Reasons
I am not a Freudian.
I do not believe
That everything I do is for a reason.
Well, reason. Yes.
Perhaps a synapse farted.
But not because my mother died
A week ago on Sunday.
The Moon
He seems to want to live
On the dark side of the moon.
He seems to love the sinister,
The wicked and the evil.
Though he's been robbed and beaten
By the bad.
That seems to be the venue
Of his mind.
But are the bad contented?
Would they rather they were good?
All of them were babies,
Would they rather they were good?
All of them were babies,
And every baby cries.
Not good, but simply decent
On the light side of the moon.
Salubrious, Endymion.
Life is very short,
Why spend it in an effort
To be dead?
Remembering The Ocean
Tormented. And so young. The waves
are breaking.
Ride the surf and glide across the
sand.
Let the froth behind you splash like
wings
Of a hundred angels in the air.
See the sky. The sky is like the sea,
But far more blue. And clouds like
pristine snow
Float at ease across a canvas painted
Only with the color of the sky.
The day is warm. The sandy shore is
drifting
In a breeze that blows across the
dunes.
No people there. The world is almost
empty.
Except for sand and waves and quiet
noise.
The Man Who Did Good
There was a man who did good
things.
Not even strangers were
exempt
From his good natured love.
He was beaten. What he
owned
Was damaged or else stolen.
Everybody touched his heart.
But only god or Jesus
Was ever touched by him.
Like Noah,
Though it was an ark for
one.
They drowned in laughter and
the sea.
Evil kept them floating
Until they sank in
self-contented love.
They were ugly.
Jesus was ashamed.
The rain did not evaporate.
The oceans stayed forever.
In heaven he met someone who
Like him was love itself.
And he at last was happy.
And on the earth below him,
The only one he hadn't loved
Was the one who loved him.
Of course this is a myth.
Though he is real.
A Conversation Between My
Sisters
She's nothing but a brainless Christian
bigot!
No gays, no blacks, no Mexicans –
just her!
Even now I can't recall her face.
Her daddy and her sister are a blur.
My poesy is just a waste of time -
But if it makes him happy, let him do
it.
Tell the fool I really bought his book.
And if he asks, I've almost gotten
through it.
He's so afraid of doing something wrong
-
Crap on him and watch him lick it off -
We destroyed our kids – like mom and
dad did -
Look! We've got him eating from a
trough.
A bitch out in New Jersey praised his
poems -
Got tired of him, or else somehow he
blew it.
He ceased to send her letters. That's
not strange.
The strange thing is he took so long to
do it.
His feelings and opinions – well, he
knows them -
But he'll never speak – he's getting
old -
Give him just an ounce of simple
courage,
He'd boot our butts right out into the
cold!
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