Saturday, 30 August 2008 20:00
Last Updated on Saturday, 30 August 2008 11:30
The StarPoet Newsletter
Vol. IX, No. XXXV
Pray to your goddamn'd storm gods
Offer whatever sacrifices
That may be necessary
N'Orlins lives or dies come morning
And we may never see her again
Lisa Jain Thompson c. 2008 C. E.
Today is a good day for evacuation.
Run.
I never got to see New Orleans
Or hear her mournful sound
Hear that singing through the doorways
The tapping on the ground
Dancing feet on Bourbon Street
The jazz, the blues, the beat
I never got to see New Orleans
Or feel the Delta heat
-- John Stewart and Buffy Ford New Orleans
My body doesn't like me. I will win out but it will be a struggle.
across, above, beneath the world
Street Walker
I walk the streets,
Down starry boulevards
Filled with dreams and memories,
To capture fading glimpses
Of reeling bits of rhyme
That I can repurpose to my needs,
Suggestive reappropriations
That might breathe life into a medium
Grown as cool as death and as forgotten
As the losers in last year’s World Series.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
speaking of purposing
Lighting a Fire
If God came into the worlds
To light a fire,
What am I here for?
Should I gather wood
To throw upon the blaze
Or piss on the flames
To put them out?
I can make an argument for each,
But I’ve never been much good
At ass kissing,
Or felt a compulsion
To tell people
-- Or a god for that matter --
What they wanted.
The best I do is poet
And throw the occasional
Intellectual grenade
Into the midst
Of self-appointed experts.
Perhaps that is what he wants
-- If he exists --
And what I’m here for.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
Yeah, I never got to see New Orleans
The parade on Easy Street
When Mardi Gras was swingin'
To the Dixieland retreat
Voodoo Alley, sweet King Cake
Confetti rain, for heaven's sakes
I never got to see New Orleans
Or feel the Delta heat
-- John Stewart and Buffy Ford New Orleans
the aftermath
Full Mental Fragments
I don’t want my body found
Covered with piles of dirt and leaves;
It’s bad enough there’ll be
All these scraps of poetry lying around
That no one will ever
Make any sense of.
CSIs will find the disparate remnants
Of full-up ADD correction reflexes
Working close to optimal efficiency
To make sense of the naked lines
That rattle round and round
Before slip-sliding here.
My grasp on reality
Will be ill served by my death.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
all night awake, struggling
Daylight
Drifting sideways through the daylight
Into the long, dull tumble of night towards morning.
Watching the rain wash over the air
As Grissom’s marathon runs around me,
Body after body, effect and cause,
Neatly identified before the next one falls.
Listening to graveyard talk show hosts
Ramble on about Hillary and Obama
-- Always the first name. always the last --
Guessing what McCain might do
After the conventions end.
Everything is drifting within the current,
I struggle to make sense of the shoreline.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
I never got to see New Orleans
Or the Gulf of Mexico
And hear the old piano man
Play the blues of long ago
And feel the simmer, taste the sweets
And hear the hum on Canal Street
Will I ever see New Orleans
And feel the Delta heat?
-- John Stewart and Buffy Ford New Orleans
you oughta know
Satisfaction
All the young boys,
Throwing their star up the pop charts;
I don’t know they can masturbate
Let alone rock.
Mom and Pop boys,
Seducers of parents and nuns;
So quick to smile and slip inside
A young girl’s pants.
Such fey fanged sweets,
Following the biology
To the nearest easy target
To rock them good.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
late night, early morning, awake, alone and coughing
Some Girls
White girls, all blue as the Pacific deep,
Black ones, dark and sweet;
Brown eyed men with unlimited text,
Gaunt sweating cowboys at days end;
Aging rebels forged in heaven,
Ancient warriors in my bed;
Wife, lover, friend and companion,
Now and evermore.
If we could only tell …
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
I never got to see New Orleans
Ride the river to the sea
Hear the muse of Louisiana
Sing her heart to me
Fats and Louis and Dixieland
She is the river, she is the land
But I never got to see New Orleans
Or hold her in my hand
-- John Stewart and Buffy Ford New Orleans
the inbox
The Email Millennium
Apparently you cannot be
A Democratic politician in the new millennium
Without writing me long, personal emails;
I’ve heard from the Kennedys
-- At least all the living ones --
And the Clintons, Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea;
The Obamas, of course,
He appears to be a close friend,
And any Senator jockeying for position
Or my money.
I’m certain Pelosi has invited me to tea,
Or perhaps it was a night at the zoo,
And all my Virginia politicians,
Who seem quite concerned about my vote;
Lately some guy name Biden writes,
Does anyone have half a clue why?
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
eight to ten pounds lighter in three days, I approach transculent
Organic Olive
The question before the floor
Is whether I am paler than I am wan.
Wan can be a long slow glide
But pale, for those of us with an olive skin,
Is a rarer, more magnificent accomplishment
As these things go.
So, having achieved a nice golden pallor,
I will forgo it,
And return to my normal first crush undercoat.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008
And her waters may be rising
But Orleans is still alive and
Forever she will sing to me
The lullabies of used to be
Will I ever see New Orleans
And hear those melodies?
-- John Stewart and Buffy Ford New Orleans
The Louisianna Shrimp and Petroleum Festival
Has been cancelled