Sunday, June 11, 2017

A Cliche Moment While Fucking

Laughing, groping under my ass for the source of my irritation
a sliver-gold earring, held up in the blue light
the gaudy hoop dangling from your fingers, as you ask
"Is this yours?"



regan lee
long time ago

Meat Counter




Here’s another one for the Professor:
Found myself at the meat counter. Dusty, dim, green-yellow puke linoleum, 
empty shelves.
I asked the woman standing next to me -- she was heavily sunglassed and wore a terry-cloth turban -- if they had any Operatic Peacock Parfait with Blueberry sauce.

Always the optimist.





regan lee

reworked june 2017

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Seminar

Seminar

So the Professor assigns a dream poem.
 “Exactly as it happened” he instructs. 
An exercise in the surreal even while maintaining academic constructs within a decontructionist model of ironic post-modernistic symbolism within personal narratives.

I read my dream. Exactly as it happened. 
The dream had the following: floating zebras, talking mallards, velvet capes, a white-haired woman, nude beneath the moon, and oh,
the giraffe.

I was chided. Told my dream was “too much.” I said:
“Well, I was just folliowing directions. I reported back, truthfully. Tried to be accurate.” 
I was asked, “Well, what does it mean? What were you trying to say?”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought we were to just write down a dream we had. And I did. See?” --
   ...  floating zebras, talking mallards, velvet capes, white haired women (nude, beneath moon) and, the giraffe. I don’t know what it means.”

“Well,” said the Professor. “While it’s true exploring the archetypes and motifs within the conceit of the dream landscape wasn’t a part of the assignment, ... still ... it’s ...
too much.”

“Try again.”


regan lee

june 2017

Friday, June 9, 2017

mother stories

stories about my mother. we all have
them. childhood and before that, theirs
yours ours mine. mothers and mothers before
and my own motheress, which is 
none. Not now, not ever, will not be. Meanwhile
mother stories. Mine are of piers and falls from cars
into the hilly rough asphalt forgotten, lost, falls
into dusty ivy, its papery fakeness full of fireplace
ash.

Guns and shots fired drunks dead hookers 
airplane pilots, monkeys from Mexico in glove compartments.

Steinways jazz clubs the cha-cha in stretch pants cuisine
based on current lovers Japanese Mexican Greek New York
goddamn so many books crossword tarot the I Ching
Jewish mysticism Buddhist philosophies, lies.

Trips to Catalina seaplanes and Shirley Temples goats dance halls gambling
in Gardena while wolf in the back yard illegal and whose godmother
was she anyway? Long night drives from L.A. thick red hair and blue eyeshadow.

Stories of working hard and raising kids alone and going back 
to school nursing drug addictions plastic surgeries movie stars bulimia and ghost
encounters in old hospitals.

Irreverence and a Lauren Bacall laugh chain smoking since 15 anger
flash social phobias small town on the Oregon coast.

Was her dad the Russian Jew scholar or the Irish 
alcoholic who worked on the docks? Stories change.
What of the other daughter, the one adopted out not
my dad or theirs but a new one Japanese fellow, we were told.

somewhere in there was, is, love hard to know until now but now,
now, now, now, now.
now, in her dementia and frailty, now we know this woman's life
was distant and cold and in between life lived as full as possible inside
the hard cracks between her and them, well, no  one deserves this.


regan lee
feb. 2015

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

haiku: Pale Beige Room



the pale peach-beige room
reeking of dog, sweat and heat
after three years, death


UPDATE New Novel: Wildman by J.C. Geiger

Finished it. Beautiful, the ending could have gone in a few different directions, and they all would have worked. But I'm glad it ended the way it did. 







I just started reading this, and it's great. It's a "Young Adult" novel, but I personally find that term not quite accurate. S.E. Hinton's work transcends any YA category; Rumble Fish, Pony Boy, The Outsiders, etc. are not "just" for youth. Geiger's novel -- haven't finished, in fact, just started it, but it was hard to put it down. If it weren't for work the next day and having to get up at 5:30 I would have kept reading. So far, excellent. Very visual, descriptive… so visit his site, order the book. I hear he's working on another. Can't wait.

Reworked poem: Goat People

I didn't change much at all regarding the words, but did change the line structure. I like it better. Below is the reworked version; you can see the original here.

goat people

dusk, goats stuck in straw
big round bulbs of white light shine down on the little one covered
in its mother’s birth slime, the squishy pop of its arrival from
birth canal to asphalt still loud in my ears.

i am startled by the throw back dress of the goat people: suspenders
holding up pants, small smashed-on-heads-hats, shirtless, sweat,tattoos,cigarettes doing the dangle from the, yep,toothless owners

many seem to barely notice, this goat just born
while we look on, some holding up their kids to look, 
their feet kicking above the short flimsy wire fence

i move on, disgusted not by birth or slime or even dirt smugded and spitting goat people but the All-American families at this circus
this carnival, tacky venue hawked as wholesome,welcome, an economy boon, educational opportunity, fun fucking outing.


later,tigers snarl, elephants slow-motion their moves, the caged ones 
roar and trumpet behind the tents.

muck, sticky straw, stale oil, greasy lights, flaked paint once red, now brown sticks to our skin as we make our through the hot crowds on this circus night.

regan lee
reworked 6/2017