Michael

Quitting

Under the rubble of rap and rock,

Jolson and Garland and “Danny Boy” -

Half psychotic and half asleep -

Giving up poesy once again -

How many times in 50 years

Have I given the Muse her freedom?
Early morning and overcast -

The kitten was chasing a stick around

The concrete floor -

And his back was arched,

Ears cocked forward – in little leaps

He pounced on the hapless twig -

Nearly 70 – Keats was dead

At 26 – and on the edge

Of beautiful poems and curried fame -

Bukowski crapped on it all -

12-20-13

Michael

The Archangel Michael was gay.

God sent him down to the earth one day,

Where he met coming out of a bar

A bastard who hollered, “I bet you are

A little fairy.” And shot him dead.

The streets of the city ran with red.

Quicker than what it takes to tell,

God grabbed the killer who ran and fell,

And threw him into the worst of hell.

12-19-13

 

Vernacular

A very funny man,

You'll laugh until it hurts -

The kitten's chewing holes

In all my faded shirts.

No one comes to Denny's

Who has a bit of class.

Appropriate is boring,

And I'm a silly ass.

Once I had a friend.

Now I think she's gone.

Bored beyond belief,

She left me with a yawn.

Shakespeare and The Beats

Were poetry to her.

Shakespeare conjured up

His own vernacular.

12-19-13

 

Everyone

How many million others -

Philosophers and crooks -

Are looking for an audience

And want to sell their books?

Following the herd

Where everything is free,

Bukowski is a slur

On art and poetry.

My generation loves him -

The one the angels bless -

Icon of the crowd,

Prince of Ugliness.

12-19-13

 

Small

Keats was very little.

He wasn't very tall.

Always in a fight

With anyone at all.

If I weren't little.

If I weren't weak

I wouldn't say “I'm sorry”
Every time I speak.

My life would be a much

Sunnier affair,

And dominating bullies

Would know that I was there.

I wouldn't curl and cringe

And fester like a sore,

Savoring my wounds

Behind a bolted door.

12-19-13

 

The Clown

I'm losing all my friends.

Regardless what they think,

I'll keep writing poems

As long as there is ink.

They keep changing lovers.

I watch them. Do they know?

That pretty little man

I loved so long ago

Took an open heart

And crushed it in his fist.

Yesterday I saw him.

In mockery he hissed

And tried to shoot me down,

But his arrow missed.

Will the day arrive

Humanity is through?

Poets play the fool,

And lovers are untrue.

They think my verse is tripe.

I'm foolish. Nothing checks

Their changeable opinions

Except the call of sex.

Regardless what they think

Of my poesy and me,

I still write in Denny's

And get my coffee free.

I'm always making jokes,

The only fool in town,

A small unshaven ass,

A little aging clown.

12-19-13