Sage and Rosemary's Poetry for Lovers

columns
Autumn. The car is warm and Baker St. is playing on my car radio and my estrus is moving up the charts now. like every month. like always. So my DNA looks for its best candidate and my hearts looks to its past they put ‘em together and mostly come up with you. Meanwhile I have become a millionaire (sev. times over). Apparently. A common everyday un-magic person (so my daughter tells me) And a mother, a wife, and a good comm. theatre citizen schoolmom boyscout mother mother of a teen wife of a busy businessman. a traveler. a stoic. I have no art left in me no music I am too busy I am rich, so I hear I have no time to dream and you? You finally did settle down, bought property, have a little family, a little toupee, a life in the country. You teach school (like Dreyfuss?) You’ll never be a millionaire but you’ll dream, you’re a dreamer magician (O you still have the magic) creator busy now on the internet with your phantoms and teleplays and science projects and music and trekkies and whatever else fills your soul.	I want a song about us our parallel lives our disconnected links our disjointed timezones our separate planets our misplaced universe A poem in 2 columns maybe. Not even corresponding. Not even symbolically. Not even. A movie? or a movie. A trite movie plot. sametime next year. Maybe a symphony of 2 melodies (kolning) 2 harmonics — leitmotifs. Yours: soft, smudged, hazy like those purple-grey mountains, a country edge, a false bravado, a sidewise ego. Mine: loud, clumsy, pounding, sweeping and swooping backfiring — a brave timidity a theatrical shyness, a blue meanie a rough-hewn natural longing longing ah god now what wouldn't I give for a slice of heaven in your arms! But that’s just my insistent monthly genepool shouting. A pep-rally of desire. "this is the way we get there! Any way we can!" what you call love sex — whatever. You call it. Sense memory Always back now back me in a corner I have nothing no more comets. Just 2 columns. Not even.

columns

Autumn. The car is warm and
Baker St. is playing on my
car radio and my estrus
is moving up the charts
now. like every
month.
like
always.

So my DNA looks for its best candidate
and my hearts looks to its past
they put ‘em together
and
mostly
come up
with
you.

Meanwhile I have become a millionaire
(sev. times over). Apparently.
A common everyday un-magic
person (so my daughter tells me)
And a mother, a wife, and a
good comm. theatre
citizen
schoolmom
boyscout mother
mother of a teen
wife of a busy
businessman.
a traveler.
a stoic.

I have no art left in me
no music I am
too
busy

I am rich, so I hear
I have no time
to dream

and you? You finally did settle down,
bought property, have a little family,
a little toupee, a life in the country.
You teach school (like Dreyfuss?)

You’ll never be a millionaire
but you’ll dream, you’re a
dreamer
magician
(O you still have the magic)
creator
busy now
on the internet with your
phantoms and teleplays and
science projects and music and
trekkies and whatever else fills your
soul.

I want a song about us
our parallel lives
our disconnected links
our disjointed timezones
our separate planets
our misplaced universe

A poem
in 2 columns
maybe. Not even
corresponding. Not even
symbolically. Not even.

A movie?
or a movie. A trite movie
plot. sametime next year.

Maybe a
symphony of 2 melodies (kolning)
2 harmonics — leitmotifs.

Yours: soft,
smudged, hazy like those
purple-grey mountains, a country
edge, a false bravado, a sidewise ego.
Mine: loud,
clumsy, pounding,
sweeping and swooping
backfiring — a brave timidity
a theatrical shyness, a blue meanie
a rough-hewn natural longing
longing

ah god now
what wouldn't I give for
a slice of heaven in
your arms!

But that’s just my insistent
monthly genepool shouting.
A pep-rally of desire.
"this is the way we get there!
Any way we can!"

what you call love
sex — whatever.
You call it.
Sense memory
Always back now
back me in a corner
I have nothing
no more comets.
Just 2 columns.

Not even.

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