3 Poems by Christopher Stolle THIS HAPPENS WHEN YOUR LOVER LEAVES
To Her Deep down, somewhere on the surface, there is fear seeping from an earmarked loose vein. Chunks of nightmares and drama traumas glob from the gaping, disconnected cylinder flux. Blood rains across the silky innards, refreshing this half-cadaver from possible drought crops. In these valleys and hills, nooks and creases, flows a bittersweet liquid of immense commercial viability. Little germs and molecules irrigate organs, only to drown from busting clots that line flesh corridors. Few notice this wound, this tiny slip cut, that's deep down, somewhere on the surface, flooding passion. July 28, 1997
TRANSLATING AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GHOST OF AN IMPATIENT, UNHAPPY JOHN LENNON
John, suppose destiny forgave him or it? (depending on the wound) What would you be doing today? did you eat well? did you sleep? you crying? We're still hungry for love, waiting for word, listening. Some sit idle, some heal glass. did you resist, John? you laughing? What maker has the dreamer? what image? what tone? what?! We're still fighting, still singing, waiting for help, bleeding. John, can you be our savior? come home. speak to us. What wrinkles do you have now? do you age? can you see? you must cry. And this dew mirrors your wish. what's your third wish? what do you think? have you seen Buddy? And Jimi and Jim and Jim and Harry and Janis? my grandfather, John? and Jon? Still in jeans and black shirts? do you pray? do you hurt? you must laugh. We tend to believe heroes are forever. until they die. are you dying again? John, who do you miss? who did you miss? we miss. How's the moon doing? make it rain. forget the snow. what do you hope for? We can't change time, it hates us. we cry. we feel alone. These years grow like weeds. souls erode. we stopped praying. Can you see our faces, our futures? try to stop us. please. We used to laugh with you, John. we stopped one winter. And we teach our children your name. we fall silent at sound. your voice heals. June 19, 1997
P.E.A.C.E. (Please Eliminate All Cultural Executions)
Echoes imprinted in wood remind travelers of the path they prepare to endure and there is a whisper which left the mark from the past to keep them from death Mothers smile at their children to hold them in their heart's mind when the nights are cold and there are tears which release laughter from the past to keep them from worry Music stifles lonely pain leaving colors as shadows bring back the romance and there is a chorus which holds our hands from the past to keep them from violence June 8, 1997
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