Fool Moon Fire

11:21 pm - NEW POEM: Morning Glory (Whole Once Again)

Morning Glory (Whole Once Again)






There are no words for this: standing naked in front of the mirror,
silver thong on the bathroom floor, sad, I look at myself:
aghast, in the morning light, at the pinkness of my nipples,
how they look like little French cookies; they're so measly,
my robe and my body doily lie in a disheveled, bashful pile at my feet
and I tear up, choking back a sob while in the nude.

With no clothes on at all, I depress the button
on the can and watch, as the sensitive skin gel begins to pile up,
a shimmering green pudding in the palm of my hand.
Yuck. The view from behind me here is startling:
the spirits in this house must surely notice my ass and legs,
how delicate, seashell-pale and tight they look in the light of a new dawn;
the only sound in the air is a soft, polite slurping noise
which is me, sipping my coffee carefully, gently,
and, like I said, bare-ass naked.

It would be against the law for you to see me like this,
disrobed, genitals obvious and in plain view,
and I wonder how any God could call himself a God
if he can allow a coupla dollops of Gillette Xtra Care
Shaving Gel with Aloe to spill so surreptitiously,
so coquettishly into my coffee mug.
We've all got these troubling siblings in our reflections
we would rather not acknowledge
but the fact is I want to be that shy someone
I see at cafes and dances but I've never known how.
Wish I had the courage to go on up and talk to him
and find out just what it is that makes me tick.
There's no one who can sing and cry at the same time, at least,
not while trying to work a lather of shaving foam all over the face;
there's new knowledge now, there is pain as I make a mistake
and suck down some Gillette's instead of the Hazelnut I meant to swallow;
the whole time naked as the day that I was born.

My completely naked body is shiny with perspiration now
and I'm crying, because I've accidentally swallowed two mouthfuls
of shaving cream. I'm also crying because of the past;
I don't want it to happen but my thoughts turn to my childhood,
to the afternoon my parents sent me by myself to that van on the street
to buy an ice cream and the scoop of chocolate fell off the cone
because I was running, careless and excited, and as this memory hits me
I know it would take an awful lot of clothes, more than I own,
to make me not as naked as I am right now.

To anyone illegally watching me in my bathroom window
this has to look as though I've used a birthday cake the wrong way;
working my hands absently over my shirtless chest,
gobs of shaving cream plopping from my chin
to the ledge of the sink; my eyes widen when I think
about a white chest hair and blood from the nick of a blade.
I don't have time for this but when I look down at my body,
when I look at these naked gifts from heaven protruding from me
I can see that I have all the time in the world for this.

The loved ones who have come and then gone,
watching over me now, they've got to be wondering
if this is Cool Whip on my neck; I try to care but can't
since I've lost everything to the busy, impersonal and expert hands of time
and so I whisper “I miss you”, twice, the only prayer I know,
to the invisible ones I used to love when they were alive and still do,
the dead so dear to me I can feel their eyes on me in the shower:
every single inch of my body au naturel and warm,
every unclothed curve, every crevice and special hair
I am more than a mere flesh-and-blood guest book
for the dearly departed to sign; these nipples,
these soapy thighs, these shameless tears of joy –
they're mine.





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01:17 am - ....just a thought.......

I would really like it if the "birthers",
and also the retards agitating at democratic health care town halls
would just come right out and speak the truth about what's bothering them:





they are racists, and simply cannot abide a black President.

07:33 pm - NEW POEM:

When Animals, Who Have Come Out Of Nowhere

And Who Are Capable Of Things

You Didn't Think They Were Capable Of,

Attack

The leather of the barber's chair's so comfy;

a body could fall so asleep in this place;

the ceiling fan squeaks messages to the walls.

The barber put me under a dark blue smock;

I don't like the feel of that cloth tie around my neck

and the smock's fabric's odd, cool and rubbery.

Half an hour seems to pass. The old man's hands

stop; he sets the scissors and comb on the bench before me.

“I'll be right back” he says, leaving me in the chair.

I close my eyes and relax. Tell myself it's nothing.

Perhaps the kindly old man needs to answer nature's call.

But, no matter. I shut my eyes; I breathe.

I open my eyes. I have been sleeping in the chair how long?

The old man's nowhere to be found. I move to remove my smock

and discover I can't budge; I'm tied down by the wrists.

Like a man who has sneezed on a salad bar by accident,

the horses in my pulse begin racing out of control

off the track; the stopwatch in my ribcage goes silent.

I'm being watched. I turn to look and there's a chimpanzee in the chair

right next to me: staring, measuring, deliberating. Powerlessness

descends upon me like a mist of cold rain and I shiver.

He takes his headphones off, yanks his smock away,

and leaps off his chair. The chimpanzee is yelling now,

hollering, cursing; he is furious about something.

I know it's time to scream for help,

but the chimpanzee's on top of me before all of the letters

in the word “help” can escape my lips.

He is sitting on my chest, chin in his hand, puzzling over my

fear. It occurs to me that I am parched and I smack my lips.

Then he raises his chimpy hand and smacks my lips also.

Outside the window, the world's afternoon seems to be going on

the way one would expect it to; all the automobiles are leaving work,

bound for home, prodded by the gleaming terror of a 4:45 pm Sun.

The chimpanzee looks over at the counter and notices the scissors.

I shake my head wildly, desperate to take his attention away;

but nothing I do or say can stop this; only fools believe in God.

Current Mood: artistic

07:06 pm - An Open Letter to All of the Poets Competing in the 2009 National Poetry Slam

An Open Letter to All of the Poets Competing in the 2009 National Poetry Slam





Beginning on the night of  August 4, 2009, the city of West Palm Beach, Florida
will be witness to a literary event unlike any it has ever seen before. The city will
be flooded with poets from all over the country, poets who have come to participate
in a national competition and also to take in everything a city that is new to them has
to offer.

Those of us who have been watching the changes taking place within
the national “slam family” over the many years of its existence know that every
year, there will always be poets who have come to the Nationals with dreams of
perfect scores in their eyes, dreams of the relative stardom that an individual
slam championship can confer upon them, dreams of a badass community infamy
earned with their words to strangers in a strange new city. Those of us who have been
watching the Nationals for years also know that there are many poets who are
hoping that, with their words, they can make a change in the world, hoping that
they can bring light, or hope, or bring about unity with the poems that they
take with them to the stage.

I'm writing this letter to all of you poets going to the 2009 National Poetry Slam
to remind you all that it's not about your words bringing about peace, or hope
or what truth you think the world needs, or light. And it's also not about the scores that
you earn, either singly or with your team. It's never been about that.
Please remember that as we poets, we are there to bring to the audience
visions that they cannot comprehend, stories involving puppets, scenarios that will
confuddle them, images that will startle them directly into another beer. Please remember
that, as important as it may be that your words speak into existence the truth, it is
far, far more important that you force the audience members before you to have to
picture a startled parakeet, surprise in its face, after having a handful of wet pizza flour
thrown at it. The National Slam is the place and the time to force slam attendees
to see crying firemen, in their mind's eye, grinding suggestively against yellow fire
hydrants.

Listen, we have seen, over the course of the last several years, too many poets
trying to change the world with the Truth that is nestled in their URGENT POETRY.
But the time is upon you to cast such things aside and bring what matters to the fore:
elderly dogs in sneezing fits outside of gross fast-food restaurants, depictions of men taking
showers that last for several hours at once, close-up references to armpits and nipples being
lathered and cleaned with foamy bath oils, televangelists having accidents at the podium.
Please, poets, remember that in the short time you have at the microphone, you are there
to pinch the listeners in their groinbones with poetry that confuses and causes
trepidation. We, all of us, only have a short time to make an impact when we hit that
Nationals microphone. Please, don't waste it by trying to change or save the world with
the UNSTOPPABLE, applause-worthy HONESTY of the words you have shed tears over.
Instead, remember to force the attendees of the National Slam to have to think about
the politics of body odor, gonzo journalist porn, and tricycle abuse.

We only get one shot at this.

Please remember that.

Current Mood: thoughtful

12:19 am - NEW POEM: Cynthia Doesn’t Believe You (Pantoum Co-Written by the Spammers in My Inbox )

Cynthia Doesn’t Believe You
(Pantoum Co-Written by the Spammers in My Inbox )




Do it thirty percent better; double the night’s ardency:
give up the ghost and vote for the dust, then, and if
you’re ready, say hello to an overjoyed Russian vagina.
When the crisis is over, get to know the rules of intimacy.

You gave up the ghost; you voted for the dust;
now’s the time to say "aloha", and protect your vehicle;
The crisis now over, you’re getting to know the rules of intimacy;
make it long and it will penetrate the object of your love.

Say aloha now: protect a hundred percent of your car;
poor Casanova cries when he thinks about your pants;
make them long enough to penetrate this object of love
before this weekend’s drug prices soar.

Poor Casanova! He’s crying and thinking ‘bout your pants
and also about your unthinkable, costly Nigerian orgasm.
Look out! This weekend’s drug prices are about to soar:
say, do you remember what you came here for?

Unthinkable, this costly Nigerian orgasm of yours:
please stop repelling your manliness with the health of real Açai.
Listen; do you remember what you came here for?
It’s because we need to give you two thousand dollars.

Don’t repel your manliness; just try some Açai,
after all, the woman in your life needs a sexy surprise.
We have two thousand dollars for you,
and these will help you learn to drill the ladies better.

You know that woman in your life? Give her a surprise:
respond immediately and keep your love gun high.
Drilling a lady is a hard thing to learn, and that’s why
discount bibles are guaranteed to make you lots of friends!

Response time’s gotta be quick; bring up your love gun.
Please, please f**k her right in the pharmacy.
Discounting the Bible could lose you a friend! Please!
Good news comes from a rocket in her bedroom!

Please, please f***k her right in the pharmacy, but only
if you’re ready to say hello to an overjoyed Russian vagina.
Discover the Bible. Even if it means losing a friend. Honestly.
Don’t just do her 100%; why not go for twice the night’s urgency?





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Current Mood: creative

08:15 pm - Poetry on the Streets of Albuquerque Pt. 3

Here's one more vid, and I think there's more to come, of the poetry performed out on the street during a fantastic thunderstorm on the streets of Albuquerque this past weekend. Please, by all means, enjoy.




And, of course, as ever, comments welcome.

Current Mood: artistic

08:09 pm - Poetry on the Streets of Albuquerque Pt. 2

So, I was saying some friends I decided to gift the night air in Albuquerque with some poetry.
There was some amazing lightning happening in the air behind us that night. Here's a couple more vids.







Once again, please enjoy, and comment.

Current Mood: artistic

07:58 pm - Poetry on the Streets of Albuquerque

So, some friends of mine and I got together this past weekend and decided to
guerrilla theater people in the city of Albuquerque. Check out the amazing lightning happening in the sky behind us in these vids!

Here's some vids to check out. Dig it.






More to come. Comments very welcome.

Current Mood: artistic

01:13 pm - Enough of the lies, Madame Speaker Pelosi.......

11:17 am - My Own Undeniable Truth: Mortality, Celebrity & Solipsism (A Primer On Basic Philosophy)

DISCLAIMER: the following essay comes from ME, and not from "Livejournal", its
owners/sublets, and is not meant as an "attack" on anyone. It is TRUTH.
And this truth comes from REASON. Now, with that out of the way, here it is.......


My Own Undeniable Truth: Mortality, Celebrity & Solipsism (A Primer On Basic Philosophy)




All this incessant talk about Michael Jackson, and the bemoanful fact of his dying,
has got me to thinking, hard, about mortality, yours and mine.
I watched all those people, the famous and the dirty,
the press, the wealthy and also those who are sinners,
all assembled there this afternoon in that colossal memorial amphitheater
and as I did so I couldn’t help but realize that none of them have ever come to know ME.

Yes. I’ll say it: it’s a shame that Michael Jackson died, but only in the same way that it is
generally a shame that a person has to die. Anybody. Think about it.
How much did we even know, really, about Michael Jackson?
Some say he was a pedophile. But no one knows that for sure.
There isn’t anyone on this whole planet who knows anything at all about it.
Not even two words. Some say that he had little children over the house, inappropriately,
overnight, from time to time. There isn’t any way to prove that. There are some
who say he was an entertainer. Really? How do you know that? Some even say that
he made “music that will last forever“, but no one can really say for sure.
All we have are recordings, photographs, and eyewitnesses.
Everything, and I mean everything now, can be doctored.
We’ve finally come to that place. The soft white room we deserve.
I’m crying as I write this, because I saw on the news today
how no one at CNN knows who I am. Like they care.
And I cannot help but think about the Taliban, and how they don’t seem to give a shit
about what I need in my life. I need a job. I need fun and games. Nintendo keeps
releasing all of these really cool games for the new Nintendo DSi, and yet all I seem to be
hearing nowadays is that such and such a celebrity died, and will be missed.
I mean, come on, doesn’t anybody just, you know, stay alive anymore?
Maybe Michael Jackson will be missed. Maybe he won’t. That’s not for me,
or for anyone else to say. In my thinking tonight about death, I think about
Iran, and all of the people who drink too much and then get on the public bus
with me. Why? What have Iran and I done that was so hurtful, so cruel, so unfeeling
that both me AND Iran have to deal with drunks on the bus? DRUNKS WITH
FRIGHTENING TATTOOS. CNN WITH FRIGHTENING TATTOOS. But why?

As I watched , helplessly, as the Michael Jackson memorial progressed in its
inexorable march to the end, I noticed that so many there were wearing sunglasses.
Again, this reminded me of death, in the sense that when I was a younger man,
it would not have been acceptable to go to a funeral wearing sunglasses.
I remember. I was right there, with me, all those years ago.
And just look at us now, just watch us go. Times have changed. None of those people
at the “Los Angeles” “Staples Center” today will ever know me, what I write about,
or all of the things I would like to own before I die. And that may be the greatest
shame in all of this. We talk about mortality so freely, such easy, easy poetry;
we talk a good game, all of us, about “what we want to leave behind”,
but it’s all just so many empty words. Nintendo, of Japan,
just came out with this really cool game for the DSi that lets you “find” a new
treasure every time you boot up the DSi near a unique “wifi hotspot”, but all we
seem to talk about is the “untimely death” of a superstar. What does that even
mean, though? I’m not trying to diminish people’s grief over someone they cared about,
and I am also not trying to dismiss other peoples’ concerns about certain “elements”
of Michael Jackson’s life. There isn’t anyone who knows anything at all about
Michael Jackson: doesn’t anyone understand that? Hello?

What I’m trying to get across is that all of these people on television,
all of these Iranians fighting for democracy, all of these mothers out there posing
as teenage boys just to cause a teen girl to kill herself live on" MySpace", all of these
famous people dying in the months between June and July,
all of these people need to seriously start thinking about me.
And the things that I want and need. It’s really not that
hard to figure out. Al Qaueada doesn’t care about Nintendo, at least right now they
don’t, but maybe, just maybe, they should start caring. Truth hurts, doesn’t it?
Life isn’t that hard to figure out, either. It’s not hard, I mean, when
you put a little “elbow grease” into your thinking. Maybe, and I know this is
a very naïve thing to say aloud, but maybe we all learned something today:
life is not about how many calendars come off the wall before your number is called;
it’s about how you check off the days in those calendars. Life is not about hash marks
crossed on some corporate chalkboard, it’s about remembering to do what you need
to do in permanent ink. Life is not about vicarious triumphs or surreptitious
misdemeanors; it’s about knowing what you want to order when you get to the front
of the line. I am behind you 100%. And I really 100% want to get to my seat in the theater
of living in a timely way, so don’t you take too long deciding what you want for a snack.
None of us, and by “us” I mean ALL OF WE, none of us have forever, my friends.


MORTUERRE ES PATRIS NOCTUS SANGORUM.



July 7, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

01:20 am - New Poem, "I Know A Lot About Nature"

I Know A Lot About Nature

Thinking about my speckled green pj's,

and the stirring sight of me,

jumping up and down on the bed in them,

my broad, sweet chest visible between the buttons,

you cry alone in your house this a.m.,

while hungry, baby swallowtail butterflies

attack your flower garden in the front yard,

starving, their claws tearing at the tender

pink flesh of the morning-glory petunias,

diving, dolphin-like, into the mulch.

In the lonely driveway of asphalt,

there is a true sadness because I am not there

to give you my body, and you notice a lone squirrel,

see her catching a worm in her beak,

slurping up nutrients into the gullet.

The sun, setting, is always hurtful to the eyes.

As ever, after feeding, the squirrel pulls

its wings in close;it knows, by instinct,

how sharp, how like a knife the night's cold wind can be.

To be honest, I have always harbored

creatures with wings in my belfry.

Because it can get awfully claustrophobic in there,

I choose to allow only those birds I can sing along with.

Perhaps ironically, due to their close ties to bats,

my imagination is an aviary for seagulls.

Because seagulls have all the time in the world.

Your neighbor is an older woman named “Peggy”.

So often, when I was with you, we wondered

what on Earth could Peggy possibly

have been a nickname for. We never found out.

There is a place in your heart, the color of a starting fire,

where you remember the night we discussed

inviting Peggy over for a three-way.

She was only 43 years old.

When we found out that Peggy taught

Sunday school, it was as if God was telling us

there was a limit to his capacity to answer prayers.

You remember now, with a curious smile

as the monsoon clouds give way to the Sun,

how that morning I got stung by a cricket on my bare foot,

as I sleepily trudged down the lane to get the newspaper.

I might have been an idiot for loving you,

but you were a fool for not loving me.

In the back of your mind, in a very small public park,

I am pushing a metal cart of ice cream treats

along a little walkway in the grass.

But no children clamor here, or shriek

for sugary, frozen treats.

That's because it's never daytime in this park

in the back of your mind where I work.

Also, I am continually hassled

by the numerous hoot owls that dart about my head swiftly.

This makes doing what I have to do very difficult.

In this pretty, lifeless place inside of you,

where I make my living, the owls here

stare at me as if I were tremendous.

But these creatures are much larger than me.

Yes, love. They are large.

Large, and carnivorous.

Like hummingbirds.

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June 28, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

Current Mood: creative

08:40 pm - Well, that was an awful lot of fun....

Tied for third last night in the Finals of the first ever Albuquerque Slam Poet Laureate Finals at the Kimo Theatre.
In the form round, I read my pantoum about fireflies and people seemed to like it.
I'm also very proud to know and call friend Mr. Danny Solis, who won and is now the first ever Slam Poet Laureate.
And I'm feeling especially proud, humbled, floored, and just all around in general BLOWN AWAY that out of
this field of competitors:

Erin Northern
Damien Flores
Hakim Bellamy
Kenneth P Gurney
James Altimirano
Bill Nevins
Jessica Lopez
Carlos Contreras
Sal Treppiedi
Christian Drake
Tracey Pontani
Taryn Cuellar
Jimmy Lusero
Priscilla Baca y Candelaria
Bobbie Lurie
Adan Baca
Ryan Pace Sloan
Manuel Gonzalez
Danny Solis

I wound up tying with Carlos Contreras for third place overall.

If you were there, then thank you for coming to support the poetry community
in Albuquerque. If you weren't, it was really something else!

Much, MUCH love and respect to all of the poets.

12:30 pm - THAT. JUST. HAPPENED. - My Recap of Last Night's ABQ Slam Poet Laureate Bout

So, about last night:

I’m somewhat a little laughing at myself today, because of how I was probably sounding yesterday about my chances in last night’s competition. Last night went better than I’d have imagined. For “real”.

Round 1 of last night’s Bout 2 of the ABQ Slam Poet Laureate Competition broke down like this: eleven competitors, all strong poets, and I wound up drawing the “3” in the draw for the first order. Not very promising, and I knew that whatever I did had to be exciting and funny enough to keep me in the minds of the three judges for the rest of the round. I did “Taste the Rainbow” (the “let’s make fun of homophobes candy euphemism poem), had a little trip-up in the beginning, recovered as fast as I could and then tore up the rest of the poem like my junk was on fire. I’m thinking now that it was kind of a risky choice, as I’ve noticed that around here in Albuquerque sometimes I get punished for making fun of homophobia. For that I the judges gave me a 26.5, which outscored the first two poets and several of the following poets as well.  

Round 2, the “one-minute” round, gave me even MORE stress than the first round did, because, since I had the third highest score in round one, and since we were going high to low in Round 2, this meant I was up in the “3” spot AGAIN! And my turn at bat in Round 2 was immediately following Danny Solis (a hero and inspiration of mine forever), so I was even more convinced by then that I was doomed. I performed “red”, a one-minute ode to obsession and got a 26.7, a higher score than I got in Round 1, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the game was up for me.

The way last night worked, the scores for Rounds 1 and 2 were added up and the top 7 poets out of the field of 11 advanced on to the final round of the bout. Turns out I had made it to Round 3!

Backstage, we did a fresh draw, and I drew the “4” for the last round. Better odds and I felt a little more at ease. At my turn, 4^th up, I did “Maybe It’s Time” (a funny poem satirizing those ubiquitous pharmaceutical commercials and their puzzling “side effects”) and got a 29.4, outscoring the three poets who had gone on before me thus far, which meant I’d secured a spot in the June 13 Finals at the Kimo Theatre. After me, Jimmy Lusero, Tracey Pontani and Danny Solis had yet to go up. I was sure that one of them was going to outscore me, but that didn’t happen. Everyone in that final round performed magnificently. Somehow, my score for “Maybe It’s Time” was the highest score for the round, meaning that I won the thing. How in the Hell did THAT happen?

And so, now, I look forward to the Finals night at the Kimo Theatre in downtown Albuquerque. I have even MORE work cut out for me now, because, because….well…..just LOOK at this list of the poets in the Finals:

• Jessica Lopez
• Danny Solis
• Manuel Gonzalez
• Tracey Pontani
• Adan Baca
• Damien Flores
• Rich Boucher
• Hakim Bellamy
• Carlos Contreras
• Jimmy Lusero
• Sina Aurelia Soul
• Christian Drake

So, in other words, HOLY EFF.

But, hey -

I'm just proud that I made it even this far.

Seacrest Out,


Rich

04:05 pm - Who remembers....?

11:39 am - Poems Twenty-Four Through Thirty (Plus), Poem-A-Day, "Ten Nature Haiku"

Poems Twenty-Four Through Thirty (Plus), Poem-A-Day, "Ten Nature Haiku"

sleeping late into

a November afternoon;

dreaming in color

the woodpecker stops,

perhaps he heard me shouting,

shotgun in my hand

the snapping turtle

warns us with his vicious fangs:

"no skinny-dipping"

raccoons tap their beaks

against unyielding metal:

nightly ritual

yesterday's spirits,

coughing in the cold guest rooms

of my memory

the koala bear

notices me in the brush,

and gives me the bird

the ladybug stings

only those who mock the black

dots on her red dress

the moonlight glinting

off the clear wings of the slug:

it is so, so late

when horses attack

children, it's only rarely

without a reason

breakfast in silence:

tasting the pink, bittersweet

tears of the grapefruit

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April 30, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

Current Mood: thoughtful

04:42 pm - 23 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "Dark Red Water, Big White Wings"

Dark Red Water, Big White Wings

I'm doing this because

I'm hoping

that the lives I might meet

in the next world

won’t understand me when I describe to them a lie

will need me to explain it to them

and then, again,

I'm hoping that if I do this

then next life will be cleaner than now

and I'm hoping I won't even remember how to lie

I'm doing this because of all those

beautiful days of childhood wasted in school;

I'm doing this because I'm hoping

that next time

I'll come down from the storm cloud

with big white wings

and numbers and names written in white chalk

won't mean a goddamned thing

and I’ll laugh at anyone who calls himself a teacher.

I am doing this because

I want the last time I close my eyes

to mean only that I don't need them anymore to see;

I'm doing this because I'm hoping

that in the next life all the trees and birds and stars

and cars and bombs and tears

will reveal the truth about themselves to me

like a private conversation

with the only friend I’ve ever trusted

in some out-of-the-way bar.

I am doing this because

I'm hoping that by taking it this far

everyone and everything

I've ever cherished in a dream

will come near to me again;

that is why I'm doing this.

I am doing this because when

my heart stops

pushing my blood around

I want to be able to swim

for as long as I like

in a lake full of dark red water

and I don't want to have to hold my breath.

When you find my body

without motion,

without sound,

look at the last place

my breath called home

and be hopeful for me.

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April 29, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

02:21 pm - 22 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "In the Original Language"

In the Original Language

Walking through the square

in front of the university library obliges me

to pass handfuls of students clustering about loudly,

or seated on the nearby grass,

or talking in pairs in the shade of the plain marble columns

that flank the entranceway.

As I pass them, I know I can always depend upon

the open staring of at least one too-confident,

arrogant, socialite young college student,

as though my otherness was license

to take an undisguised inventory of my person.

I live within the boundaries of my skin

and your eyes intrude upon my lands;

it’s not polite to stare, little college girl.

Since you all seem to like wearing the exact same

name-brand pink sweatpants and headbands,

how could I possibly be “singling you out”

when I can’t tell you apart from your classmates?

No matter how many different faces you have,

you are all the same one person who does not yet

seem to get that you are making me angry:

don’t you know being stared at constitutes

a silent version of fighting words?

I could break you down, piece by piece,

limb from limb with my eyes if I wanted to.

I’ve got places to be and things to do, though.

You flatter yourself to think I was staring at you

when it was you who was staring at me.

Eyes on your own papers, please.

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April 27, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

Current Mood: contemplative

11:49 am - 21 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "My Sudden Appearance"

My Sudden Appearance

I step outside of the apartment

to get some air

in the middle of the night

say about 2 am

and I notice something,

down the little side road

behind my house,

something about the size of a dog

walking in my direction.

I can't hear anything.

When he steps into the light

about ten feet from me

I see that it's a coyote;

he seems as surprised to see me

as I am to see him.

We look at each other

for at least a minute

and I begin to worry about

turning my back to him,

thinking perhaps he is waiting

for exactly that: my back,

so he can attack me.

This thought completes itself, and then,

before I can continue to do nothing,

he turns around, sprints back into the shadows.

Call me crazy if you want,

but I don't think he was afraid of me;

I think he feared my fear.

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April 27, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

07:14 pm - 20 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "A.D."

A. D.

The first has got to be

the cruelest day in April by far,

not just because that’s the day

everyone lies to one another

and then celebrates the lie

by calling each other a fool,

but because that stupid, funeral sunlight

in the top floor windows

of the tallest building in the city

shines in our eyes even when it’s overcast

and half past six; this is the time of year

for all the crazy people decide

it’s time to lose what few fears they have left

and hassle you on the street in the middle of the day;

this is the holiday marked by that loud little chola

with the praying hands tattooed on her own right hand

flipping you off when you ask her to watch her language on the bus;

it’s so pretty, how language can turn into a weapon

when we try hard enough not to care,

one almost doesn’t mind the continued existence

of the ones who try to hustle you downtown

and finish their sentences with “bro” as though

you hadn’t enough sense to understand bullshit

when you smell it in the air.

If you were with me last night you would be with me now:

it was Fourth Street and I was looking for time to myself

in someone else’s neighborhood around midnight

when this lonely nutjob passed by me saying hello:

when I ignored him, he spat his precious Christ at me like an indictment:

 “If you were a Christian, you would have said hello back to me”

he said, or, rather, yelled, as if his curious faith in Jesus

took a precedence over my need to walk in the dark

and be alone with the big eyes of the Moon;

I should have told him that Jesus was just a cartoon

that got his legs broken by a Mafia Superman in 1963,

I should have told him that the best we could hope for

is for some kind of a global flu to wipe us all out

so the Earth can have a fighting chance at starting over;

I should have told him that it’s not what’s inside of you

that matters; it’s what you look like on the outside that counts;

I should have told him that it’s funny

how some of us accuse the sky of being empty

when to me it always seems full of the faces of people

who only want to be remembered every once in a while.

Step right up and get your life lessons here:

they're cheap; buy two and save.

The light of the late afternoon Sun

is still pretty bright this time of year

and I have to raise my hand to shield my eyes,

but I never do it in time to stop the tears from coming.

The streetlight’s changing at the corner of where my head is at

and this avenue, and when I turn around

I can see the haves and the have-nots crossing themselves

before they cross each other’s paths in the street.

April 26, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

04:31 pm - 19 of 30, Poem-A-Day, "The Big Book of Erotic Ronald McDonald Photography"

Here is poem number 19. Yes, I'm aware that I am behind;
but I'm also trying to be forward. I'll be totally honest here:
this is one of the HARDEST poems I have ever had to write.
It took a lot out of me, but I think this is what happens
sometimes when we push ourselves beyond where we feel safe.

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The Big Book of Erotic Ronald McDonald Photography

The photographs,

taken sometime in 1973,

are absolutely stunning,

even to this day, and they capture

the naughty fire inside of the country’s

most beloved fast-food mascot,

the bad boy inside of everyone

who has ever wanted a hamburger.

The viewer is shocked into reality

with the first photo in the book

which shows, in harsh light, Ronald,

friendly American Burger Clown,

caught in an instant of ecstasy, shirtless,

familiar red makeup smeared rudely,

head thrown back, eyes shut tight,

shuddering in obvious pleasure.

We do not see what’s going on

below his waist; we do not know

if he or another is the source of his bliss,

but we are involved in it nonetheless.

Page after page in this lush,

vibrant, oversized table book

shows Ronald in various moments

of vulnerability, hunger, timidity,

nudity, shame and passion.

We are better for having

gone on this journey with him.

A black and white teasing shot,

Ronald McDonald wearing only

black suspenders and a pair of

red, white and yellow mini-shorts,

the camera behind and below

the friendly clown’s behind,

sweet Ronald looking back over his

shoulder towards the lascivious

viewer, mischief in his eyes.

Ronald, lying on his back,

appearing to be a little bit high,

cigarette hanging from his lip,

the camera view from his navel

up towards the face, a curious,

arresting mix of ennui and desire in

the clown’s big, wide eyes.

Ronald sitting back on a couch,

clown shirt unbuttoned all the way

and watching what it obviously an adult film on TV,

one hand grazing the silly bulge in his crotch.

Ronald, wearing only the bright yellow

clown pants and big red shoes we know so well,

lying on his belly, his fingers fanned out

on the pillow and looking back, flashing

the viewer with his “why don’t you

come a little closer and let’s have some fun” look.

Black and white shot of the naughty clown

almost totally nude but for the big, goofy clown shoes

in a little shower stall, holding over his chest

a huge, open cup full of a vanilla shake,

letting the contents splash and spatter

across his bare skin, his excitement visible.

The reader sees these photographs

And cannot help but to learn something

About their own sexuality, the limits

And parameters of their own dreams and desires.

The reader comes away from this book

with a new insight into the surprise of

the sex appeal of the known and familiar,

the natural erotic power of the normal.

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April 23, 2009 by Rich Boucher.

Current Mood: thoughtful