Pompeii

The Philistines

Talent and imagination,

Industry and brains

Are necessary things to the

Creation of great art,

Which they malign as shit

While mussing up the sheets,

Drinking beer and playing songs

About their broken hearts.

11-15-13

 

The Game

My life's a wreck. I wrote a lot of verse.

Dismal Edna. Mediocre Keats.

In my youth and in my age,

Two people many years apart

Told me I'm a genius. What is god?

I squandered all my money on my friends

Who ceased to be when all the funds were gone.

Listening to music that I wish

Were over. If I had a lot of money,

I'd buy copies of my poesy.

Everybody loves America,

Especially the Yankees. Why is that?
Frequently I get my coffee free.

Almost everybody thinks I'm funny.

There is no escape when you are dead.

Endgame! Call this fucking poem “endgame”!

I gave that title to so many poems

You'd think I were a winner.

I'm not even in the game.

11-15-13

 

Pompeii

Little tiny man

Standing in your spa,

Filled with tiles and colors

In Pompeii,

Smiling at the camera,

Totally content,

Your chariot is flaked with gold

And set with many stones,

Is harnessed to a stallion,

Holds your family and you.

Your local gods

Are looking over you.

11-15-13

 

The Arts

Songs are getting prettier.

Opera is gone.

TV can't be wittier

Unless the set is off.

Broadway without Sondheim

Is a crypt without corpse.

I haven't seen a flick since

Woody Allen's Italy.

Hart's autobiography

(Not Larry, I mean Moss)

Was my last and also was

The second time I read it.

Millay whom I had tinkered with

I fell into completely.

So now I have a thing to love

And occupy my time.

11-15-13