In a Posh Elevator

In A Posh Elevator

FROM: The Murder of Asperger’s Last Poet: The Poetry Legacy – Kindle edition by Douglas Gilbert.
ebook — Amazon

For Christmas
I’ve shouted a poem
on a street corner
because I have no stage presence
except desperation, awkward
where I hear passersby say,
what’s he doing, and
only my sign clues them in, and
they say, oh it’s poetry, but
I’m taking my frozen
spicy chicken home –
haven’t had such luxury
in a while

I’ve ducked into the posh department store
because I need to find
a bathroom
a single urinal
for the piss of a poet

I could have taken
the stairs to the third floor, but
thought I’d be posh
be nonchalant in an elevator
as if I’d buy gold things

The elevator jams,
stopped, of course, with me
and a pregnant lady in a crowd
of indifference

I’ve got my frozen chicken
which says, fully cooked
and none of us will starve

Into labor –
I’ve heard of this

Natural easy birth –
I’ve heard of that

Everyone who
could be sued, has
turned away

I am reaching in
beyond what is proper

I push my hands
into her vagina
in an indecent way

It is a breech birth
and I must
turn the child around

I am so full
of blood and sorrow
that the child cries
but I am not
turned around

I am sick, and
only glad
the paramedics have arrived
and I can get to the bathroom
before security
throws me out
for not buying any gifts

— Douglas Gilbert

The Murder of Asperger’s Last Poet

The Murder of Asperger’s Last Poet

The First 9 Poems of “The Murder of Asperger’s Last Poet: The Legacy (ebook)

http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Aspergers-Last-Poet-Poetry-ebook/dp/B00U6E8KJS/

The Adventures of You

I told you not to go to the South Pole
because I don’t want you to freeze

But your freedom is dear to me
and you are so happy with adventure.

I want you to be
gleeful with a dog sled,
race with the wind.

I think the angels
will warm you, and
professor lover dear
I love your research
of life, of snow, and
of me.

I will tell your peers, that
they must publish your papers
in a Journal, just because

I say you are worthy
of truth, and
the data is glorious:

let them look, and
if they give you a prize

I will be ecstatic for you,
but as I gift you with me
I hope you’ll duck into
the cloak room at
the Noble Prize ceremony
and kiss me, because
I love your work
***

Ink Doesn’t Laugh Anymore

I’ve canceled my trip to Paris
and I’ve given up my scholarship to Art School
given up on studying cartooning

Probably, I’d never learn to draw anyway, and
I don’t think the French would give me
a permit for a gun. When I applied
for Art School, I didn’t think I’d
need weapons more powerful than
La Plume. Feathers of speech
don’t seem very powerful enough
to tickle the Zeitgeist
***

My Love Is An Atheist by “Diane”

I tell you:
you must believe in Heaven
because when you die

I don’t want you to
forget me, and

my dear atheist
I don’t want you to end

I want you to continue
with me forever.

Give me your hand, and
I will comfort you at your death bed.

I like beds
as you know

So in the snow
can we watch the flakes
flow like angels
you don’t believe in

But you believe in me
and I will lift you
because I love you.

Take my hand before you die.
Pardon an aside:

Oh my God please
welcome my friend
who I recommend, and
if need be

I will give
examples of love
for me and many

and when he dies
could you comfort him.

I beseech You for a miracle
because I love him as he is

And now my dear
can I tell you
that you will die, but
I’ve made a reservation for you
in a very fine establishment
that I think you will like

Wait for me though, ’cause
I don’t want to surprise you too soon

Don’t despair; I care. Just,
wait for me, my love, because
I will seize you abundance
that you will love in surprise.

So many fair things I will bless for you.

Just wait and don’t be sad because
I’ll gather these gifts from my heart.

I don’t know why you would die, but
wait for me because
when I come, I’ll
bathe you in my
stunning love
***

Giraffe

There is a giraffe who reads my words for me
stands up tall because she loves me like a high leaf

She has a reading every Friday at the club
and they love her because she is so beautiful
and she is so slim and long necked, yes!

She is so cool when
she reaches high
and reaches low

She has no stage fright and
her heart beats true always for me;
I think she can throb for me
without a worry about her heart
except if she would think I would not kiss her neck, but

I would and would all over
and even take her hand for
an innocent walk in the woods

just because I want to
share the moon with her
and do a silly howl or
a lullaby for a Friday night
when she comes home with me
high on applause but
waiting for me to clap
and I do of course, because

we will turn many leaves indeed
just like we always knew some day
we would learn to speak
the language of love like
the necking of the Sun and the Moon,
light on a leaf of belief standing tall.
***

Eating Tornadoes

I’ve heard a tornado can lift a
herd of cows into the air
(besides the houses)

But when it lifts scratching cats
tears out potatoes,
out onions from the ground, and
out with flour from the warehouse,
it rains potato pancakes,
and when those hungry people
at the end of the emergent rainbow
catch mash in a hot frying pan,
deliciousness is cooked, and
it’s fresh like a fork in the road
***

Quirky Perfect

Sometimes you make me feel magical and
I love how you think I have
a beautiful way of doing things.

Sometimes for a microsecond I feel perfect, and
you seem perfect to discuss a symphony and sing with me.

Maybe there’s a perfection cake to taste together, and
I’d share the strawberries with you.

Many times you seem perfect for the moment, but
I can’t promise any feeling is reality; I can only say

I love the moment, love how
I imagine you as if we could be quirky perfect.
***

Hell No I’m Not Going to Edit This Much

No, I refuse absolutely
to use few words; no, no, no
there is no soul in brevity

No, no, no, I don’t want to be spare,
I want to be naked. I want
to show you everything, and
I want to show you that every ugly blemish has
a beautiful poem it’s inspired, though sometimes

it has named itself like a star is named “123087274”
by the Astronomical Union sometimes but
more often is called Sarah. No, not at all, I
want many more words. I want Love. I want faith in poetry.

I want every rhyme to sing
in every octave that could ding-dong.

I want to hear my music, my love, my joy.
I want to be extravagant, lush in words,
lush in feeling. I don’t want to coyly

take away anything at all except you, love,
into my hovering dreams with chatter fluff
until there’d be no cloudy words
but justly a masterpiece of Love.
***

Avian Translation

I’ve always wanted to speak
to the smaller birds, so
I’ve done a lot of weird whistling

Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head
and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent,
but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just
a conversationalist

So I whistle something which means
“give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”

And she says, “Huh, what? And
for a Human you don’t look so bad
even though you have no feathers.
Why is it that you can’t fly?
It’s so easy.”

And I said, “Why is it that
you can’t speak and write novels.”

“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”

And I said, “Um, no…”

And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that
I was a birdbrain.
***

Ode to Sloopy

Oh my neighborhood is blessed,
so sweet the streets, but yet
I mourn where you were,

where I saw you down the other road:
down and out town where I never
could seem to be for long
forlorn and never understanding
your faithful path; I watched

the caresses paved on
bumpy roads, your skips

on tangled streets, without
any proper signs but caution
and sorrow, and

I could have loved you
so easily if you were in
my class at school, and
my illegal notes would have said

I am not fulfilled with
just my toys. Joyce dear dream,
with the pony tail and smile,
could you play with silly me like
you’ve always loved me
on the streets of true love.

Sometimes I think
you’ve known me

But now that
I’ve grown
now that I moan

can I give you my map
to find me, though there’ve
been so many years?

There’s a song and I say Hello

Joyce babe, oh
you’ve known the song so
don’t fall off the mountain;
hang on to an edge,
hang on to a love to be
that should have been.

Oh baby I don’t know why
your Daddy put you down
and why you stayed with cockroaches
in your sorry part of town

Oh baby, can you cross the border,
and don’t be down,
’cause there’d be no disorder
if you’d wait for me on the corner,
only wait for me where
we would have loved the sky
on a street of love, and where
we could have walked forever, but
now I’ll call you a cab into heaven

’cause I know there’s a cliff
where everyone dis’s you

But baby don’t fall;
I’ve got the rockin’ gear
and the pinions of a mountain climb

I know you’re on a cliff, but
hang on

I will hoist you up to God, and
maybe He will share you with me

because I want to save you, and
my rescue ropes are of joy. We will

cross the border
and climb a better mountain
beyond outrageous stones
those devils throw

How can they know
your kind heart
if they’d be mocking birds.

Let me sing to you of
sweet rescue, because
don’t we both need to
climb to a heaven we need
so desperately

I think we are good
to hang on for love

because never would I
want you to be anywhere
but on my street if
you love me, or

even if you don’t.

— Douglas Gilbert

Where You Were (Draft 2)

(Draft 2)

I descended over there
where back roads cross

I went down ’cause it’s
a scene of a double-cross

now I’m going where if I’d die
I’d be seen at the crossroads, seen

where famous blues are wailed. Hey
have sympathy for me if I’d say
there’ll be no blue moon tonight

No, I’m descending to
the crossroads
because I know

you sang so sweetly once,
riding to the crossroads
touching me a blue moon.

No, I’m descending to remember
’cause I know the crossroads are dark

— Douglas Gilbert

Where You Were

ENTRY 231

I went down to the road where
no one goes willingly.

I went down ’cause it’s
a famous intersection

where if I’d die
I’d be seen.

I’m going down to the crossroads
where I know the blues people
would have sympathy I think, but

I’m going down to
the crossroads
because

when I left
you sang so sweetly for all.

— Douglas Gilbert

Well so

I guess I’m pretty much done with poetry. I don’t think I’ll write anymore. There’s no future in it. I’m trying to finish my novel and I’ll see how that goes. If that doesn’t go too well I think I’ll stop writing too. Maybe after a while I’ll start erasing everything. There’s some bad stuff here but most of the good stuff is in the books that are available. So it doesn’t seem worthwhile posting any more. Well so unless there’s some sudden inspiration. I’ll see…

Curly

Some Much Curly

We were walking, we were looking
and I saw how you curled your smile for me, and
oh you are so cute when you flirt, throw back your curly hair,
do your laugh as if I’d not notice how beautiful you are, but
many things I notice about you, many things I love

If I had a voice I’d sing, and
I think you know that I will
make you a Lasagna with
every spice I can find, because

I want to bake our love with sauce

Yes many recipes and

I save these many tomatoes for you,
not to throw but to savor you

— Douglas Gilbert