departments ::

writing :: poetry :: Maurice Oliver

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Play Me
At some point between midnight and
albuquerque the instrument wakes up
with an ice-cream headache on a train
heading west.the boys in the band are
all asleep but the cigarette across
the aisle with long antelope legs
seems willing.she bats her lids like
signals.gradually as if on cue her
stare reaches his valves.she leans
over to stroke them twice.he allows
her to run a trembling wet tongue all
over the reed.then he pulls her to him
where she sticks lke masking tape.by
then passion flares and without so much
as a word of article they read each
others palms until the seat is stained
in e major and the windows go blank.but
no black madonna appears and their tune
ends up a mere whiny bugaboo.so in
frustration the saxophone picks up his
case and simply wanders out of the
spotlight while the desert unfurls.but
by then a stagehand has already begun to
carry off the last upright mirror to a
crammed storage room reserved for props.

With Ego Riding Shotgun
(L.A. 1992)
the light on her side of the bed was
on when she propped an elbow under
her chin and said,"what more can you
expect after all that's happened".but
before i could consider a reply the
headboard banged a brief s.o.s. of a
distress signal against the wall then
lost its mooring lie the nanosecond
reaction of a boat being cast off.it
set out on its course across a bleached
oak floor that began to sway.lamps
and picture framws dove off dresser
tops for cover.the ceiling above us
cracked in trails of dust.for one
silly moment i thought of my pistol
in the closet as if bullets could
penetrate this brazen intruder.we
bounced around sveral more seconds
then it just stopped in an uncanny
hush.with the foot of the bed almost
out the window she remained unperturbed.
her eyes said she was ready to peruse
all issues on all fronts.

In "Solo Mio"
half the world lies in ruins
as a bullet train crosses
the border and becomes invisible.
but i've already figured out
the final ten minutes of this
bizarre noir classic just by
following the english subtitles.
and even if the plot repeatedly
uses red herrings to distract the
viewer,like the mysterious muddy
footprints from a window seat down
the aisle to the men's room with
a deadbloted door,i suspect the
movie's good guy is much more
resourceful than that.
i'm not placing any bets,
but my guess is that he jumped
from the moving train long ago,
sustaining a broken ankle,but
still managed to hitch-hike to
lake tahoe which is now an elvis
shrine. there he meets up with
his fugitive girlfriend,and at
this very moment,is making-out
in a '69 firebird behind a huge
paper moon which serves as the
only scenery,constructed in
plywood,propped-up by planks.

Aped Again
Tarzan never needed to swing through
the jungle on vines. The man could walk
on water if he so desired. And the
crocs knew it. But Cheetah never had
a clue. He was too busy obsessing over
the fear of it to wake up and smell
the roses. Meanwhile, Tarzan robbed him
blind. In just ten rainy seasons he
owned ninety percent stock in the
world's largest safari franchise and
could command six-figure consultant
fees on the whereabouts of ancient
ivory fields. Yes lord, this barely
clothed yodler may have looked
layback but he was all about money.
Even jane eventually left him when
he refused to let her buy a tiny pair
of diamond errings as advertised on
the home shopping channel. At least
that's what she told a reporter when
he found her four mopnths later living
in a nudist colony with some artist
guy half her age.

The Interrogation
When he comes out of
the coma he is taken
back to headquarters
adn after hours of
interrogation he
admits to an animal
he says is always
female wearing rouge
just on the tip of
imitation where
thumbs become kness
and arms transform
into throats the
hairpins & lipstick
serve as mere symbols
intended to politely
pickpocket the five
edges of a neuroses
tucked away in a shoe
box collection meant
only for aristocracy.

You Were Saying
It's 3am. We sit at the kitchen table
in only our T-shirts. A light over the
stove is the only one on. The bag of
microwave popcorn is already finished
and now lay balled-up on the floor
next to the trash container due to a
short-sighted hook shot. I stick an
index finger into a jar of molasses
and then suck it clean right up to
the knuckle. Rain still beats against
the window but lighter now that it
has waken us up. Talking in that
sometimes confusing way of your you
say, "I wanted to be air when I was
a child and later on a balloon but
my father advised me to build a
bigger bellow if I wanted to really
rise to higher ambitions in life".
Of course I know what you're implying
even if the constant sweeping offstage
is slightly distracting.

2004 1-42 Online