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Purple
Lexicon
©
2000 Nin
If I
dress the way I talk
-- and who says I do not? --
I would have here a cop
to arrest me for indecency.
My words are not an exotic rainforest,
they are the potted little something one sells in a supermarket.
Yet --
What do you have against that?
For one whose entire life is purchased at the seven-eleven, baby
don't you think you're a whole lot too snobbish and picky?
Miscellaneous
©
2000 Nin
I
keep every souvenir anyone ever handed me. You are one.
I put you inside the glass tower with all the rest
-- with the Shanghai bears and miniature chinaware
Manchester memorabilia, porcelain ducks from Russia
stainless steel cats with red ribbons choking their necks
postcards of the Ozarks, the Yang-Tze and the Seine
colorblind little this and that from Kazakhstan and Miami.
I love knickknack, keepsakes and generally useless possession
You are one.
But don't get me wrong, I worship you just like a pagan
I dust you every day, whether it's raining or it's dry
and I won't let anyone, not even God
touch anything inside the glass tower, my temple of trivia.
In my lexicon you are with the miscellania
Meaning this and that, and all that is trivial
because life is nothing but an endless trial
a little bit at once, a little bit of forever.
La
Luna de Miel
©
2000
Nin for Emil
LeBlues, Mary Grubbs & Jake Reno
Someone
said, not so long ago --
love is overestimating the difference between one person and another.
And those
who get the free seats are sure
to hiss first, because they can't bear seeing anybody else together.
What
a wonderful world this is! Butterflies in July
have all got over May -- the twinkling little stars
have waned into pale dusty ray, why --
make headway against the wind, the din will pass
excavate the hidden feeling
when we play queen, as we play king.
You know things evaporate, even love, even morning
naive is what stays on wishing evergreen, everlasting --
honeymoon
must be over too, soon.
This tale has just begun -- a million sunrise will sure to come,
so are sundowns, which are scary to some.
A
Quickie For The Busy
©
2000 Nin
This
age
the confusing pace
the gregarious snobs
the quickies
not for free.
A
grease monkey is busy
-- but a kindergarten kid? Yet so said she.
A traffic cop is busy
-- but an unemployed caddie? Yet so said he.
Can't
reach them on the phone, they're somewhere running to somewhere else
The grandmother, the kid from High School, the ex-marine and the beggar
The unemployed nonentity, the no-jobber musician, the laid-off electricity-man
The bride, the Bible-toting old lady, the ones on welfare
-- they're all busy.
Doing
what? Thinking what? Saying what?
Being
what?
None
would listen, so don't ask.
They're busy.
There's
being active
There's being purposeful
There's being good
There's being busy.
None
is synonymous.
Chatterbox
©
2000 Nin
You ran
smackdab into the chatterbox,
and wished you were staying at home with smallpox.
He told you the history of time,
started with how God made such slime,
as was him, his kinfolk, his friends and those about whom you don't
give a damn.
His words are slush when a battalion of canines have all puked themselves
out there,
he was the general in an army consists of the most debased and full
of care
about who is doing what to whom and why and how and where.
Whenever
you spot him again at some corner with a social tigress,
don't even stop to think. Get the railway express.
Minx
©
2000 Nin
I came
to buy a cynic when this season started --
they didn't sell this kind of stuff in a bulk
-- and I'd never stand queue.
So I was kind of late.
To
the salespersons I said, "What's left then?" and they showed
me
an array of disheveled dead, every kind of hermits and whatever's
loony,
I shook my head, no -- I was in for a cynic.
"Well, we are sorry," they said soothingly
"If you wait, a little later maybe
a fresh stock would come in, from places like Gloomsbury" --
so I put a tent and waited outside
there it was raining -- weird, because it's March
and I fell asleep. The dream I dreamed wasn't so bad
I was in the same tent, outside the same shop
and I was asleep, then somebody woke me up
"Miss, there's one cynic delivered late
would you take a look and see if that's it?"
I did. And it was a cynic, alright
though not so much of what I needed
-- it quoted other people too much
and in it nothing of itself was originated.
"But there's nothing else of this kind here,"
the salespersons told me. "You were coming late anyway
-- the better editions, they were selling right away."
So I paid for it and dragged it home --
on the way, it stopped and said "I have to do something first
do you mind waiting a few minutes?"
And of course it never came back.
When
I woke up, it was because someone shook me hard
I saw a pair of mischief that were made of blue eyes
and a smirk, and a mercilessly sugared voice
it said "Okay if you must buy me --
but I have to know, what'd I get then?"
I hated that smile, I hated those eyes and I hated the guts
-- it definitely thought it was one of the best
though in fact it's nothing but what the factory rejected
and if nobody took it there, in the incinerator it would reside.
But I was tired of waiting and in the end I thought whatever would
do
so I let them charge me and I took it home
-- recalling the dream, I waited for the desertion
but surprisingly it stayed until we were in the living room.
It
still lingers now though I have grown wary
It didn't do what I expected, and the sneers are nightmary
and it borrowed endlessly from people I wouldn't let myself die near
to
-- it yields stupid verses after lunch, to which I am averse to.
Lesson #1 for an aspiring minx I knew:
a mere idiot is always better than a pretentious clown --
just settle for someone who can only cheer, who can only boo.
My
Loco Valentino
©
2000 Nin
Hmm....That
was nice.
Never thought I would hear that from you or the like
Above and beyond the skerries
there is life.
Peach
of a lover! Life is mambo, merengue, or tango
or just ear-splitting smash-hits with too much crack and too little
music
On and around, beside and under the superficial stuff
there is life.
Though
you're too crazy to accept my saying that you're smug sometimes
to the point of unbearable,
while there's absolutely no proof
of how smart you are, or how great,
and even if you pull a gun on me I would still be unable to chirp
how romantic you have been,
you were nice enough
-- for a mad-something-stupid at least --
how did you get off medication prematurely?
Phantasie
Vers' Aqua Marine
©
2001 Nin, from
The Misadventures of Angerina Kibitzky
FAITH
and I do believe
in
cats and dogs,
and oceans and smiles and songs,
and that after all there are
in this life a few lovely things.
CHARMED
I might say it's
chromosome,
a halo of unspeakability
a matter of where seagulls roam,
you about whom I am crazy.
TELL
THAT TO THE MARINES
superjoys of a
maritime life --
nothing like dirt to sweep,
no stale nondescript liquid
never rusty cans of God knows what
and frozen landbound yikes to eat,
all troubles are left behind
and they won't catch a plane to land
just where goes this ship.
LIGHTHOUSE
ON FIRE
the wind over the
sea is a lapdancer
her music is fire.
SAIL
ON
sail on to sunset
and eternity,
be it a thousand years or a minute
the best in life is too good to be near anybody,
gods hide them even farther by neglect.
NIGHT,
ADRIFT
tiptoeing inside
roaring engines at night:
the thief of silence.
ON
BOARD
seasickness is
a picky stowaway,
it never ventures below first class.
SAILOR
CAT
when the moon winks
the cat licks its dream.
ROSE
IN THE JAR
one by one the
petals wither,
cook always forgets it to water
busy and mad now at a customer,
plus he never really cares about the lover.
DOCKYARD
NINE
if only, but there
is nobody
walking at the precipice of love for the sea
when day lifts up the anchor
in the dead of summer.
SUNDAY
BAY
there's a boy with
rheumatic soul,
he marvels at papa with muscle:
he wants to be a ballerina.
SEAMAN
#1
he wishes to anchor
deep down below:
across the sea there waits mortgage.
MARINA
CYNIC
dirty metal objects
called ships
they're busy dying,
loud beaked creatures called birds
they're busy sleeping,
all this junk and bums here
they think they're living.
MOONLESS
sailing by night,
the night;
over dockyards it yawns
all things disappear into the mouth;
while it only stops to ask directions.
SEASHORE
MUSH
i once met someone
who said he's a sailor,
though all he did was staying where they anchored.
among other things he was so funny:
he really thought he's good enough for me!
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