the movie / the passion / the implicit defeat.
I guess I knew all along
how lethal you would be.
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© 2007 Ronald Oliver
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