Pilegard And The Killers In Mooney Grove

Pilegard and The Killers In Mooney Grove

There's boating in the grove.

There are cats and kittens too

That all the children love -

Feral, not a zoo.

Pilegard's averse

To any life so free.

The vets who have a purse

To end this killing spree

Will fix and mark each cat

Then let the creatures go.

As though he were a rat,

Pilegard says, “No!”

Each doctor is a hero.

To leave a cat alive

Costs the county zero.

Death: One hundred eighty-five

To give a life release

That isn't his to take,

He even shoots the geese

That swim across the lake.

12-8-13

Morning Song

I love you now and I always will.

I just woke up. It's morning.

An editor of a magazine

Said never say forever.

Are feelings as legitimate

When you just wake up

As they are throughout the day

Or when you go to sleep?

12-9-13

 

A Fool In Paradise

They think that I'm a fool

And take advantage of me always.

There's no place in heaven,

None for them, and not for me.

Eden on this earth

Was not disrupted by a snake.

Why demean the snakes?

There are no men in Arcady.

A softly gentle kitten

Who is loveable and tender

To the man who holds him

Is a tiger to a cat.

12-8-13

 

cc&d

Did she feel she had to laugh

When she read my poem

Among the other shit that she was reading?

Someone who takes poesy

As earnestly as sex,

Cares about the things that he is saying?

The others care. They care too much.

Passion's not a poem.

Reduced to definitions,

They think because they feel

They are poets.

Even roaches feel.

12-8-13

While Listening To Rodgers & Hart

Gentle tunes -

A tissue in the wind -

Thoughts benign

No other thoughts rescind -

And pretty words that make affection

Something to desire -

On a hand unclosing -

Not a quenchless fire -

Trickles in a stream

And not the sea -

A human, ancient, false

Astrology -

Made real in poetic

Alchemy -

12-8-13

Unwanted

I write poems no one wants to read.

Bukowski has the edge,

And Ferlinghetti.

When I was young I read Millay,

The Oscar, Brooke and Keats,

And happiness was printed in a book.

Now I don't read anything,

Certainly Bukowski,

An oaf who's toilet backed into his tub.

Music's loud and harsh,

The lyrics ugly without art,

Though everyone who likes the word

Calls himself an artist.

Keats has music in his verse

That made Fitzgerald cry.

If Keats reincarnated

Would someone want to read him?

New Keats. Would someone publish him today?
I am not Keats. And do not want to be.

And William Carlos Williams is not Keats.

Like Jeffers, Merwin, rappers and Bukowski,

Perhaps it's simply that I have no talent.

12-8-13

Picasso

Picasso didn't die

Young and go to heaven,

But he painted pictures

That will last a million years.

The canvases will rot,

The paints and colors spoil,

But plates and reproductions

So long as there's an earth.

But even so,

A million years will end.

12-8-13

Xmas

Once a year they gather toys

To give the little children,

And a pumpkin pie

To feel the poor.

Shelling out the dollars

Shipping gifts across the country

To uncles who reciprocate,

And no one likes a thing.

Then everyone goes home and rests

Forgetting all about it,

Watching on the telly

All the happy things of life.

Merry young folk roll upon

The little cabin floor,

Wishing it would snow

In California.

And everyone feels happy,

Satisfied and good,

Except a couple truants

Outside in the rain.

12-8-13

After Hearing Bukowski Read

The “Fanfare For The Common Man”

Is almost seven minutes long.

That's enough. Bukowski reigns,

Laughs at art and drinks a beer,

Laughs at grammar and his fans

Laugh at grammar too.

Nothing matters to a Yankee,

Nothing worth a damn.

12-7-13