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Poem
the footing on the flanks of the Hill of Beans
was worse than he had sussed
that drizzling pale morning
when the Sun was lowest
but beans be damned
and their counters with them
yes I know
a smoky mess
like most of what we see
and witness in the dawn
of the Era of Swans
nah I'm ting you
it's the Era of Dalliance
so dally as if the World were lost
as if we were too smart
for our britches
but then who can say
where the seeds have fallen
the really smart ones
appear to be well camouflaged
this fact has skewed many calculations
yours his hers theirs
grammatical while despising convention
you want to live with contradictions
here's a ing straight jacket
it's your hounds against their hounds
a dangerously expanding sense of limit
the future cannot be divorced from reality
let's play Caligula she ululated
my head took off like a rocket
one smooth move after another
she was a Moon Dog suckling
sitting in the Frigidaire on a hot day
I'm a big load trucker she enticed
and I'm a madman he sighed imploringly
ever since the great cognitive implosion
his own brain booby trapped by feral insults
kept him from falling in love with suffering
and its many insane justifications
always unwanted always a perturbation
in case you were wondering
about those spasms of the iris
in a way describing is predicting
you know this in your secret parts
we are such tethered creatures
struggling against boundaries
not of our own making
all I got to say to all you psychic embalmers
and Quasimodo professors
is to hit the ing target
the one with the big ing bullseye
painted on it in radar hues
you can see it unaided from satellites
that one
fearing that a revelation
could land him in bedlam
he withdrew from competition
leaving behind a few vapid clues
ARISTOCRACY
FINANCE
NAZI
I've escaped down too many sewers
not to know this lividly
memory suffers from content degradation
characterized by extreme malleability
he progressed clumsily
wanting for a ratchet with pretty teeth
trying not to embarrass his loved ones
in an infinity of variables
tossed in with
the onions and the spuds and the turnips
in a modern world where job 1 was
to be comfortable on camera
even as they cut off your head
metaphysically compositionally speaking
and job 2 was
be content with your lot
(to be continued)


From "Theater of Utter Charm"
Available on Amazon
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