Finally,
we are
all running
figuratively
or
actually.
Figurative mind
flights
of
pain
seducing
sedation,
hallucination
and memory
assassination.
Or actual flight
to far secular
and
holy
pilgrim
destinations
seeking…
Running
running
running
until
Maw
calls
us
home
(ash
dust
and
earth.)
Too often,
I get old
and sad about
life happenings…
but in the next stride…
a new beautiful
morning rises…
and I smile.
Every muscle
taught
straining,
your
eyes
closed,
dancing
swirling
fingers
and
now a
moancrash
crescendo,
another
perfect
symphony
escapes
from
your
smiling
lips.
I.
I wanna run naked across
Martha Stewart’s Hamptons Estate
My hairy ass
hanging revelie warmed by
Blue sky June sun.
I wanna run naked
through
Martha
Stewart’s
garden
braid tiny purple flowers
into my ass hair
twine a barberry crown
cut a single red rose to
place seductively
between my yellow
teeth.
I wanna run naked
through
Martha
Stewart’s
house
bake hearty peasant bread
knit a scarf
make doilies
leave black calling card
curlies
on the
fine
bones
chinas.
II.
I was running naked
across the posh grounds of
Martha Stewart’s estate
when she summoned
Jurgen the Afrikaan big game hunter
(On hand for a show on
the proper use and maintenance
of elephant guns)
and Jurgen darted my glorious
hairy ass from a long
500 yards.
Dizziness…Sleep…
They released me back
into my native habitat
this smoke stank gin mill
Fully clothed in Jurgen’s
cast off hunting jacket, shorts
and pith helmet
$500 in my pocket
And that my friends
is a very good thing…
I have sadly,
locked the witch in the basement
after she took to sleep dancing
with late night hatchets.
I feed her three times daily
steaming farina bowls
sprinkled with cinnamon, prozac,
brown sugar and thorazine .
I send the young parish priest
bent on exorcism
down there twice weekly
to lay on holy water sanity hands
and attend her spiritual needs.
I pray morning and night
for her to be delivered,
sane or dead.
Hoping that we may again lay
twined together in
splendid silkspun webs of
dark beauty and color.
In the year 2050
scientists are predicting
that the
world’s oil reserves
will be pumped dry.
Myself in 2050,
82 years gone
probably will not even
realize that the lights have gone
out.
1999
Drunk slumped and fevered.
Drunk the floor accelerating toward your nose at an unsafe rate of speed.
Drunk running shirtless down New York December midnight streets.
Drunk jousting with unnamed 2×4 wielding assailants.
Drunk crunch two solo motor vehicles.
Drunk the weeds towering above you as the sun creases vacant lot darkness.
Drunk on dangerous stranger sidewalk door stoops to stay awake just a few
more hours and finish the gallon Carlo chablis jug.
Drunk fuck tomorrow its high promise spent, its running stockings bunched
about gouty bloat ankles.
Drunk he was drunk and that is where their unhappiness seed sprouted forth
and gave rise to unhappiness generation II.
Drunk sitting at keyboards banging out penance tries, tired old blame songs
and new recipes for paste flavored melancholy.
Can you see my need to write?
Camouflage ruse netting for diseased alcohol need, how original.
THE MIND ATTIC 