I just watched the sun fall into a pond full of stars.
The pond I’ve watched through all seasons.
Flooded and dried. Ducks and sticks. Depressions and deaths.
Marriages, births and dances. Full blooming trees to words that would have been better left unsaid.
I’ve watched snowflakes melt into the waters from a chilled air
From the windows of a broken house forced into gravitational shaking.
Sitting in Appalachia with dreams that couldn’t manifest into reality.
The house that fed me underground spirits into otherwise effete energies.
Stars form into broken tadpoles, swimming into two moons imagined
From a reflection seen from window to window. I could be in the flight
In that air. Hovering above the waters and seeing in the ripples whatever you wanted.
More stars? More dreams? More tears? More spirits? Pushing magnetic monsters away for good?
Let me sit another night and feel my completion through a pond full of stars.
Blind and deafen out the screams stained through the years, living in the walls.
The loves and the force, the bangs and the enlightenment of separation from overbearing wind.
Cracking the foundation if I will and shall fall one day to the pond full of stars and overlook this universe.
I could finally forgive the push and the abstract dysfunctions that removed me from your breath.
Before the Bridges Fell #14 Fumbles Through the Cloverleafs (like Gerard Malanga) by David L O’NanBefore the Bridges Fell #13 : A Coffee Shop Chronicle by David L O’Nan – poetryBefore the Bridges Fell #12: Radio Ghosts by David L O’Nan – Poetry
The Devil's Beach Sonnets
1. The Intro.
They called it devil’s beach behind its
Mercurial cloak of crimson with white splotches
Of daylight, the sun bounces for a while and sits
away from the beach to just watch the love and the insane.
The beachfront stared at me with screwed on eyes
Watched me unmask, bathe in the beggar’s water, a prayer
Gates closing from the ocean to get ahead of the spies,
Waves lifting the walls of my wounds for all insects to crave.
I loved the smell of the algae wift and drift by the pagan seas
The witchery and the owls would rest by on a dark night
To watch the paradise, to watch the hell, the powders,
the prowlers to breathe
What are my dreams in sand, heart shaped good-byes beaming in bright?
Waking up to the sounds of the ocean’s cello.
I bit my tongue and took in today’s first pill.
2. First Pill
I took in the first pill, and then I imagined us a bedroom
A way to save ourselves from the midnight ammo and hatchets
To get away permanently from my mind, and you away from your Americana husband
To get lost in your mouth, breathe with your mind, a spell under your blue eyes
To bring back the color of this gray inside, impaled to doom.
There were ways that we had nothing in common
You dressed in beauty and often could be preppy
And I’m the rags of quick cloth, sewed imperfectly
You have the flower rings and a smile that guides me, to your beating heart my dear.
Oh, there were the times, times I wish to have back
That drunken moment you had too much wine and we walked hand in hand with,
the moving trees or maybe it just seemed. Maybe we just were talking and I just imagined
your naked skin clothed away in a blanket, on the beach while he was away drinking,
with his hunters and hookers.
Oh yes with you it has always been pretty rings, flowing hair and dresses
Turquoise tear drops, Poison box presents, charm me away doll into your closet
I want to see you in the way that God first imagined
Crescent moons and flowers beating like heartbeats, your smile swallows me whole.
Strawberries, blueberries, cherries and grapes
Unwrapping the Amethyst handmade, boho vintage golds.
I want to taste your lips in the everlasting glow, take in all of your taste.
Feel the cosmos peel at the nerve tips of my fingers and hold you in a sway.
Natural Opal, Emeralds and your peach appeal.
I would die to see you wearing that dress in mod cloth again.
I would die with alcohol on my breath, kissing bottles to be broken.
Against the recesses of the walls from sand to water
Watch the blue waves fade with your curved shadows
Pills fade too for a drunken mountain lion.
4. The Glory
My serendipity is skinned from the halos
I return to my glory, as a hobo in a vacant lot
Return to a dream where my fingers are calloused and have no bravado.
Guilt sits in my mud filled shoes. I’ve stalked in the waves.
The acoustics of thunder rains the ink over my withering heart.
I know you're out there pretending to be satisfied with horny princes.
Wearing crowns of camouflage hats and painting your world into a warzone.
I know you love to be called dumb in front of his friends on football Sunday.
I know you want him to admire you in perfect Huaraches like Frida Kahlo.
You will go outside and meditate with the stars. He’ll talk about borders with his
We can both be in the same galaxy, just ours many miles apart.
With our lonely eyes, the cellos, and anti-depressants.
Smell the same skunks many highways away while looking back blindly.
Semi-lights jam my vision, I pray for the collision if not for you.
I’m just a broken ceramic on a shelf.
Before the Bridges Fell #10 : Everyone is Kerouac by David L O’Nan – PoetryBefore the Bridges Fell #9 by David L O’Nan : Living in This Toxic Coalmine – poetry first on Icefloe PressBefore the Bridges Fell Poem #8 by David L O’Nan “Those Hazels, They Slice” – poetry first published on IceFloe Press.
It doesn't matter who you are, how you started.
How your mind runs, when you're on the stage.
And he looks at you, he says there goes "Jack Kerouac"
He was the godly catalog model in the suburbs of Milwaukee
A very proper, a very Grandpa's toy Quarterback.
He was alert with the ladies, he knew some poetry he found from a collection of Keats and he read them over and over to them.
And they fell to the floor in love, unless they knew his fraudulent stem. The smarter girls could spot the false heart from miles away.
He tried to grow in a soul patch and dabble with some weed and next thing you know he thought he was the Earthquake.
He shook that literary world. Boy, he's off to New York City at the drop of a hat.
Off in Greenwich Village he pretended he came from the same grass as the Beat Poets and became obsessed by Jack Kerouac.
He'd say "Here sir, here's another $1000, a new poem for you...it is about drifting" "Please listen to THESE words" 'cause shake your feet in your shoes and tell the New York Times you've just met van Gogh and Buddha too.
Yes, he'd strut poetry through the streets. Attaching a bongo to his back. While the burnt weenie aroma hit the air. He'd just laugh and laugh. "Hey there girl with the gas leak apartment, let's go stay at the Chelsea Hotel, I know a few folks back there and they'd definitely get us On the Road" He'd hit the subway with his Andrew Jackson style messed hair and jumped around high on amphetamine and like an elfin, whistling & snapping his fingers. He'd just try to breathe and breathe.
The women began to see a fake. Funny how every coffeehouse he'd visit he'd be holding that faded copy of "Dharma Bums"
"Hey barista mama, I hate that media man, did you hear what they said about my poem I submitted to the Times? It will make you mad"
It didn't take long before his butt was back on a bus towards the Midwest. Settle down in Indiana farms, cows, horses, shit, paint everywhere. Writing that same poem about being angry about the news. That news from 1980 when Ronald Reagan became a repeat to your fading memory. Every year it is just the same. The poetry like your soul patch began to grey.
And you see him stoned and deadpan at an art exhibit, you see him cancelling other people that try to steal his show. He is lit to the moon and talking about his squirrel habitat house. He's wondering where that lady he saw outside and invited to the Chelsea Hotel is still alive. "Oh, why she's his biggest fan and follows him into his own fame" While everyone is a dairy farm caught ablaze, "in his mind" he is walking through the Village and making Oil Rag Frakensteins and tossing them into the frame to burn the world into art that no one had ever seen. He'd read you "The only people for me are the mad ones: the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who... burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles." straight from Kerouac. He'd say this one is for Ginsberg, this one is for Hunter, and this one is for Ferlinghetti. The old feller he's just in another dream.
And now he's just blaming his old behavior on all of the stale midwest air, reading political quotes and acting as if he can predict which way his weed smoke will blow in the air during a windstorm.
Maybe he also had a gas leak that he could blame all his flirty ways with the girls half his age, and then drink with the cougars from the bars. He'd write an avant-garde poem about the death of Burroughs, while the older women would swift away and flirt with the younger poets right in front of their girlfriends or wives. They are there for a drink and act like art is their life.
Years later he is hyperventilating on the steps of a downtown flood. In the heart of a homemade College kid gentrified neighborhood.
Breathing in, weed smoke out, breathing in, just laughs
"Kerouc, man, Kerouac, and...and...and..Burroughs"..... "Yeah"
Before the Bridges Fell #9 by David L O’Nan : Living in This Toxic Coalmine – poetry first on Icefloe PressBefore the Bridges Fell Poem #8 by David L O’Nan “Those Hazels, They Slice” – poetry first published on IceFloe Press.Poem #7 from Before the Bridges Fell: Scattered Christmas Garbage by David L O’Nan – poetryPoem #6 Before the Bridges Fell by David L O’Nan : “They Are Running My Prints” – poetry