Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

                1.

The forgotten city sleeps
Its scars make him dangerous
“That blockhead loves that hooker, that bitch...”

He breaks the smuggler’s creed,
cuts his arms in frustration like a child,
“Remember those who love you back, they rarely...”

There’s little truth beneath her words
We look for good substitutes, new scripts
No one waits so we die by chance

All those porcelain lives, accidents

                2.

I feel your heart beat next to mine, I hold you…
Part of me thinks there will be no others,
no substitutes

It’s an act of faith to think my thoughts
have anything to do with you or come near you,
bitterness, graceless, beaten back

Hard laughter seems like tears to me,
exhaustion tightens my legs
and my love spits blood in the streets, even

the right things change

                3.

He thought her chatty, though she never said a word to me
He called her “prune-face” as in “You old prune-face!”
but told us she was beautiful when...

Gentle hands rubbed her back...passionate hands
In a world of private suns she learns to wear her knowledge lightly
When it rains, white pearls rain for her

She tries to be understood and even makes a little sense
Life isn’t confused if you just know how
Black ice is invisible, we couldn’t see...

I kiss her and she’s gone, again

-January 30, 2011-