Monday, June 1, 2009

Beau Boudreaux


Farmed crawfish, a confederacy of cocktail
happy that we’re not married
anymore—exit Raphael

banners fall in streams

from our balcony—I’ve woken
taut in all certainty
the long pace down the plank

I sense the movement on the street
silence unfolds our guarded pavilion
her knife catches the light—

the beaded balustrade, sequence of sequins
maybe she’s a pro
throwing tennis balls through banisters.

There’s a word…
not Celine, Celeste…élan
her suggestion
the way without words.

Elysian Field

I falter
mal petit

she there holding
her stare

oh Lord

consider each eyelash
lake marked

by buoy
a gesture

speaks her hands
something nether worldly

pure fatigue encased
on the wing of another

Eye Candy

Some times we’re given
a gift, to open
or simply increase

the traps would not set
if nothing were caught—

your heady perfume, the lip print
on a cigarette in the ashtray

the way I lose myself
in conversation

merely looking is possession

founded on vanity,
seriously think about

the rights and feelings of you
rather than my own.

Telemachus to Odysseus

Dare listen and think
we change, cut above the brow
wind chimes ting window sills

and now there’s no settling
rather a select number
father, I count them in the sea

poached pompano in meuniere
their hair casually bunned
glossy-lipped, wisped – I don’t watch

them drive away, lovers
really wouldn’t be out these hours
slowly I cut the light

leaving the fan rotating
slowly, taking my time –


We follow weary
back to camp
fingers frozen
bags of dead birds—
the only casualty

long in the tooth
hair on the knuckles
talking about the hunt

how surprised to pick
one out of the sky
have it splash the marsh

and you are there
calling them in like

our shotguns like canons
frighten me
but we want birds

mallard, goose, pin tail
too easy
floating aimless

on the water.

-all poems previously published at Zink Ville

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