Poetry Seance
so much talk
poetry’s dead, poetry’s dying
I live with the dead
know the dying
in myself
so I lay a braided scarlet welcome mat
at the door and welcome
all for this marvelous seance
and metamorphosis
step right up
the plasticine academic gold butterfly
returns to the vile chopped red neon street
tranvestites ask directions and wink
as the mint girls turn their heads shake their ass
knowing full well **** has emptied their
carrot dangling coffers
the man with the gold lamé suit
terminal navy ink fingers
throwing darts at the half-grinning moon
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