The Operation


I went to see a surgeon
To have an operation.
“Before you start,” I asked him,
“Please do this thing for me.
Only take from me
The organs that are pretty,
Poetical or beautiful
So I can have them bound.”
Sadly said the surgeon,
“All I can remove
Is what there is inside you.
The answer's not with me.”


6-22-13

Writing


I must write – and write it all -
So little time is left -
And whether it is read or published -
That is up to god.


However as there is no god -
And writing it is harder -
I push a giant rock away
When I pick up a pen.


My goal – my far from humble wish -
To be what Shakespeare was -
Untalented and at a time
When poetry is dead.


Can I do with common words
What Shakespeare did with many?
Drawing phrases from my soul,
Truths from what I see.


6-22-13

Images


I'm a fraud, a phony.
Images go deep.
In fact they are the substance of my sleep.
I said I didn't like them.
They are difficult to write.
So I draw wordy phrases from the night.
If I could
Or if I would,
Like every poetaster
I'd glut and dress my poesy
In metaphors and senses,
And use poetic words
Instead of abstract epithets,
As that is where great poesy commences.


6-22-13

Americana


Their mommies and their daddies
Want them all to go to war.
Whether they come home is not the point.
Otherwise she might become
A mother or a whore,
And he discovered sucking on a joint.


All the kids are covered with
A plethora of pics,
As everyone who's anybody is.
When daddy runs red lights he only
Knocks down shabby hicks.
And the cops are minding their own biz.


The government is silly.  The
Republicans in charge
Defy all sense of decency and care.
Rand is their messiah.
Libertarian writ large
Means that really – nobody is there.


6-22-13

Two Stanzas


See the beaming baby momma,
Formerly a slut.
See the white supremacist,
Superior to what?


See the brave Republican,
Satin cape and cowl,
Champion of rich men's rights,
Though common sense cries “foul!”.


6-22-13