Gyllenhaal Excerpt
FROM CLAPTRAP: NOTES FROM HOLLYWOOD
Democracy
I windshield shimmer her
jaunt down Wilshire Blvd.
just west of Rodeo Drive,
her beauty all past benz
and maseratis
legs,
dear god, she wears
nothing
below her belt
(pudenda v
as clear as black)
her dancing joints,
no skirt, no pants,
I’m lost. A prostitute
on drugs?
And brown as Africa
this deep princess lost
just past our dawn
as business men retreat to work
and I drive east,
her limbs a puppet’s gift -
no
my mistake up close
a mini leather, lace and gold confederacy
are mocking my slave owner’s naked dreams
as she, amphetamine dressed, and graceful
stutters on past grinding gods
of glass and stone and stainless steel
her lantern dim held humbly high to bless me, god,
for I have liberty from what I feel.
Land of the Free
Can’t disney this away,
can’t prozac it back
into the warm sofa
of this once obedient chest.
The grand chandelier
that’s turning like a satellite
demanding utter allegiance
and the closer attention
that should have been paid
to grammar, to the names
and statistics of all
the ballplayers
has lost its grip
on the color pink
mistaking it
for the space between
the first and second
amendments.
True Love
I catch it again: the reflection of you
(so much more stunning and true
than all the Marilyn Monroe diamond snow
sweet sewn seeds of success,
sucked so clean boned from the glory fish
of breast and beast and queen blood flow
to kingdom combed clean toothbrush fresh
my dream come through more red, white and blue
than my first view of Playboy magazine
that it undoes me completely.)
Your strategies succeed so mercilessly well
below the hard-wrought structures of civilization
(architecture, zoology, French, mathematics, etc.)
that your ligaments are attached to mine.
And, even though I'm 3000 miles away,
I fall to any knee I can find every time
your stone hard commandments are invoked
(far more potently I might add than
any golden calf Sinai ant hill version they sold to us
for worship)
because you and me are playing for keeps, babe
(womb powered, moon gathered
peace entreaties not withstanding).
We cannot risk the earth spinning
off her candy axis, can we?
Or can we,
even though my half thoughts stutter
at any view of myself
(mirror, photo, video
camera or mind's eye snap shot),
because, of course, it's
you
I see,
you
I carry
(baby inside me
that will never come out.
never cry, suck, piss or whimper
as I did,
this one will stay inside
what ever there was I was supposed to be
so you, my mist of all the silver cinemas,
can eat her way motherly to lunch in bed
and nap on the wine red blanket to heaven)
unless I do something
now.
For my dear wife, Naomi
Photosynthesis
I note it driving behind them:
the sly glance out their rusty passenger window
to the three trees rooted temporarily in boxes.
Easily steal-able (I imagine) into their GMC bed,
drop down the rattling tailgate, late at night.
They talked excitedly
the two dirty fingernailed men, faded jeans,
turning hard at the next curve
in their greasy cocked caps
and a whiff of Top 40.
Everything around them
a potential rape and pillage (I imagine)
with their delicious baby mouths
of suck and porn
and muscled dark tan arms
with sleeves rolled up
and faded shirts (the kind
Ralph Lauren claims as his).
Oh, to be that kind of young again
when every oyster spreads its legs for you
and the nails you hit on two by fours
sing out your praise and you can sell
those god damned trees to a guy
your brother knows and drink till three
and roam the roads for other trees
and slide back down deep into that warm salt sea -
anything, anything! but this dull, cold
dig by the numbers
where you fertilize and plant and water
every clockwork day and careful
not to crush the leafy fingers
as they too slow sing their deep green
rootedness up.
Crescent Moon
As Elvis Costello baptizes
the radiant morning,
blaring with the South Road sun
(my SUV windows up against the Yukon wind,
the oil of an Arabian child's blood whistling
this empire's chromed wheel's glory forward)
I see her dancing.
Dancing!
A pining child with her pockets
full of daddy's jelly beans.
Dancing
a ragamuffin's dreams of flour
for a thousand loaves of bread.
A pine tree.
Dancing!
Jiggling every pine tree
needle of her Christmas joy.
And if it's only a mix of Caribbean hot currents
and Arctic winter blow
then why aren't the other trees dancing,
stamping their roots to my English rocker
as our two countries throttle through
bombs and blood and casual facts?
Why does so much else sleep
while this child of wood whiskeys
across my wrinkling face, dancing,
as if she will never feel the axe.
_______________
LEAVE A WORD ABOUT THE POEMS OF CLAPTRAP.
My name is Zelimir and I am writing you this short note from my small but beautiful country of Croatia which is located in the heart of Europe! In this very moment I am writing you this email from the Island of Vis, town of Komiža where I plan to build a house starting from this September. I am a 33 years old real estate investor who build houses and enjoy in theatre, film, opera and Perla Batalla! And a red wine!
I red some of your poets from your book and I congratulate you. Your words are smart, orriginal and full of inspiration. Your family is a mistery to me... Four different people but a cohere one! The last script wrote by Mrs. Foner (Bee Season) is unique, your daughter is intelligent, funny and smart actress, and your son is, together with Gael Garcia Bernal the world best actor! Mr. Gyllenhaal, be proud as I am proud that America has a such a brilliant family!
You see, I have many plans here in Komiža for the future. This little town on the sea with 1000 inhabitants has a beauty, has a heart, a soul, but no good, live music, no clubs (like we remembered in the A. Minghella's The Talented Mr. Ripley-Tu Vuo'Fa Americano)! And this is my goal. To open "DUENDE CLUB"!
And my warm wish to have Naomi, Maggie with Peter and their baby girl, Stephen and Jacob as a dear guests of me, my family and my country for the opening night of Duende club! And of course, do not forget that every new club needs godfathers, so I'm counting on you, people!
Dear Sir, let's stay in contact. If you feel suspicious in a way, I am leaving you with a challenge that a Croatian red wines has a better taste than a Californian one...
Sincerely Yours,
Zelimir
Komiža, April 16th 2007