Wednesday, May 5, 2010

You Broke Your Mama's Heart Again Last Night

He's a pain when he's sober, he's a pain when he's drunk
A pain when he's too happy, just as bad when he's in a funk
But he's a joy to be around when everything's just right
Oh, you broke your mama's heart again last night.

He's a man who says just what he thinks and doesn't give a damn
About fashions and opinions - all those houses made of sand
But he's a joy to be around when everything's just right
Oh, you broke your mama's heart again last night.

You broke your mama's heart again, she's watching up above
Is this what she worked so hard for? is it why she gave you love?
But he's a joy to be around when everything's just right
Well, you broke your mama's heart again last night.

You broke your mama's heart again, is this why she gave you life
So that you and he could live your lives in a never-ending strife?
But he's a joy to be around when everything's just right
Oh, you broke your mama's heart again last night.

Yes, you broke your mama's heart again last night...

© Dan Goorevitch, 2010

Thursday, December 24, 2009

There’s a little place in the desert

(Revised December 25, 2009)

There’s a little place in the desert where people used to go
where the screen door batters its frame in unpredictable staccato
and upturned glasses fill the tables where no one’s dined in years.
This is the last stop for gas between car and carrion
on a road where even the rain doesn’t stop anymore.

Once there was a cabin on a stream and morning
breezes blew freely between two open doors.
A fresh scent of jade jungle leaf, running water, tender fronds
lay beneath us like lovers, just to touch us, caressing our soles
they sighed. The mud clutched us and we were whole again,

away from the clatter of shrill strident voices. away from the violent city,
the horrific brutality, the shock and the rage of the litterer, the vandal
the screaming of the hungry and of those dispossessed,
banging their bleeding fists on love when the door was open
all the time. Open. That’s what love is.

Ashamed, my bruised hands now send this, raw from the beating
as if my fists could distill love from your blood. Loathe you? I never knew how
to open the door that bangs in the desert place where I wait
listening for you with the glasses turned upside down
to keep them from the dust.

© 2008, 2009, Dan Goorevitch

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Weekly

I love my own stench.
Life’s too short to waste
on people who don’t like
how you smell or think.

She loved me when I fumbled,
things spilling out of my bag,
forgot to change my work clothes...

...put her nose in my armpit
smelled deep and said "I
love that” and whispered “I wish I had
"more holes for you.” I

think I’ll take a bath come
Saturday, to remind me of my mom and
laugh.

© 2009 Dan Goorevitch



© 2009 Dan Goorevitch

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Estaté

Ah, Summer (Estaté)
translated from the song by Brighetti & Martino


Ah, summer—
Your warm embrace is like a kiss remembered
Once full of love but now it’s just an ember,
Like something in the heart one wants to lose.

Ah, summer—
The sun that woke and warmed us every morning,
That painted splendid sunsets every evening
Is useless now except to sear my soul.

Another winter comes and
All the petals dying on the rose
A thousand petals lie beneath the snows

At least perhaps some peace might come again.

Ah, summer—
You gave your fragrant scent to every flower
And filled us with a love of so much power
So I could slowly perish in its pain!


Another winter comes and...

© Dan Goorevitch 2006

Sunday, April 19, 2009

An Ally At Night

I love back allies: the slightly dangerous places where one finds
new hinges on broken doors, the heavy wood collapsing;
the utter silence of lamplight on cold cars, the haze of long corridors of space:
the rare beauty the city hides in the back of its mouth, the we in who we really are behind the glittering smile, where my soul sighs and says “I’m home.”

© Dan Goorevitch 2009

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Bittersweet Blanket (revised)

We wrestled on this bed of roses
over which of us was sweetest.
You liked to pull them up over us
to weave us in and snip the world out.

I try not to think of what we’ve lost
but of a sweetness I never suspected
existed before I saw the petite
fierce bud of joy that was your face
on a blanket full of yellow roses.

© Dan Goorevitch, 2008

Monday, December 8, 2008

The Passion and the Reason

Something sings in the building and builder,
Something rings in the spike and the wood.
Something sounds in air and the earth
Resounds in the hammer and hand.

I pulled you toward me this morning,
your head and neck on my chest—
a waking serenade, your puzzled
pliant flesh pulled from its pit.

Freedom from is not freedom to
stride in the sound of creation,
the forests shaking in the sound of your boots,
the mountains and lightning rejoicing,

I thrill at the vision you offer
I thrill at the vision we share.
At the moment of emancipation
the tyranny of orthodoxy begins

and that is the point of our unravelling
and that is the point of our joining.

© Dan Goorevitch, 2008