Ideas

Ideas

When I was psychotic

With the Furies and the flies,

At each lacunae in the buzz,

I'd relax and say,

“It's over.”

Whereupon it would resume.

I write poems quickly.

Does that mean my verse is bad?
Perhaps if I wrote slowly,

I'd write other than I do.

I can't imagine how,

Or what I'd write.

And I am very weary

As my mother used to say.

Only just the wicked feel that way.

Abandoned by his family,

Forgotten by the world,

He gave his soul for love, but somehow

Never got it back.

God! He was relentless

In his constant accusations.

He divorced his wife and married Keith.

Stravinsky, Berg, Prokofiev,

Ives, a discontented

Fag that turned to Calvin

And married – when he dies,

He'll wing his way to Jesus,

Leaving his cadaver

To fertilize the grave.

And up will sprout his soul

In smelly flowers.

Illusions

A pleasant personality

Does not create a friend,

Nor personable make a paramour.

If you trust a person's smile you're dancing

Phantoms in the parlor,

Where the silver and the glassware are.

11-3-13