Endgame

The Thread

They like my opinions,

Revile my opinions.

But they're indifferent to my songs.

The subject – didactic -

We've had it as morals,

Mere explanations,

Any instruction.

It even was said

If you read him correctly

Shakespeare's didactic.

The other shoe dropped.

Now on the floor is that

Everything written

Is really didactic.

And that would include

An anti-didactic didactic.

11-24-13

 

Tired

Jeffers has a craggy kind of beauty,

Sans the magic of a melody.

Little mouths will open at a rustle

In a pocket made of threads and twigs.

I am very tired. Am I dying?
Poesy is oozing out of me

In moments of recrudescence remembered.

Is it sickness? No one wants to read it.

When rocky mountains fall into the sea

And splash a torrent skyward, just the thought

Of death that spurred a billion new religions

Will cause the world to stagger through its problems.

11-24-13

The Healing Bus

The healing bus was driving down the mountain.

A man without a name was driving up.

The hapless man was crowded off the road

And ended in a ditch. The man got out

And hollered at the driver of the bus.

While he was asleep that night some thugs,

Members of the hospice, woke him up

And beat him nearly dead. The healing bus.

From a hospice hidden in the mountains.

Touted as the medicine for men.

Across the country, known and recommended.

That is where I started going mad.

The hospice is no longer there because

The man who built it, garnering some fame,

Died in prison for attempted murder.

11-24-13

 

Genius Paradox

Does a genius think he is a genius

When a clever notion comes to him?
Like the poetaster whose delusion

Tells him that his verses come from god?
Is talent self-effacing? Must it be?

Does self-congratulation nix the talent?

Everyone who sings is called an artist
Whether he can sing a note at all.

And every poetaster thinks he's brilliant.

A paradox! Can genius love itself

And still remain a genius? Heifetz did.

11-24-13

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving day will soon be here,

And as in days of yore,

Christians will find lots of things

To be thankful for.

Perhaps they'll find a fagot

In a swamp all mutilated.

Truly an occasion to be

Praised and celebrated.

The man who shot the woman

In Detroit – as well befitted

Such a fiend – by 12 good men

And true will be acquitted.

Illegal immigrants who now

Reside on Yankee soil

Will be driven to the beaches,

Shot and left to spoil.

The NRA has won its case.

A few more thousand dead

In another month or two.

Praise god. And go to bed.

And this is just what men have done.

Their god has done the same

To the 27^th power.

Amen. In Jesus' name.

11-16-13

 

Endgame

I think my verse is brilliant,

But I know that it is lame.

Be famous for an hour

And forgotten is the game.

Bursting through the brambles

Is the echo of my name.

I do not have the music

Little Keats is touted for.

I haven't got the depth

That men whose shirts are stuffed adore.

I'm looking at the sea

But sitting silent on the shore.

11-25-13