A Montage of Leaves and Bloody Hearts
by Reinhard A. Palovcik

© 1997 Reinhard A. Palovcik & FREDInk
Edited by Tom Miller




Idle Dreams

what starts as nothing
becomes love
for a short time
then returns
to nothing

I fade in and out
with passing days
sometimes happy
to see the sun set
sad to see it rise

staring at cracks
in my wall
wondering
about the space
between us

only physical
yet there are rules
I could not fly
into the sun
though I have tried

and sat through idle dreams
of what can and cannot be
what is
and is not
mine

longing to possess
if only for a moment
a shadow of the life
you told me to get




In That Room

I've always looked
for that room
the one with
a light blue ceiling
large windows
looking out
on a Japanese garden

a thin but generous
matress on the floor
solid wood polished
to a deep blond warmth
flesh to my fingers
smooth and sexual

in the garden
a light breeze
rustle branches
for a naked night

inside
the air
is held in stasis
as two engines of life
entwined
in mortal embrace
generate
a molecular fusion
in long strands of DNA

like worms
wriggling in the mud
one cleaves off
and journeys
the long path
from egg
to man

climbing up
to join us
in that room




Happy With the Thought

after drinking
several beers
at the bar
and admiring
the women
passing by
he said to me
"I haven't
had any
in a month"

"any what?"
I said.

"you know"
he said
"I haven't
gotten fucked
in over a month"

said it
just like
he was having
a steak dinner
or sushi
or brushing
his teeth

"what about love?"
i asked

"sex is a physical need"
he replied
"a guy will go
crazy if he
can't get laid
regularly"

and at that
he jumped up
and started dancing
with the blonde
already writhing
to the beat

while I
sat there
with my beer
thinking
"how long
has it been
for me?"
at least ten years

but I
wasn't crazy
except for being
crazy in love
having dreamed
about one woman
for the past
two years
whom I never
slept with
and before that
another
whom I never
slept with
dreamed about her
for five years
letters
phone calls

and before that
a dry spell
for three years
actually happy
most of the time
with the thought
that I wouldn't
stick my dick
into just
anything




Ugly Me

ugly me
has no right
to exist

fat nose
baggy eyes
balding

a pretentious poet

a clown god
of dogs

constantly thinking
of getting laid
by young
and beautiful
women

who do I
think I am?




Nonlinear

each day brings
another new hell

what few inches
are gained today
I lose
the very next morning

soon there will be
no room
to breathe

but a voice
in my head
goads me on
citing
how improbably bad
things already are
and can only get better

but that is
the gambler's fallacy
no matter how
good or bad
my luck
will henceforth
have only
an equal chance
of being the same

my luck
already disproves
such odds
a distribution
so heavily skewed
in the positive

all values bunched
below the mean
nonmathematical

no sense
in taking
an average

my life is nonlinear

failure guaranteed

because that
is all I expect




My Father

he had once
been young
handsome
energetic

a genius of the sun
master of the moon

had strength
speed
guile
courage
and endurance

but probably didn't know
what he was doing
when he conceived me

just having a good time
taking his pleasure

bastard son
writing these lines

as I stare
at him now

sitting
quietly
on his porch

picking dead leaves
from his geraniums
as if it mattered




Poetry

a hundred
thousand
poets
each
with notebook
and pen
jot down
every
word
in the English
language

tumble them
with others
rearrange
edit
and revise
over
and over
and over

spend
six months
on the same
four lines
and they still suck

strain for ideas
something meaningful

ripped from
the space
around them

a montage
of leaves
and bloody hearts

something
that will
peel paint
from their walls

make a bird
in mid-flight
drop from the sky

bring tears
to the eys
of a granite statue

something
like the second
coming of Christ

or maybe the first
writer crucified
to his page

something
that will make
their readers gasp

or at least

something
that will sell
or get them laid




Duped

I had been
in love with her
for over a year
written her
countless poems
some of my best

she liked them
she liked me
but there was
something
about my age

in fifteen years
I would still be
twice as old
so she went
with the younger guys
even though
they couldn't write

they used her
for sex
the esteem
of having
a beautiful woman
by their side
and they would
leave her

then she met
this guy
who fed her
philosophy
astrology
and other bullshit

and she
young
innocent
gullible
fell for it
and I didn't
see her
for several weeks

I wondered
what had happened

then she was
there again
wanting to talk
she had sent
her boyfriend off
somewhere

she started talking
about children
and how
at 18
she suddenly
wanted one
of her own
and how
two people
could forge ahead
with a common
metaphysics
and psychology

and I saw
she had swallowed
the bull
and was now going
to marry this guy
going to have
his children
and wanted
to tell me
but couldn't




Bummed

You light
          your last cigarette
and stare
          into the empty coffee cup
ast he minutes pass
          too quickly now
approaching that time
when they

will drag

too slowly

through hours

of no cash

no coffee

no cigarettes

until you bum
the next batch
of quarters

and it's like this
day after day
with no future
or past
and the only
other thing you do
day after day
is wait
in the soup line
hoping
for some easy death
that will snatch
you, quickly
away




Hoping

I keep hoping that, maybe
if I stick around long
enough, she'll go through
this guy and that guy and
several more, wear them
out like a woodsman's ax
chopping cedar and mahogany
in a virgin forest and then tire
of the splinters and sawdust
and maybe then she'll look my way
and see what she hadn't seen before
my eyes filled with longing stares
lips quivering, unable to speak
hands filled with an empty caress
heart filled with forlorn hope
mind out of time and space
wanting to die, but needing a reason




Decision

once I had made the decision
everything became simple

I no longer had
to launder my clothes
or wash the dishes
bills could go unpaid
the lawn unmowed

I could run my credit cards
up to the limit
and never have to worry
about paying it back

and each remaining day
the sun would rise
with brilliant yellow
and set in sinful red

jobless and unconcerned
alcohol and drugs ruled
through short days
and long nights

and when the day came
to raise the barrel
to my head
I realized
what I had known all along
the world would be
a better place
without me




Middle of the Night

It's the middle of the night
and I'm lying in bed
awake

eyes wide open
thinking

my worship of you
has finally come to an end

blood red
of a setting sun
has turned black

but you are still here

snoring and farting
in your sleep

your fat ass
crowding me

off my side
of the bed




Leave

Leave me empty
and I will find nothing
to stop the impulse
that drives me
to sorrow
and madness
and the bullet







Notes:

* Idle Dreams
- During live readings Ron performed of the poem, Idle Dreams, he would occasionally change the concluding lines.
He would sometimes say, "... longing to possess
                                                    if only for a moment
                                                    the shadow of a life
                                                    she told me to get."

* Leave - Ron's favorite poem which I wrote was called, Cocoon. It reads as follows:

i
am a
cocoon
fly from me
fresh from change
your new wings
open to the wind
leave me
empty

Ron's poem, Leave, is a response to my poem, Cocoon. I will miss you always, my friend.

-- Tom Miller














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