Sympathy Read

Remember in high school
the first girl who �put out�
and how popular she was
with the guys until
the newness wore down
and she realized
there is only one first time;

or the arrogant athletic prick
who though his shit didn�t stink
the one that made a cheerleader�s
pom-poms flutter under the bleachers
now he�s working construction
and it ain�t nine to five.

Then there was the skinny kid
with black horned rimed glasses
always scribbling senseless bullshit
and saying �read between the lines�
because nobody could understand.
I�m not just any poet
in need of a sympathy read.

One of These Lines

I am working on my impact lines,
the ones that will make you jump
and shout: This is superb,
this is how life is: sweet like
honeysuckle but with a heady scent
like how a barroom might smell at close.

I still miss the cigarettes
twenty to a pack
like white tight skinned sardines
on a foil platter waiting to be served
and those recollections of smoke rings
simply superb. The night opened
its petals one after another
into that delicate silence.

I am not where you are,
not where the steel has lost its edge
not where the puzzle has forgotten its jigsaw
patterns, not even remembering
the shape of a square or how
straight it was, all tight fitting
against the neighbors.

The room smells
of how it might have been
and outside the streets stink
of rotten meat and petroleum products.
Inside the chair faces
toward the window
in order to better take in
the concrete view.

This is a moment, the dirty
the filthy, and the retched
where you cannot feel
cannot read my lines.
I open the honeysuckle,
close the bar and taint
your senses with their
lies. This is not about
flowers, not about bars.
This is about love
and lines immortal.

Between Clothes

six years into the millennium and
we ch-ch-ch-chatter unintelligently
       not unlike our distant relatives
               primates still hiding in the trees
               picking at the fleas
               swatting at the flies
               scratching our collective asses

a symbol or a character
               never both
               salute that flag
               take out the trash
               zip-lock the bag
the truth seeks out truth
               one lie never leads to another

 we weave our fables in unknown languages
               making up history
between prequels and sequels
                       preludes and quaaludes
somewhere between peace and war
               between sheets
               between professions
               between fake boobs
                       reality is a hand job.

words strung together
       sense and tense
       cast off to the crowds
       wearing wolves� clothes
               and it�s all pretend
               between
               between the clothes

                                                                                                � R.D. McManes

Loch Raven Review Spring 2006 — Vol. 2, No. 1
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