daniel gallick is one of cleveland's most active & imaginative
poets. he co-hosts a live poetry extravaganza called expresso
expressions each month at arabica in bainbridge, ohio.
Works on this page:
as i age i am a child again and i treat my wife like a lollipop
a short push into the deaths of human beings
As I Age I Am A Child Again And I Treat My Wife Like A Lollipop
She pushes my plethora of words onto
a map that flows through us, finally
unfolding near its wilting last page.
With candor I reveal that my once
finest ego is now among the lowest.
She presses with her lady's proposals
and I am so reticent we cannot hear
the evil within my muted syllables.
I ask, "Will you know you are a woman
when you realize you have become old?"
The lady passes from freedom, and claws
her way into telling me she is mixed.
I ask, "Mixed?" She smiles and agrees.
My words scatter across our faded rugs.
Smiling about the aging line she adds,
"Sure, as soon as I become a woman,
you will not beg anymore for sweet love.
You will just wonder whether I get wet
anymore or whether my breasts plead."
Now frowning she props her feet up
on the sofa and flips the TV channels
and keeps her mind on the passing time.
And she says, "now is napping,"
then wakes to make dinner, cleans up,
goes to her bedroom - not inviting me -
to put her feet up. And when I knock
on the silent door I awake to how noise
irritates her when she is at her peace,
and then I bluff, and I become nice
enough to ask her politely if I could
kiss her clitoris and hold up her tits,
pushing back time smartly enough to love
her lost soul as it pleads to God, begs
quietly, yet desperately, for orgasm.
A Short Push Into The Deaths Of Human Beings
Within the big masses we are plainly related,
we are descendants of nocuous progenitors,
migrators who modify our meanings, we
chant and wish for better and then die off,
come, seas rise, a huge
us and makes ashes, then we relatives spawn
we heaps of humanoids rise and feel
we know it all, the identities of
the closeness of distant mountains, aridity
the cries of us lonely visitors
begging to know all the why's yet only seeing
the answers to ones that are never
masses continue, swell, and the weight ceases
to be felt even though it is
the close allia
between us is dismissed, love
having a price no one ever has enough money
to pay for, and a period completely sunders
into one and one, over and over the mess
continues silent like the thawing of winter ice,
colonists moan, work,
on a busy life before the simple,silent, ever
available dull tastecomes, the lapsing into the groggy and lasting
quietititude, as time gives its one weighty breath to the final
word in our