The Racist Game

Lines

I could well be dead before it's morning.

My sister and my niece think I'm a jerk.

I have no friends but you and this computer.

I write poems. Rodgers called it work.

I am old and look it. Do I write

Anything the world will want to read?
If this were 1810 I'd rival Shelley.

But it isn't. Art has gone to seed.

My sister's done me favors. And his mother.

Neither of them does them very nice.

They tell me what to do and how to do it

Shrilly. Taking favors has a price.

Euphony and rhythms are my weakness.

My words do not make music. And the beat

Fluxuates and varies. I don't see it.

They won't recite my poems in the street.

She thought I was a clown. She called me brilliant,

Thinking I'd believe her like an arse.

Tossing little bon bons to the sucker.

A pet lamb in a sentimental farce!

The Racist Game

It's the culture, not the color.

And the ones

Who play the racist game.

That is, you must indulge him,

Never criticize,

Or else he'll loudly holler,

“You're a bigot!”

Verse

I am writing poesy again.

But different. Perhaps farewell to Keats.

An empty head containing only flowers.

Words of flowers do not have a scent.

Pretty phrases take the place of pictures.

Or something evil - like the soul of Man.

That was Freud. I don't think men are wicked.

Perhaps I am naïve – at 67.

I think he doesn't like my poesy.

Anyone who ever did is gone.

Can I write verse or do I just pretend to?
It's in my system bursting to be free.

Pictures, phrases – anything at all.

Pretty rhythms, phrases made in heaven.

Not profound, but pleasant to recite.

I'm gradually changing. Ah but Keats!

I shall incorporate the corpse of verse

From long ago in what I write today.

 

Awakening

I no longer like Victoria.

That hearty laugh. I didn't make a joke.

To appease an old man's sense of humor.

Cognizant the old are soon to croak

Christ it's true! An old man's sense of humor!

I simply am not 20 anymore.

Like the cruel defeat of Don Quixote.

I am nothing but a foolish bore.

Larry

I can't believe that he's as old as I am.

He was crazy 40 years ago.

He walked the sidewalk then

As he does now,

Laughing, talking, fiddling with his fingers.

He never wrote a book.

He never went to college.

He never had a job.

His parents may be dead.

And 40 years ago, I thought I loved him.

 

Age

How sad to be an old man without humor

And like my grandpa sit alone and think,

Always there and always like a comfort.

Then you die. And several people miss you.

But to be an old man with a joke.

People tolerate you with a laugh,

But no one thinks you're funny. You're a nuisance.

Oscar Wilde was dead when he was 50.

Every way you try for an egress,

Like a rat who can't escape the maze.

You wonder – Are my poems as banal?
Death's the end. And age is how you get there.

Before you think it, I will say it for you.

As typical as flowers in the spring,

Age without companions or a friend,

Is a homosexual's obsession.

To think about it only makes you older.

Very often you look back and laugh.

In a diner several time a day,

All you have is waitresses who smile.

 

Families

This amorphous entity I loved -

What is love but something that you feel?

In a soft translation in my mind,

Has become a person. He is real.

With his struggle, horrors and vagaries -

His family I hear about, unknown.

Sufficient to the day – the family -

There's nearly naught remaining of my own.

Someone – family – does you a favor -

While doing they're presumptuous and rude.

Although you would be lost without the favor,

You feel incapable of gratitude.