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Drown Yourself in Garcia Lorca
And lament Times Square squares
Who hide certain Declivities of tasseled penises
Behind windows in Westchester and dream
Of Todd Oldham, like tazzeled cigars for the smoke of:--What vision?
You could ask Garcia--the humdrum is not to be hated!
How much Invention has calmed our generation generation
Screens have circumnavigated like Shoji over round
Hot hots filled with bubble Laughter
We kiss our tasseled penises
--Our second guesses, our Benedrine and feces handed down as heirlooms,
Smoking shoji belonging to the Multitude who blamed God for Todd Oldham.
Henri
Bubba dragged us all
out of the party
because a busboy
had boogied your girl
what was he thinking
he was trying to
save us from ourselves
and he loved you as
a little brother
but you loved yourself
as a complica
tion how could you know
he wanted to roll
your life into what
gender or sex would
not allow it's not
as though you've lost touch
as though Bubba was
wrong about dances
that won't dignify
our ears mouths or songs
Lichen
what did I expect that he would somehow
become sane who has never been so self
indulgent he can't talk forever but
an hour for his Doc is forever
so she heads him out the door and wishes
him Luck and makes sure the script from her hand
stays in his:-- handed like an ape all thumbs
he is until he's had his daily dose
then off to the Infinite Mushroom Hoi
Polloi Wigwam so ho ho ho on Pax
Jax attacks Pro Sacks zoloft ritalin
or elavil but not quite quite for his
friends who need some respite from his sudden
blank gaze and reptile wit and after glaze
Serzone in his eyes tiny pupils:-- I
guess I can't remember what color size
--:all in all too big for him zinnias
would cry roses would drip he would whip him
self alive until dose time elapsed to
Tip Him Over And Pour Him Out this whom
life has threaded up and sewn completely
crazy:-- people I have known and never
considered him one of their Company
--:how many nuts can One know and not real
eyes that the bark rubs off the lumber hits
the saw:-- O have I felt them coming close
too close too close I could fold up like card
tables or pup tents and pull my legs stakes
posts or put my cards away in a wood
box like our church librarian who planned
to live a few years then not:-- O have I
removed myself from them waited for them
to unlimb and to branch off like live oaks
in a hurricane their leaves shed over
the lawn like Coins on a green glass table
--:but their brains infect mine and starched Collars
scratch my face when I hug them I hug him
--:he sees them crawling toward him Night after
Night his Spiders wild crying relentlessly
like him they sink beneath a woolen sky
that precipice he hadn't the courage
to belay but neither could I:-- Who makes
the obstacle course us who sets the jail
door or garden gate to enclose:-- we bloom
like lichen set to Black Rock enamored
of damp we'd as soon harden to but can't
Scarecrow
Friends are following me around because
I forget to write to them, forget their
birthdays, ages, their saints and children's names
--they're checking my references, thumbing
through my Rolodex, interrupting my
CV, my dreams. My friends think my home is
cozy until their extended families
all drop in,-- then the hearth's too small to hold
hands, the ceiling's too low to their helmets,
and the table's too wiggly for wrestling.
"How can we give thanks?" they cry. Their luggage
fills my attic, and their trucks fill my yard.
They're sleeping on my bidets and screwing
on the porch and leaking out my windows
and swimming in my sweat:-- one friend takes pot
shots from the roof that dimples from his piss.
When I'm at work, they give my dog a trip
to the pound, my wife a ticket to She
boygan. "Give me back," I say, "Give me back."
"Where were you when we needed you?" they scream
and pole me upright in their Victory
Garden, let the straw spill from my nostrils.
They go, "How's it going?" and, before I
can turn, they turn their backs like all other
backs strolling down my street. I shout, "How do
you do." But they set their heads against me.
Bacchus
Yes, I always dreamed I'd retire from cares
like that little fat Bacchus in Fantasia
who lounges around, munches grapes, chases
beauties, fattens himself on chicken breasts,
licks his fingers after crunching the wings.
Instead, this damn nurse has squashed Bacchus'
guts and fried his liver with her ultra
sound:-- and now his hands have this chicken skin
he used to fiddle with when visiting
Granny,-- not daring to stare at his mom
and dad's hands--he's reached an age where hands
scar and blemish too easily:-- so sad
and stretched, as though he were some tablecloth
for God's midnight snack, or a vinyl cover
for the devil's picnic table. And what
is he to make of this?-- His daughter's new,
inflatable, Xmas candle attacked
him! What will she make of this? "Not sleepy!"
Here's Bacchus grabbing at a candle that
floats away from him:-- "Your candle's sleepy!"
Valediction
Protect me from my good intents, my Dear,
so that I might leave our world's pieces pleased
I didn't try to bind jagged bits to bits,
or add the parts and find the sums unfit.
Detect for me the shortest path, old Son,
so I will arrive with a steady rod,
an unshaken cap, and a creased trouser
seam because those who expect me, defer
to those with ultra looks and hardy step.
Respect me where I end up, my Baby,
so I can raise my chin above the worms.
Inspect my cuffs, straighten my tie, and pep
the crowd, dear Chum, so I go down grandly
this way, burying my hole among Norms.
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