Poems

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Confused

The structure of my mind

Is crumbling into sand.

My psyche's being pounded

Apart upon the reef.

Crayons and white jackets!

The books that I called old

And had for many years

Esteemed above the new

Were written – all but two of them -

After we had met

In 1999

The line of demarcation.

My soul was built upon it.

To resurrect the past.

The past was just two books,

And all the rest is new.

I am getting dizzy

And I cannot think.

Forget when they were written

If the poesy is good.

6-27-13

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Early In Denny's

No waitresses in Denny's

Except the two old harpies,

Solicitous, intrusive, and unwelcome.

2 a.m. and almost half -

The noisy music beats

The senses out of anybody's brain.

I left him dozing off.

We had a conversation.

I wish it had continued.

He sent me out for food.

After he had eaten

He settled down to sleep,

And I went out to Denny's.

That's where the verse began.

6-27-13

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Jacqui

If I'd only asked her

Are you having me

Followed? Are having them

Enact oblique charades?
Then she would have answered

Either yes or no

And probably explained,

Or that's what I suppose.

And 40 years of misery,

Insanity, perdition,

Doubt and second guessing

Would never have occurred.

But she's dead. The puzzle

Will not be explained.

6-27-13

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Imagination

Someone said that Einstein

Said genius is imagination.

That leaves me out of it. Because

I've no imagination.

However Keats had nothing else.

And Keats is rarely great.

Shakespeare who was ultimate

Was simply all imagination.

Even though I seldom like

Or understand him, I see that.

In his head a hundred worlds

And all with populations

Carefully depicted by

The Muse of poetry.

Does genius need an education?

Something it can act upon

Besides itself, an emptiness?

Words and histories.

6-26-13

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Soliloquy

I have done some evil things.

I wish I could undo them.

You're not the only man I knew

Who wanted to be loved.

Nor the only one who tried

Sincerely to be loving.

I am like my mother.

Incapable of love.

Except for certain people.

No amorphous love

Moving like a fog among

Unwary populations.

My beleaguered brain

Teems with many faces,

Most of them unwelcome.

None of them I've known.

I didn't love these people.

I didn't ask them in.

I have no understanding

Of other people's minds.

6-26-13

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Kitty

The cat was so neurotic

In everybody's way,

Crying to be petted

A dozen times a day.

Standing on your lap,

Lying on your wrist,

Something in his nature

Urged you to resist.

When other cats were petted

He was pushed aside.

Smaller. Ever smaller.

He laid down and died.

6-26-13

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Desperation

Shrinks are all we've got.

That is what he said.

Never look too closely

At what you cannot lose.

Though they pummel you and throw you

And force your medication,

Lock you in confinement,

Tell you you're a fool,

Never say a thing

That cures a single problem,

Answer any question

Or tell you what they think,

Trust them with your feelings

Like a preacher with your soul.

They are all you've got.

The preacher gives you god.

6-26-13

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Love

Love. The single word

Is some religion's slogan.

A clothing manufacturer

Sews it on its shirts.

Rituals and smiles

Make everybody happy.

Like Tommy telling Santa Claus

What he wants for Christmas.

Republicans are kind

To people who are white.

And god will rid the world

Of homosexuality.

Hoodlums call each other

“Brother”. Or just “bro”.

For all the affectations,

It's impossible to love.

6-26-13

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Screwed

Synanon. Cathexis.

The local mental health

Clinic here will shred your mind,

And send you on your way.

If you can forget them,

Everything they said,

All the names and faces,

Perhaps you will survive.

But I cannot forget them -

Or Dr. Mary Kelly

At Oakland's Highland Hospital.

A ghost, a soul, a shadow,

Some heinous aberration

That warps the universe,

They're with me til tomorrow,

Unforgettable today.

Is this the goal of treatment?
To wrench a patient's mind,

Monopolize his memory,

Ineluctable?

So I remain a casualty

Of counselors who in

Indifference and arrogance

Do not remember me.

I could take them all to court

And sue them for their teeth!

The mentally defective

And his credibility!

6-26-13

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17 Books

Everything I wrote

Except my 17 first books

Is boring and abysmal.

But I think the first are good.

That's more than Larkin, Poe or Brooke

Or Housman, less than Keats,

And less than Shakespeare and Millay,

And not as much as Aiken

That I never read.

My genius has deserted me

And inspiration's dead.

The Muse that didn't come that often

Doesn't come at all.

If I could sell the books I have

And write for avocation,

Boredom, cause of cults and wars,

Would get to know me well.

6-26-13