Tuesday, July 15, 2014

A Conversation Between My Sisters


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,
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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