Poet

Being Young,
For Once

in that year,
there was the scent of fish scales, lake sand, and currents of fresh air like every year before

she drove her poppy red hatchback
her music had drummers
tattooing strenuously

she passed old oak-tree-sprawling-off-the- beaten-path winding roads

and smelled the dirt triumph of summer

and as soon as a suggestion of a spring equinox whispered in her veins,

a sludge a youth’s death
became a sled and she pulled it sempiternally
over the earth.

Copyright 2019

U2 is Mine

there was a hard aurulent curved phallus, in the DIA.
I now have a pair of golden balls on my wall.

And this is how it happened

Remember when Andre stole Tom Petty;
a slight offense, at best,

but, times have changed for
you, mon ex,
are not the only one to blame
in a boxy green painted Quebec Cafe;

you’re not getting laid because
your pretty young wife is acting slave.

Andre was a lanky swinging insalubrious chap
and off with American girl,
the witch, he went

I never held credence to r**e;
that is my own

with no defile of escape

I’ve tried to be a member of the elite.
Intelligentsia for the time complete.

I could not find the trail
so, I clung to railway tracks
which lead to Oz and never back.

I found myself, not to be a fraud,
but, caught, in the cerebellum
and beyond.

Smart people miss the great throng
Of infidels pumping out and belting songs

because they are wrong to
disregard the ping pong nature
of disease, Varus. It’s one life.
That comes to the destroyed.

I took all of U2 because karma
is an ironic twist of fate
it may come late, but with
or without you; my soul untied.

You have no faith in God
You are lost from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and Ishmael.
Have you heard of him, f**k meat. You’re sorry and incomplete
because I left you without feet.

Love swings like a pendulum, you sick f**k, and if you think otherwise, it’s clumsy, for you
to imbibe in the past, of course,
you love me, still, like the wheel that revolves and solves dilemmas you thought were over thrown, gone to a forbidden zone,
your simper at my echoes through the universe, Narcissus.

By the way, I’m playing American Girl which is also available online.

Copyright 2018

The Asylum

At the top,
grassplot plains over
bluffs

The asylum couldn’t quite
keep pace
with the Bauhaus movement below
against the law

the fountain a la Versailles
had been converted

into a flowered bed.
squirrels chase each other there.
And the accursed
fountain is nothing to them.

It was the Tarpian Rock

And yet,

the echoes mollified
and through cavernous cliffsides
they rose and fell
on the soft currents of
the saltless sea,

deliquesed
in linoleum polish; 1900,
scented 1980’s markers in raspberry
or blueberry.

the brown stone had seen
blood spattered across r**e
cases in Manila files and
yellow tape before

the glance askance;
penetrating ice blue eyes;
hoary-haired woman
employed for the beautiful fountain of bleeding hearts and irises.

where are the artists?

echoing deep and mad only,
the sky and the plummet.

Copyright 2018