The American Death
To the men who loved her before she was Marilyn
Sprawled about the page are two legs,
naked in perfect, alluring parts. She embodied a dream,
and belonged to a generation believing in picket fences
garnished with vines. She hung in the garages of oil-glazed
men working on Cadillacs and Mustangs. She, lost
in the tangles of fame, was known to them only as Marilyn.
Forty years later, a calendar adorns my wall. Marilyn,
still twenty, stares back, parting her mouth and baring those legs;
my own smile fades through lost,
orange light. I, once a prospective dream,
visualized through a lens, was placed on glazed
paper and dressed in white roses picked from a picket fence.
When fame flicked open the latch to my picket fence,
he came with ideas of the salutary eyes of Marilyn.
He tapped on my red front door, glazed
with rain. He neglected the spreading legs
before him, leaving them grasping notions of sexual dreams.
To him, they lead the march of lost
hopes, spewing from girls lost
in the straight, unified shadows reflecting through the picket fence.
As fame left, I watched a girl play and dream,
conjuring a life more than Marilyns.
She dances towards her future as lost
years drift through fingertips: glazed,
sugarcoated, bruised memories. My glazed
eyes watch her enter this lost
fantasy: entwining vines, twisting between her legs.
A group of boys spy from behind the picket fence,
mimicking her movements, calling her everything but Marilyn,
taunting her, decoding her dream.
I watched fame steal her dream,
allowing conformity to glaze
morals, as she sits reading her future. Emerging as Marilyn,
she remained trapped behind glass, observed by them, lost
in fames transparent visions guarded by that picket fence;
fame caught a glimpse of her smooth, naked legs.
A flamboyant dream of unclad legs
perched upon a freshly glazed picket fence,
lost among fame and the life of Miss Monroe, Marilyn.
To the men who loved her before she was Marilyn
Sprawled about the page are two legs,
naked in perfect, alluring parts. She embodied a dream,
and belonged to a generation believing in picket fences
garnished with vines. She hung in the garages of oil-glazed
men working on Cadillacs and Mustangs. She, lost
in the tangles of fame, was known to them only as Marilyn.
Forty years later, a calendar adorns my wall. Marilyn,
still twenty, stares back, parting her mouth and baring those legs;
my own smile fades through lost,
orange light. I, once a prospective dream,
visualized through a lens, was placed on glazed
paper and dressed in white roses picked from a picket fence.
When fame flicked open the latch to my picket fence,
he came with ideas of the salutary eyes of Marilyn.
He tapped on my red front door, glazed
with rain. He neglected the spreading legs
before him, leaving them grasping notions of sexual dreams.
To him, they lead the march of lost
hopes, spewing from girls lost
in the straight, unified shadows reflecting through the picket fence.
As fame left, I watched a girl play and dream,
conjuring a life more than Marilyns.
She dances towards her future as lost
years drift through fingertips: glazed,
sugarcoated, bruised memories. My glazed
eyes watch her enter this lost
fantasy: entwining vines, twisting between her legs.
A group of boys spy from behind the picket fence,
mimicking her movements, calling her everything but Marilyn,
taunting her, decoding her dream.
I watched fame steal her dream,
allowing conformity to glaze
morals, as she sits reading her future. Emerging as Marilyn,
she remained trapped behind glass, observed by them, lost
in fames transparent visions guarded by that picket fence;
fame caught a glimpse of her smooth, naked legs.
A flamboyant dream of unclad legs
perched upon a freshly glazed picket fence,
lost among fame and the life of Miss Monroe, Marilyn.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
ps. Missoula sounds like cooking oil.
So what we aren't prepared for, and are especially thrown by since our focus is so intent and so END ALL/BE ALL, is when our plans don't happen the way we intend. We feel like improvisation goes against the hard-work and careful planning guarantees that we made ourselves before things went awry.
What we forget is that we're smart. We have Good Brains, we are resourceful, and most importantly, we got ourselves where we already are. So whats stopping us from getting to where we really want to be, even though the path is different from what we thought?
This is just a minor setback, Delilah. And it might not be a setback at all; You're escaping living hell with those people, and maybe there is something in Montana that you need right now and just don't know it yet. I don't believe in fate or whatever, but sometimes you need to believe in something bigger than you when the world seems to be crushing your heart. Lord knows I'm there right now. I'm about ready to PRAY for something, and I don't pray for anything EVER.
Look, you're young. And you're smart. We seem to believe that if things don't go as planned, we'll lose our momentum, and the evil bad fun-loving side of us will come out and steal away all the things we've worked so hard for. But thats not going to happen, because you know what to do. And you keep your eye on what you want because thats all the motivation you need. I promise you'll get there.
You have accomplished the biggest obstacle of all: defining what you want right now. And my girl, I swear to christ everything will fall into place if you just hold on to that self-knowledge. Seriously.
Love and hugs to you.
[Edited on Jul 17, 2003]