Oh he’s had a few

but still

he watches

like a cat

the bird

out of reach,

her farm girl beauty

bouncing behind the bar,

beyond belief.

 

“You gotta admit she’s got it”

he purrs

to anyone on the next stool

then, putting his dry lips together

he puckers a quiet,

“God damn it!”,

and orders another beer.

 

She brings the beer

then returns to

chat and chirp

with the other wonder lost

women at the other end

of the bar.

 

He shakes his head

and wonders how

to catch her gaze,

bring her down to earth

his grave.

 

“Tomorrow, tomorrow”,

he mutters,

then orders another beer.

 

Ted Gacy across the street

has dug up his backyard

and is holding a coming out party

as soon as the smell lessens.

He’s exhibiting downtown next week.

 

John Done, the alcoholic

on the cardboard, on the corner

sold his bottle collection

just before the crash

and now sells juicers

on the info-channel.

 

J.C. Pennyless has

moved to Europe and become

a money changer

after having a miraculous conception

while converting

funds for the church

of some later day saint.

 

Molly, the prostitute

finally got an agent

and sits at home

knitting, doing needle work

waiting for the call to come.

 

Mr. Johnston, the phys. ed. teacher

at the school on High street

is sitting outside, right arm raised

prepping for his next lesson

on condom etiquette and control

as a means of keeping the kids

physically active.

 

Mum and Pop have

franchised

and now walk their lap dog

around and around the park in their

customized, motorized, all weatherized

wheelchairs.

 

My mother has just won

the Publisher’s Weekly Sweepstakes

and is busy telling me about

her plans to option the house

and make a run on the orange juice market.

 

Teresa my teenaged daughter

counts the days to business school

convicted, she stumbles through the streets

on 8 inch platforms hoping

her beeper will ring in public.

 

Mr. Rogers?

He has opened a modelling agency

and is giving speech therapy to

inner city kids on the side.

His new line of clothes comes out next week.

 

And me?

Like any poet not worth his salt

I’m schleping off all my friends

spending my days picking

between my crusty toes.

I’m buying up all my friend’s

tattered paperbacks and waiting for

all the computers to crash.

Then I’ll have a word or truth to write.

 

The heart can beat only so fast …………

 

“May I, emerging at last from this terrible insight
Burst into jubilant praise to assenting angels”

– Rilke

 

It is strange
but
I am happy.

Millions are dying of hunger.
Children with chopped off limbs
walk towards candy stores
in their dreams.

Fast cars roar off to nowhere.
Burn patients sit softly on white sheets.
People are jumping off buildings.
Buildings are falling down.

A millionaire counts his pennies
pulled from a cookie jar.
The sun is burning and mice
are getting caught everyday
in better built mousetraps.

Lungs fill up with the waste of man’s ingenuity.
Whales cough blood in
the black of a cesspool sea.
Guns grow like geraniums
picked up and given in the name
of freedom rather than death.

My parents, your parents.
My son, your daughter.
The bright eyed boy across the street.
We are all going to die.

 

Funny.
I am happy.
Perhaps it is because

I am here.

 

I am poor as a light wind.
My teeth are falling out
like the unseen leaves do
each fall in valleys undiscovered.

I have no home.
Even the rats
no longer come with
their day glow eyes
to wait for my last crumbs.

I know nothing.
The whole world
shifts under me when I
walk in search of work
a way out
of the misery that isn’t
my making.

Hospitals refuse to admit me
so diseased I am.

My last love left with
the man I used to be.
I don’t even remember anymore
what I am doing here.

But in all that
because of all that
I am happy holding
the emptiness
of my wine bottle.