Days of Me // Stuart Dischell

Sun, 11 Jul 2010 01:27:00 GMT

Posted by: iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com

When people say they miss me,
I think how much I miss me too,
Me, the old me, the great me,
Lover of three women in one day,
Modest me, the best me, friend
To waiters and bartenders, hearty
Laugher and name rememberer,
Proud me, handsome and hirsute
In soccer shoes and shorts
On the ball fields behind MIT,
Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym,
Mutual sweat dripper in and out
Of the sauna, furtive observer
Of the coeducated and scantily clad,
Speedy me, cyclist of rivers,
Goose and peregrine falcon
Counter, all season venturer,
Chatterer-up of corner cops,
Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers,
Outwitter of panhandlers and bill
Collectors, avoider of levies, excises,
Me in a taxi in the rain,
Pressing my luck all the way home.

That's me at the dice table, baby,
Betting come, little joe, and yo,
Blowing the coals, laying thunder,
My foot on top a fifty dollar chip
Some drunk spilled on the floor,
Dishonest me, evener of scores,
Eager accepter of the extra change,
Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon
Lifter, fervent retailer of others'
Humor, blackhearted gossiper,
Poisoner at the well, dweller
In unsavory detail, delighted sayer
Of the vulgar, off course belier
Of the true me, empiric builder
Newly haircutted, stickerer-up
For pals, jam unpriser, medic
To the self-inflicted, attorney
To the self-indicted, petty accountant
And keeper of the double books,
Great divider of the universe
And all its forms of existence
Into its relationship to me,
Fellow trembler to the future,
Thin air gawker, apprehender
Of the frameless door.

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Tue, 17 Sep 2002 22:34:00 GMT

Posted by: penguinboy.livejournal.com

End of the Century
by Stuart Dischell

i. Displaced Persons

Out on the street the children are playing soldier.
It's the end of the century and still they play soldier.
Let's be unfair. Blame them for the toasted corpses,
The orphans, widows, and amputees. One aims
A broomstick, another a plastic missile launcher,
And the little ones on the lawn roll over, "I'm dead,"
They say with joy, "I'm dead," "'Im dead," '"Im dead."

ii. She Stretched Her Young Body and Went Out

She stretched her young body and went out.
The trolley lines were bright in the sun.
Bees hovered on her dress pattern.
The flowers were of spectral colors.

She was still her parent's girl, living home,
Helping out. She was always the one. She believed
In her soul, in birthday parties, in feathers and drums.
She lived in every neighborhood. You saw her.

iii. Sarajevo Zoo

With two buckets of water he had gone to the cages.
It was early in the morning, the shelling had stopped.
In a tan windbreaker he had gone to the bears.
He made our target, this old man walking.

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I Eat Poetry

Days of Me // Stuart Dischell