Poet & Writing Community Poet Community
About Publish FAQ's Bookstore Free Poetry Contest
MoonTownCafe Home for Poets


  Search

Advanced Search
MoonTownCafe Home My Cafe Write Poems, Stories, and more Publish your Poems, Stories and Book My Friends on this Site Log-in
  Poetry & Writing ForumsFree Poetry ContestJournal

Free Love Poems \

Strict Analysis



Strict Analysis
By Zyskandar A. Jaimot on 05/12/2007
Viewed: 382
Reviews: 6
Rating:
Strict Analysis

I still go to analysis.
Jungian is so much more
rhythmically in tune with the universal
than the errant phallic dream dancing
of Sigmund with his cigar fixations.
And I’m better now.
Like any good practioner of Tao,
I know how to balance
my active with my inactive side.
After all herpes is no big deal
anymore. It’s not like AIDS or something
serious. Like thinking too much
about things you can’t change.
Too much thought is disorder- -
the vibes disturb the primal rhythm
of psychic entropy. Sitting here in my
post bohemian NYC Columbian gradschool getup
of soft denim skirt, black leather jacket
from Bendel’s and heels by LaMarca.
I see you’ re looking at my hands.
The calluses on my fingers. I used to play
the cello.. .The smells of wood,
rosin, and wax.. .The music’s rapture
as I wrapped my legs around
its slippery contour –
filling me up with importance.
Like knowing how to pronounce
crudité with just the proper
accent — with a swirl of tongue
at the ending. Everybody has herpes –
it’s really just a minor venereal disease
and not really a sin
that Doug infected me one Sunday morning
instead of our church like devotions
to the NY Times. Cramming with the paper
in bathrooms, spread over the floor,
like the time I got a tarot reading from
a real Magyar in a downtown public stall.
And I’m sure everyone I know
has used a vibrator in private I still
bite my nails to the quick.
Did I ever tell you that I met
Al Pacino at the diner?
We were both perfecting our roles.
I served him tuna on white toast
with all the crust cut off.
No sliced tomato. No pickle.
No chips. No relish or spice of life.
He didn’t talk
about his being or acting...
All he wanted
was extra mayo, extra mayo,
on his sandwich –
as if broken eggs of existence
could be blended,
smoothed and made whole.
Then spread to order
out of some jar.
But that was a waitress stage,
serving strict Freudians toasted
helpings from my past.




© By Zyskandar A. Jaimot On 5/12/2007 9:22:15 AM
Read User Reviews
Write Review
Report Poem

Add To Friend

Send To Friend

The Best Online Poem and Writing Community for all
 Members
   Username
Forgot Username?

Password
Forgot Password?
Not a member?
Sign up for free!

Premium Membership

  Newsletter

  Enter your email:
  Site Stats     Online members:0      Online guests:51      Total Users:23897      Total Poems:62986
© 2000-2016 MoonTownCafe.com. All rights reserved. LinksLink to UsPoet LinksContactPrivacy