Like Wilde

Sad Rain

Sad rain, wash away the sea.

Leave the night to madness,

Emptiness, loneliness and me.

Two years ago (they're dated)

I did write poetry.

It went to prose and rhythm.

But never was I free.

As I read the verse, I thought that I

Will try to grasp again (the gravid sky)

A melody, a picture and a phrase

To give some value to my latter days,

The fact that I am here, and didn't die.

I honor other poets, but I see

The one that I shall imitate is me.

4-7-14

 

My Aunt Mary

My aunt wrote something.

I don't know

What it was.

And her brother burned it

In the very flame I hope's

Consuming him today.

I cried, “You can't destroy it!”
“It's none of your concern!”
My aunt was very crazy.

She was fond of me.

I was fond of her.

And both of us were crazy.

I went to see her frequently.

I didn't know she wrote.

Her autocratic brother,

Christian homosexual

And homophobic prig,

Made absolutely certain

No one else would know it either.

She's irrevocably dead.

10-25-11

 

Why Beauty?

Why should poems be beautiful?

Keats had said it's so.

I didn't think of beautiful

Some 50 years ago.

Rhythm, rhyme and phrases,

Sensations, feelings too

Stirred gently in a cauldron

Often come out true.

I didn't aim for beauty,

I didn't think of truth

When I tried for poesy

Somewhere in my youth.

But what's the best ambition?
Simply to have fun?

Or crouch atop a building

With a newly purchased gun?

4-7-14

The Purple

Dylan! Sondheim! Born to royalty,

In age reduced to very common men.

Humility will overcome the kings

When they lie in state. Though now they preen.

Bob and Charlie. Masters of the art

Who never left the castles they were born in.

There they dwell with others of their ilk

And pedigrees. They do not sting each other.

4-7-14

 

Reading The News Again

How many of two millions (this is sport,

Playing Democrat) did he deport?

Men without a crime. Another trauma

For the harbor lady standing taller

Than the president without a pallor.

Our Hero. Every speech the people cheer.

Those idiots aren't possibly sincere!

Nothing changes but the Hero's name

And color. Every president's the same.

Some happy dissidence can be expected,

So the First Amendment seems respected.

4-7-14

The Homeless

Everywhere I see them,

Like flies on window glass

In the afternoon.

Hirsute, young and old.

The fall of a civilization

Made by Man for Man?

Stolen grocery carts,

Cans and bags and blankets

Mingle with the crowds.

No one seems to notice,

Much less care.

The death of art and talent?

The mindless seem to like

The violence

And ersatz savoir faire.

4-8-14

 

Like Wilde

Purple patches years ago,

Harbinger of madness -

Here and now, tonight,

Little droplets, bursts of light.

Weary brain beware.

Why be wary now?

Anywhere to go?

No exit anyhow.

4-8-14

After Reading In An Old Book

Verismo

A vulgar situation

Makes a Post-Romantic poem.

Verses left me long ago.

I'm writing verses now.

Byron was aesthetic,

Even more unreal than Keats.

Shelly praises music,

And Millay went down at sea.

Tell me where's the poet

Who can stir a turbid soul

And satisfy his intellect

While altogether real?

Reality was never a good

Subject for a song,

But isolated aspects.

Overwhelming it is death.

People are ridiculous.

Dishonesty prevails.

America's the cutest little

Country in the world.

4-5-14

 

Music

I'm listening to music,

Rachmaninov again,

Not the noisy madness

Of contemporary din.

Earphones firmly on -

That's how I compete -

Prokofiev's concertos

For piano – wild and sweet!

There's no where I can go -

There's nothing I can do -

To escape this hateful country

That Jesus gave to you.

It wasn't to the immigrant -

It wasn't to the black -

It wasn't to the Mexican -

Though all of them fight back -

4-5-14

 

On Byron

Artificial sentiments -

Artificial love -

All said in perfect meter -

With rarely metaphors -

Keats declared of Byron,

He writes what he can see,

And just what he imagines

He mentioned of himself.

4-5-14

 

Alone

With him asleep, music on,

Seven hours until dawn,

I feel sweet, and content,

Completing what I never meant

To do at all when I was young -

Write some poems sweetly sung -

Have them published, change my name,

Acquire a modicum of fame -

To sing my soul like a frog

To a fickle fetid bog -

People look from far away

Like something that intends to stay.

I am gay. What of that?

You are bald. Your wife is fat.

I am in a peaceful daze.

Let the public sing my praise.

Let them say my verse is rife

With the beauty that is life.

I am weary. Will again

Poesy come from my pen?
Or just drivel from a hack?
Millay and Keats will not come back.

4-5-14

 

Janus

I read a book of poems that I wrote

A year ago. The vessel wouldn't float.

Flat like Sondheim, fallen like a star,

I saw my poems for the dross they are.

50 years I wasted in a dream,

A delusion, thinking piss was cream.

I've been told my poesy is great.

I've been told it's terrible. My fate

Is to stand forever by the sea

Making wishes for eternity.

I surrendered finally. And then

I went back and read some poems again.

The truth was gone. The dream was back in place.

Once more the songs seemed charming. I'm a case.

4-6-14

 

Quandary

Am I just a paranoid

Who hasn't any talent?

They told me I am gifted.

They said I am a sap.

I wrote a lot of poems,

Some 97 books,

Not counting those unpublished,

And those I threw away.

She took away her flattery

And drove me from her door.

I don't know why she gave it.

I don't know why it's gone.

I don't know how to live.

I don't like

Liars keeping secrets.

Sondheim is so asinine

I think we are alike.

4-6-14

 

A Sad Song

I've written all the poems

I shall ever write.

The afternoon is moving

To eternal night.

Perhaps there is a future

Passed senility and death.

Is sex the only lover?

And tender taken breath?

Death and reproduction -

Is there nothing more than this?

Are poetry and music

Just a substitute for bliss?

4-6-14

 

After Reading In An Old Book

In youth I was despised

And considered scum.

Now I'm writing poems.

So where do they come from?

Music blinds my senses

To grim reality,

The incandescent star

Of ancient poetry.

Meter, rhythm, rhyme,

Images and phrases

Create a world of hope

That once again amazes.

I looked into a book

Of poems. It is so.

I see I could write poesy

A couple years ago.

Forgetting their opinions,

Though some of them are right,

I have a single candle

To drive away the night.

3-7-14

 

Sad Rain

Sad rain, wash away the sea.

Leave the night to madness,

Emptiness, loneliness and me.

Two years ago (they're dated)

I did write poetry.

It went to prose and rhythm.

But never was I free.

As I read the verse, I thought that I

Will try to grasp again (the gravid sky)

A melody, a picture and a phrase

To give some value to my latter days,

The fact that I am here, and didn't die.

I honor other poets, but I see

The one that I shall imitate is me.

4-7-14

Dreamt Last Night

Victoria

Bad men write good novels,

But Victoria does not.

With a streak of pettiness

She sketches out a plot.

Although she confuses

Infamy with fame,

She pimps her bossy butt off

To do something with her name.

She claims with casual conceit

To “scribble poetry”.

She got rid of Jill,

And Jill got rid of me.

Her books are trash. Her poetry

I will have to say

Is really almost just as good

As what they write today.

4-5-14

Dreamt Last Night

Divvy up the metal.

Throw away the tin.

If this is the ending,

Where did I begin?

I dreamed that little stanza,

Then gratefully awoke

And wrote it down as simply

As if it had been spoke.

It's not especially pretty,

With artificial scenes.

I can't even tell you

Exactly what it means.

4-5-14

 

A Dream Poem

Nights full of dreams

And heady sleep -

As they're enchanted

So let them be deep.

A beautiful fragment -

I kept it though

It's bound to a structure

I found in Poe.

A tidy idea

The dreamer unkempt

Fished from the ocean

Of sleep, and dreamt.

Oft through the darkness

Where phantoms creep,

The loveliest poems

Are born asleep.

4-5-14

 

Grandma

Grandma, that passive-

Aggressive old bat!

Supposing she hadn't

Collapsed in her flat.

She might have lived

To a hundred and eight

With only the tube

And its soaps for a mate.

They thought her naïve.

She knew perfectly well

What people do

For a sojourn in hell.

4-5-14

Grandma

Born with a silver spoon in her mouth,

She bit the handle off,

From Kentucky, very south,

Reared aloof to scoff.

Very fat and very vain,

She died at 96.

A spectrum of bigotry and disdain

Crossed the River Styx.

5-30-13

Chapter 13

Dave

I was breathing water.

You didn't throw a raft.

I was near hysteria.

You sat there and laughed.

That is what a counselor

Thinks about the daft.

Gone once is gone forever.

Shut the window. There's a draft.

9-12-12

 

The Gift

For 16 years I thought, I hoped,

At least perhaps it seemed

Frequently he liked me.

So much for what I dreamed.

The one of all I knew with whom

I wanted to succeed.

Shattering the wall of ice,

I slipped on shards once freed.

Now I know what others felt

Through years, but one I knew

When we were both but children,

And laughed to be but two.

His nature gave him every year

Someone to prefer,

And his smile and memory

He gave away to her.

The sun is very hot today.

The sky is very black.

I gave away my love.

I never got it back.

4-4-14

Conversations

I am tired of Denny's.

This headache's getting worse.

I am tired of everything,

Even writing verse.

I hear the Christians chatter

Using up the air in breath,

Planning Wednesday's meeting.

They never mention death.

While the youth with rap and guns

And golf tees through their ears

Talk of almost nothing else,

Their living in arrears.

4-4-14

 

No Problem

They told me I am wicked.

I don't know what they thought.

Perhaps by tempting women

For whom I am not hot.

And believe me I am utterly

And absolutely not.

There's something in my nature

(I only just suppose)

That attracts the pushy nympho

And keeps her in her clothes.
Women who control

And dominate their beaus.

4-5-14

Tomes

Another book of Byron.

Then I shall have three.

The narratives are boring.

The lyrics sing to me.

Perfect, sweet and artificial,

Each a lovely little gem

Of warm Romantic honesty,

Glut me now with them.

But Byron wrote so little

When every hefty tome

Only stokes my interest.

Which brings the matter home.

I've written many books -

93 I think -

And constantly I'm writing.

Will this cargo sink?

Aiken wrote a lot

I will not battle through.

If my verse is good,

Not enough will do.

4-5-14

 

Chapter 13

Debt free. I screwed them all.

Swimming on the air.

Underneath the surface

That I am wrong is there.

To live is too expensive,

I can no longer care.

I was on the bottom,

In my fist a penny.

I was seeing problems

Where there wasn't any.

I'm doing it. I'm doing it.

Selfish, wrong and rash.

And after it is over,

I'll have to live on cash.

I cannot buy a car.

And when our own stops running,

What will we do then?

Just contemplate my cunning.

I may be immortal

Vicarious through fame,

But egregious infidelity

Will cost me my good name.

And if I lose the case -

Suppose that's what befalls -

I'll still ignore the creditors -

And their angry calls.

4-5-14

Needs

I say “need” as easily

As any other man.

Alien discomfort,

I love him as I can.

America!

The land of wealth and fun!

Yanks get off on family,

Lust to own a gun,

Cum all over god and church,

Their lifetime in the sun.

I am not a bigot.

But I haven't met

Except in Alameda

A decent black as yet.

I'm sure they're out there breathing,

Sensible and kind.
This modern situation

Has me in a double-bind.

The other dose of prejudice

That stirs the country's ire

Is the homosexual.

Jesus stokes the fire.

The ones that I have loved

(So long ago it aches)

Were simply gentle people,

Giving what it takes.

All the rest with venom

In bars and baths were snakes,

Haughty, thin and vicious

To darkling baffled flakes.

4-5-14

 

Victoria

Bad men write good novels,

But Victoria does not.

With a streak of pettiness

She sketches out a plot.

Although she confuses

Infamy with fame,

She pimps her bossy ass off

To do something with her name.

She claims with casual conceit

To “scribble poetry”.

She got rid of Jill,

And Jill got rid of me.

Her books are trash. Her poetry

I will have to say

Is really almost just as good

As what they write today.

4-5-14

Ect

Ect

The Romantics are affected.

The Victorians are sound

Compared to what's detected

In the heart of Ezra Pound.

A Yankee genuflected

When his poetry was found.

If Keats were resurrected,

He'd crawl back underground.

4-4-14

The Self

Bankruptcy

Poverty destroys the mind,
And lack of food the body.
Love is not enough to give.
And madness is a charm.

A bankruptcy destroys the fiend,
If phantoms really die.
A hundred eighty APR -
Improbable to think.

So payments do not lessen debts,
But just increase the balance.
Desperation and a judge,
With misbegotten hope.

No lover, no support, no friends,
Alone upon the wire,
And strangers do not see it all,
And think the bankrupt loathsome.

To leave it in a lawyer's hands,
And tell all creditors
To call your lawyer in their rage,
And life can sleep again.

A peaceful sleep that makes you cry,
Relief beyond description.
To pay all creditors in time.
You'd rather not pay any.

Creditors have swollen teeth
That peer behind their smiles.
Like Shylock with a pound of flesh
Or Jesus in the temple.

On the street with shopping carts
And digging through the garbage,
Are the crazy and the poor
Who have no creditors.

4-2-14

The Self


Small and miniscule, the self
Squeaking imperceptibly,
Escaped, a soul,
Ran out his open mouth
While he lay dying on the floor.
Crippled, hairless, like a mouse
It ran across the floor and died.
But no!  The self can never die,
But only shrivel, like a fist,
An unaggressive fantasy,
And dwell until the mind is gone.


4-2-14

Three Limericks

A Few Rhymes


I think I'm going crazy.
Will I be there by dawn?
And time continues
Unimpeded on.


When I began to hate her -
Memory recalls -
She turned and kicked me
Squarely in the b---s.


She said a single line
Was genius.  And I thought
She meant the poem totally.
She told me, she did NOT!


Why does so much poesy
Come from this field of chalk?
Is it just because
I like to talk?


I walk a careful line.
Be sure that she will stay.
If she leaves he'll hate me.
I can't go on this way.


Once I lived alone,
My head beneath the sand.
She's dealing from the bottom.
This game that they have planned
Is close and underhand.


An imbecilic fool
I think they think of me.
When I am gone it's over.
And I can hear the sea.


3-30-14

A Fragment


Return, my soul,
To the status quo,
Familiarity.
I've written poems next to all
The night,
And now it's morning.
Such an undertaking seldom
Yields a pretty poem.


3-30-14
They Call It America


I get enough for one
But not enough for two.
What he gets
Is not enough for any.


Republicans in congress
Make it absolutely clear -
The feeble, sick and old
Will never prosper.


America.  God bless it.
So they sing when they're at war.
And burn a cross.
And smile when fagots die.


Anyone with feelings
Is a cynic when he's 10.
Or born with an
Indifference to truth.


3-30-14


Three Limericks


Two arrogant dykes in a booth
Were wasting what's left of their youth.
The waitress was sweet
But she couldn't compete
With their hostile conception of truth.



I never smile back at a clerk
Who loves me as part of her work.
I think she's absurd
So I don't say a word.
She's phony.  And I am a jerk.


A bankruptcy.  I am remiss.
Freedom from penury!  Bliss! 
But what if I fail
Or wind up in jail?
And can I afford even this?


4-1-14