An Easter Poem

Easter came early this year,

but the narrative’s still the same.

He died for you.

Irony with teeth?

Steadfast declaration?

Moral codebook?

Good story?

Bad joke?

But it’s still the same:

mythological martyrs,

scapegoat saturation,

a willful worship

of pity and prayer,

blame and sacrifice;

So deep and so thorough

that even if you don’t believe,

you still succeed in thinking

that worth is measured

by the inconveniences you bear

and the suffering you endure.

13 Verse Anti-Fantasy

Last night I saw a nun

On highway 61

Shoulda slowed down

But I was on the run

Robbed a bank with my old lover

Tried not to blow the cover

But the teller was my brother

And he called my fucking mother

We had it all worked out

But my brother had his doubts

Started to bloody well pout

Cause he lost what he’s about

He’s been trying to change his ways

But the steady jobs don’t pay

His banking by the day

Was turning him sick and gray

He missed his drugs and money

He missed banging all the honies

His criminal days seemed sunny

And that bank boss, a fucking dummy

So we cooked up a little scheme

The parts of a seamless dream

A lover, a brother, a queen

The supreme criminal team

But my brother’s flagging worries

Put him in a hurry

To call our goddamn mother

And blow the fucking cover

So now I’m on the run

On highway 61

I saw that poor old nun

And out came my loaded gun

I pointed it at the window

And drove by real slow

My maniac obsession

Starting to take hold

Our eyes met for a minute

And I was feeling lit

The looting was a hit

I didn’t want to quit

When she saw that gun

Her face went blank and stunned

She broke out in a run

And nearly spoiled my fun

I could hear the sirens wailing

The cops must have been tailing

My mind was busy railing

A love of money hailing

The plan was quick and dirty

Get rich by the time you’re 30

Live your life on the lamb

And stop giving a fucking damn

A Harbinger of Spring (2 Haikus)

Yank of the rip cord
Lawnmower sirens greeting
Smells of gas, cut grass

OR

Lawnmower sirens
Sweet mix of gas and cut grass
Suburban summer

Oh, Prufrock...

There must be a still point

amongst these turning thoughts,

a time for quiet hands,

and coffee spoons

that defy measurement.

There must be a way to push through

the yellow fog and curling smoke 

that rubs against us

and sleeps within us

like soft animals.

And yes, there will be time

To rip away from that wall,

Remove the pins from your hands,

March through the eyes and voices,

And fully disturb the universe.

Start murdering and creating already.

Bite off matters indefinitely.

After 100 indecisions and revisions

There must surely be a vision

While you eat your toast and tea.

Do moments really need to be forced to crisis?

Is it always this pendulum of presuming and beginning?

Can you not just eat the goddamn peach?

Feel its soft skin against your palm and lips?

Let the sweet juices run sinfully down your chin?

Here, the women do not come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The white, braceleted, bare arms

Are not privy to porcelain and cushions and charms,

But the idle chatter still buzzes about, still swarms.

So, the evening is spread out against the sky

Streets are sprinkled with terraces and doors
Slender arms and smooth fingers trail by 

Let us peacefully stretch out on the floors

Watch greatness flicker and want nothing more.

The Need to Mother

You & I will drink coffee later

And I will listen to you

Lament your sad, sad life

And with every sorry word

A thin wavering wall

Slowly rises between us

And you can hear it rustling

And feel its presence

But the need to mother

Your ugly overgrown pain

Is stronger than any of us.

Prepare for Death

Prepare for death.

Live fully.

Be connected and separate.

Find security and adventure.

Smile for duty and play.

Prepare to die.

Don’t organize desire:

Let it tumble out of your imagination

and shun responsibility and judgement 

and all the other politically correct 

shit you worry about.

Leave yourself vulnerable to wanting and eroticism and failure.

Prepare to face the day 

even though 

there's no dynamo 

in the dark starless morning.

On Melancholy

The gentleness of it sags like thick tires loosely around the neck to make expiration easy.

The weight of it makes laughter erupt in delightful and insane bursts cracking open walls.

The fullness of it makes edges sharper, and music warmer because everyone’s touch is so far away.

The voices of it are soft, subtle, insidious songs that suffuse singularity.

The spirit of it is a dark distillation of breath and breadth, weighing softly on rage and courage.

Lengths of Memory

Bad liars

Rarely travel

Lengths of memory

Truth-tellers

Need not succumb

To death and other things

Big evils

Recall everything,

Smile doubt, and make us need them.

Winter Haiku #2

Tips of winter trees

Softly touch the cloudless sky

Like fanning fingers.

Heaven Goes

Soft moon in the night

Stop whispering to me

I’ve been drunk with you too long

And it’s late.

I need clouds in the sky.

This anesthetized canopy above me won’t do.

I need you.

Soft moon, safe drugs

I’m tiring of your tricks,
Can't take much more of this.

Maverick rebels and honey devils
Your graceless art is gone

I’ve known this all along

But your spirits are so strong.

One breath of you and I’ll be fine

The soft luscious sting of wine

Your neck, chin and jaw line.

If I taste your lips

I’ll need more of this
So much to touch, so much to risk.

Soft evil, generous love
The grace of now, looming above.
Flesh and spirits flirt and flow
Blood and lust in constant throes
A loving stupor we have chose
Because we both know where heaven goes.