Poems by Jeffrey Side

I WON’T CHANGE FAWNGIRL FOR ANYTHING
For Rachel Lisi

On to Lincoln, Nebraska—
plumb in the middle of The Great Plains.

I wish I were back there again.

Tempests in the dark taunt
our exhibited drunken selves,
placing fallen yellow graves at our feet,
and waves stretching back liberty’s possession,
hand-cuffed under female felt and passion,
drift upon island animals and hidden
rebellions emerging.

There are many ways to lie when good
deeds and bad deeds follow you,
and you have everything you wanted.

Will you eventually be with me in that log cabin
in San Juan Valley, Colorado?

I wonder about a good deal in dreams and
dramas, half sick, half wounded, much around the
world, on sea and land, down among the first
arrivals while the worst was yet to come.

Another paradise lost,
but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And I remember my old man, slaving away on
that lemon ranch in California, staring
across prairie land wandering
what the end would be.

Don’t worry Rachel,
I won’t change Fawngirl for anything.


TREES OF SORROW

The trees of sorrow
that hang over these graves,
mark the spot where you are hidden.

You flew away too soon.

And all the while I could not
see the larger picture.

Your hair used to breathe
like the autumn smoke.
And you let me keep the cherished
dreams that fed me.

All for the sake
of trying to satisfy the eternal yearning.

All for the sake
of feeling some warmth in the night.

All for the sake
of flying too close to the candle.

All for the sake
of swimming in the contagious sea.

Such futile joys
we strove for,
and which brought us both to grief—

me, in my glass-walled palace,
you on your barrier reef.

When the sensuous hand
of destruction tempts and beguiles you,
who is safe to touch?

Who is safe from the cuts that
are too small to see?

Someone always comes forward to
be the victim when
the temptation is too much.

And is it just me, or is there someone,
somewhere, always missing you?


GROVEL OF BABYLON

She did appease my oblivion
and anxious hose,
flailing with
tongue seductions
in the wreck of time.

Discarding chronicles
like sail foam,
data jobs,
or managerial endings,
she was a true love of mine.

But now it’s come to sunshine
regimens, profile
clouds, orphan windows and
nihilistic soundtracks.

All like mighty
wandering shadows,
unexpectedly impaired,
somewhere in the night.

I still got a thing about you.


VENUS INDIGNANT

The ejaculatory
life is
the salvation
meteor of
futility or
fidelity willingly
false more
by your
leave during
times of
cultural tautologies
other destinations
ready love
in the
breach always
ambivalent mystery
reality waiting
to be
defiled in
the uninterrupted
present wings
will be
effortless for
aliens needy
of platonic
mist or
evolutionary doubts
in music
pirate maidens