Nights in the gardens of Spain; I was falling in love with you. In Madrid you drove me wild with fluent
Spanish in the throws of the sheets. I threw that glass of wine at you in Paris and broke the mirror to the armoire. We
both laughed. We had that habit of throwing things. We were passionate. In London we saw Hermione Gingold in “A
Little Night Music”.
I would have
you know How I would have you go White upon the screen; Void as an untouched canvass, Left leaning against the
wall.
When a union of want and desire Are tripped by a middleman, A theft not a service ensues. I would have
you know How I would have you go Quickly on your way Off the mother ship’s screen.
Here me now, You have
no right to my name, Or any a pseudo name- Any of my art, so little wanting fame, That you would indirectly Circumvent
to claim. Here me now, I lay copyright to it all- No matter the path you invent To benefit from this sweated brow!
Who struck you skidding ill humor with
a last laugh in the rear view mirror offering not even one rain-soaked tear?
Do their elfin black eyes peer from
the safe-harbored, nervous grass? It pains me, this wriggled pass. The traffic tarries and goes askew wobbling worrisome
at you. . Why do we brake to care so, while others typify speed sports to go invisibly wet-patching from this
crosswalk on wheels fast searching slower stalk?
Each day falls, a red maple leaf, spinning down in the mythical
belief that the privilege of innocence must be attended, allowed due course before in its turn it withers dead.
Oh for pity
sake, When will we see some leadership? It’s such a familiar ruse played out So often on the rungs of history.
Contrived
infractions of a weaker state, Met on land, sea, and air by a pompous perpetrator. Is the Fuhrer laughing? Does Stalin
think it novel? The media Tsar has made a move on the oily chessboard. Our Beloved Leader slips and slides, Forever
a pawn- Never a knight!
Who struck you skidding
ill humor with a last laugh in the rear view mirror offering not even one rain-soaked tear? Do their elfin black
eyes peer from the safe-harbored, nervous grass? It pains me, this wriggled pass. The traffic tarries and goes askew wobbling
worrisome at you. . Why do we brake to care so, while others typify speed sports to go invisibly wet-patching
from this crosswalk on wheels fast searching slower stalk?
Each day falls, a red maple leaf, spinning down in
the mythical belief that the privilege of innocence must be attended, allowed due course before in its turn it withers
dead.
What is it you want from
me? Can’t you see this is virgin territory? I never thought to reach for centenarian struggling not to go out a damnable
burden.
Stop pushing your pills at me! It’s disorienting enough, thank you. Give me one more form to fill out, and
I’ll resurrect the ghost of my father complete with his social security number!
Stop hurrying to replace my body
parts- I’ve no inclination to be a titanium robot; hurriedly pushed to boost the earnings report of a company’s
stock, I’ve never heard of.
Cut me some slack, while I sit down. I’m tired of shuttling from jamboree to jamboree. I
don’t mind babysitting once in awhile but I’d hate to be remembered as just another nanny. Grant me timeouts in overtime
for cuddly huddles.
And why doesn’t anybody listen to me? Why don’t you weigh my opinion? I’m tired of retakes
of my mistakes, encores by you of me to witness yet again.
the trusted lad fell off. The
young have too little solicitude for sober bidding.
It drifted white to the top making an easy and quiet footfall
up and over the wall of Deerfield’s stockade.
The boy must have gone first; paid treason’s price for disregard, as
Jean Baptiste Hertel de Rouville and his native cohorts sliced and diced the men, women, and petite children of Deerfield
though the cold February night.
The hundred or so who survived would be widdled walked down more on the three
hundred mile trek to Quebec. Queen Anne’s subjects were held inside out.
Spring? Is it spring again, So
soon? The seasons fly. I can not feign Some fainthearted interest.
These breaking buds Belie your mourning. Make
no move to Stir the mulch That mothers me with a warmer warmth than the ever absent sun.
Let the rain
rein Above it all. Let me linger in this middling realm ‘neath This newly chiseled monument Of marble so white
and cold. What need have I for rising From another winter’s rest? None!
If just this one promise met, with its expectations,
blossoms. If these tests you sanction, today, bear fruit to half their hope, your name will be honored for all
time to come. You will be dubbed, ‘Doctor’.
Swiftly your beacon-hand moves confidently across the recto, too
long unattended. Praise day, that your script stems age old crippling and disease. Succeed or not you shine that
torch on risk again, an aging beacon’s symbol.
Pull aside the curtains. Beware of walls. Open wide the cell doors
and let us breathe free again. Flip open the registrars, shut for fear and let them in. Fill the pot to the brim.
You Irreverent Little
Queer [ Dedicated to Harvey Milk and Sean Penn ]
You irreverent little queer; So near to the line, Always
testing boundaries, Stepping on toes.
Who knows what motivates Your mouthed views, Bent and unsacred Psalms
echoing from atop A Castro soapbox, Preludes to another march To and up the marble steps Of the Temple in Hilly
San Frisco.
You rarely lie, And are seldom believed; Too near the mark, A black sheep, Never dipped, Yearly
sheered. Just you wait, You irreverent little queer!
Winking doll, So lickerish and ticklish, You shock
and stir Disapprovals, Leavened with slurs, So loud it’s got ‘a hurt. Good!
Sundry laws spew From the
divers camps Of kings and bishops Concerning you. States legislate Words white on dark slate To silence you.
Cement
your diseased orifices And here’s another in lead- You irreverent little queer, With your reminders of Things
better forgot; Gardens of good and evil.
Jesus hangs From recycled crosses, Among the markdowns In the
sanctified aisles Of a mighty nation’s Many splendid Walmarts- Misgotten and easily forgotten Are the pink stars Ploughed
under in graves Unhonored and unmarked. Die Faggot, die! Anita loves you!
And there’s the straight shooter Out
in five and Self-done in two. That’s your doing, too. Serve but don’t you tell- You irreverent little queer! Just
disappear, just disappear!
"Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.” - Alexander the Great
"I am for those
who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men, I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers."
– Walt Whitman
Like a Pendulum it Swings Back
The death of
this enemy brings no solace. Like a pendulum it swings back, homing into the eye plucking it with the consequence
of words and deeds of those clockwork oranges marking time to self fulfilled prophecies.
The clock face has
hands enough to pace polarities. The politics of Zionists free and unadorned of patches, yet bejeweled within the grip
of a crescent moon, that harries a starry pentagon, ally themselves to an amnesic. Downing down a street; their echoing
words penetrate chambers’ walls to proselytize and portend further strife.
They can
not agree to disagree amiably. Resentments weigh their words down. They digest the voices personally, Readjust and
circle round. Like vultures spying a last gasp. Rationalizations abound, Spewing up hurt-meant incivilities; Spite
waiting in the wings. You can not appease them. You’d prefer to leave them. But you must face arrows And die the
die of Saint Sebastian, The patron saint of old. They whittle home made arrows. They got family values!
Silence
is feigned, a shirked sound- Innocence in the Senate But insult in the Forum. Too ingenuous to venture far, They
foist so many words about Behind the curtains, Only to go white on the page When opposites surface To peer at
them from eventide- From divers and sundry, Different sorts of kinships.
They are always there Waiting to
shoot the dove, Taking aim with rusty tenants, Plugged with muggy gunpowder. They down everything around And
they muffle the mourners. These Baptists from Westboro-types. They got family values!
They would protect the
children With Propositions from on high; Pull the love-plugs carefully placed so, from the dikes bravely holding
back an age old flood of urchins reluctantly redeemed to foster and foster and foster in strange and cold abodes
these call homes.
All of this, too often, in the name of His maligned and supposed words, Never uttered but
presumed to be in their graphite, scored bibles. Jesus! They got family values!
All across the land new hearts
burn, In that melting pot that has never been A prescribed and simple recipe Of any set kind of family. The cauldron
is constantly simmering and the taste of the stew changing. These families though are usually Held at arms length
for generations, Until by magical means, the stink gone, Well they, too- They got family values!
