Why are so many readers I meet, in need of glasses?

I’ve noticed that all the letters are getting smaller, little by little.

Imperceptibly, until all that is left to do, is to turn on the large

TV and watch the words funeral.

 

Tick Tock

Hear the clock.

Tick Tock

We’re caught.

As time passes us

bye.

My love,  life’s animated lightness.

My heart, a drum

beating out her bold brightness.

What beauty in the brilliant sun!

Or is that beauty in my eye?

Or perhaps somewhere between,

Drifting with indifferent sky.

How sweet the sound of Orpheus’ lyre!

Or is that sweetness in my ear?

Or perhaps somewhere between,

Hidden by the wind unseen.

What evil oozes from the witch!

Or is that evil in my mind?

Or perhaps somewhere between,

Where witch and I are of the same kind.

From where comes the essence of anything?

Does it come from the self as the doctors say?

Does it come from the thing as the natives pray?

From where comes the essence of anything?

“the true perfection of man lies not in what man has but what man is.”

– Oscar Wilde

 

Now that the cold war is over

we can all pay more attention

to more pressing matters than

who is or isn’t free

or

who can or can’t say

what they want.

The question now is not

to be or not to be?

but rather

to have or how can I get one?

The world over soon to be lit

by Bic lighters held high

over temples that ache hard

over the hopes of having.

I have heard the Hungarians

are starting to hold back on the paprika

so their goulash will satisfy

the Italian intellectuals who visit Vaci street

in hopes of illuminating their lira.

A good friend in Moscow

swears that soon Bono will play the Bolshoi

but is very disquieted by the fact

one can no longer be sure

the vodka does not come watered down.

Why, it is even said the Chinese

once the most puritan of peoples,

are now drunk on the scent of Chanel

and pay huge fees to always lunching lawyers

who are ready to doctor their parent’s wills

so they can put good caviar on the table

and drink coke, “the real thing”

until their teeth drop out.

I’ve just read a brief news item that states

somewhere in the far reaches of Botswana

children’s lips are first sprouting the words

“Xbox”

and the parents rather than being mortified

point to their offspring’s early sophistication.

Generalissimos the world over now swear

given the new climate of good will and good shopping

they will lay down their arms if only,

they get a nuclear warhead for Christmas.

There is nothing to fear except fear itself,

they sing fearlessly, of course!

Yes, this world is filling with the bountiful rush

of those in search of some thing — any “thing”.

My kingdom for a pair of Calvin Kleins!

(I’ve even heard Gaddafi wears them,

they are the only thing that can take the heat and

half way hold up his Arab manhood.)

There is a rumor that even on the sane streets of Kabul

a one legged Kazak sells fake Rolexs

shaking a can of emptied artillery shells

to attract his most loyal clientele.

Ah! Who am I to pretend to be a saint.

I too confess, I too have measured my driveway to see

how many cars it might hold

have bought pants whose label was outside

have cursed the fact that I had to use 1 ply toilet paper

have thought about not writing any more poetry and

making some “hard” cash.

But even if I were a saint, I’m sure I’d think up

some quaint rationalization like good old St. Augustine,

“Love and do what one will.” or something similar.

I’m told by my protestant friend that even the pope

(and he assures me this is true, he bears no bias)

puffs pontifically every now and then on a Marlboro

and

the world still goes ’round, hasn’t gone up in smoke.

All I can say is thank god everyone still has to

eat, shit and breathe

and some days read a few poems like this one,

to keep the cold away

now that the cold war is over.

 

A woman weeping

like the slow death of a bull

Pablo Picasso.

 

(Or, why she walks so gracefully)

                     Fin ESSE

 

I have just lit my last cigarette.

A last mouthful of cold coffee sits in the cup.

It is snowing ice.

Grey dust seeps through my cracked windows.

I have two choices for dinner: cheap vodka or nothing.

…….

My love a light swan

flew south with my last

stale bread crusts in her beautiful beak

(I haven’t written a poem in a week).

……..

The bed next door creaks a last

sad song of neighborly passion

(Love is so unequally rationed.)

……….

Trains rumble by outside to

imaginary Auschwitzes,

shaking me out of dreams

(I hear the crosses scream).

…………

The church across the street

fills this Sunday

with hunched over creatures

tired from the morning’s marketing

(the sky is slowly darkening).

………….

Alone, even death refuses

to greet me, to come down

from the hills where it

waits among the well spaced pines.

…………..

Empty at last, I wait.

One thing is sure — the show goes on.

My responsibility?

To last, to get the work done.

………..

I put out my cigarette and pick up my last dry pen.

Now, it is time to think.

Poetry hidden, is what lasts  — life insurance.

All genius genetic, a question of endurance.

 

From those few drops of sperm

and that two bodied squirm

From that high rise of flesh

and lust that septic worm,

To the slow rot of metamorphosing skin

and the dull burn of past sin

To this erect man, a rising sun

and the sapient vision held within.

 

Always, always,

chains will bind us in our cells.

Biology has us in her strong hands,

giant test tubes shaking up

the virile mix of this steady universe

as we father,

try to climb above her double helix

into the soft arms of a mother

we know not.

 

Happiness? What’s that?

A full stomach. A short memory.

Two coins jingling a song in the pocket.

Yeah, that’s it.

Happiness not the thing but

EXPECTING

not the finger but the ring

the living not here but there

POSTPONING

reality always disappointing the nervy hare.

…….

Who wants that any “way”?

Let me sleep in this hay

smelling death, where I lay.

Here I do, get things done

living as living comes.

Slow, I capture reality.

………

Happiness that shiny bead

not for me.

I prefer to do  — unnoticed lead

not content with content

but to be what’s meant

even if that not be

a full stomach, coins jingalingaling.