For Jim
Through the murky dusk, approaching
LAX (could any airport have an apter
Name?), the land below is paradise:
The boats upon the tranquil ocean,
Shadowed figures dotting beaches,
Golden, houses, lining streets, which
Wind through hills and mountains,
Endlessly, and soaring palms, and
Clotted cars. And then, outside,
Upon a street, each woman dolled up,
Like a star, each perfect to a man,
Like me, who was the one inside
The plane, and, soon enough,
I had my own, a lovely thing,
Whose dentist father'd footed
Bills for dental work, for sculpting
Of an errant nose, and trimming
Hips, and building breasts; a
Fake, in short, and not the last.
The boys, all writing movie scripts,
Who made their money slinging
Hash, had rolled-up sleeves and
Leather vests, exactly what the
Perfume ads suggested motorcyclists
Should wear, the men who dressed
As women. Everyone and everything,
Within this paradise of fetid air
And filthy beaches, proved to be
Not what they seemed. My lovely
Thing was deadly dull. She knew
The names of all the empty vessels
In the gossip columns, hoped that,
Someday, she'd be one, and, toward
That end, took endless pictures
Of her phony face and ass to post
On social network sites. I asked
Her once who Lenin was. She didn't
Have a clue, so, now, another jet
Departs, and, on it, I, intent on
Going back to...nothing, corn and
Cattle. Which is worse? I'll never
Know, the frauds whose lassitude
Defines the place that's known
As LAX, or those, out here, whose
Narrowed eyes and minds reflect
An honesty which isn't anything
Like paradise.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 20 times
Written on 2013-04-24 at 02:55
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La-la
To a man inside a giant jet, descendingThrough the murky dusk, approaching
LAX (could any airport have an apter
Name?), the land below is paradise:
The boats upon the tranquil ocean,
Shadowed figures dotting beaches,
Golden, houses, lining streets, which
Wind through hills and mountains,
Endlessly, and soaring palms, and
Clotted cars. And then, outside,
Upon a street, each woman dolled up,
Like a star, each perfect to a man,
Like me, who was the one inside
The plane, and, soon enough,
I had my own, a lovely thing,
Whose dentist father'd footed
Bills for dental work, for sculpting
Of an errant nose, and trimming
Hips, and building breasts; a
Fake, in short, and not the last.
The boys, all writing movie scripts,
Who made their money slinging
Hash, had rolled-up sleeves and
Leather vests, exactly what the
Perfume ads suggested motorcyclists
Should wear, the men who dressed
As women. Everyone and everything,
Within this paradise of fetid air
And filthy beaches, proved to be
Not what they seemed. My lovely
Thing was deadly dull. She knew
The names of all the empty vessels
In the gossip columns, hoped that,
Someday, she'd be one, and, toward
That end, took endless pictures
Of her phony face and ass to post
On social network sites. I asked
Her once who Lenin was. She didn't
Have a clue, so, now, another jet
Departs, and, on it, I, intent on
Going back to...nothing, corn and
Cattle. Which is worse? I'll never
Know, the frauds whose lassitude
Defines the place that's known
As LAX, or those, out here, whose
Narrowed eyes and minds reflect
An honesty which isn't anything
Like paradise.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 20 times
Written on 2013-04-24 at 02:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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