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ARS POETICA
oh to uncage words
as startling as birds
naked and silken
full of song and shriek
flung into the envious air
on a wonder of wings
to spin and soar and rise
dazzling our days
with surprise
BONKERS IN YONKERS
I'm a little hazy
on just who's crazy
around here.
But I'm sure we'll feel
bitter--
I mean better,
after another year--
I mean beer.
THINGS
Things in the nature of the
world become whoever loves them
things do not depend
on our decreases and
increases but grow
without our say-so
things are ambitious,
they intermarry
in secret ceremonies
with us
things in their insistence on irony lie
through our teeth
things are a tide that hurries us along,
they chuckle
at our innocence
things love us
to death
things don't need to know
why, they muscle
through in a delirium
of satisfaction
THE DOCTOR'S SONG
This here's a medical exam
and a doctor's all I am.
So take 'em off, bend and cough,
sit real still, eat this pill,
I'll tap your knee,
test your pee....
But don't come crying
to me about dying.
You're a piece of meat
on a one-way street.
I'm a doc, not a saint--
and living forever you ain't.
LATER THAN YOU THINK
for S.W.
Even more than delicious and desirable
you are—and this is universally verifiable—
absolutely and totally unreliable.
Another day or two of you, and I—so placid and pliable--
will certainly be certifiable.
The issue is instantly identifiable:
when you'll do what is never ever specifiable.
Is the situation even remotely rectifiable?
Just once, say a time and mean it, then I'm satisfiable.
Otherwise, another approach appears more and more viable.
No judge, no jury would ever say homicide is unjustifiable.
*new* A RIFF ON CATULLUS
alternate title: POOR JACK
I saw her last night, this ultra-perfect woman
you said was so beautiful--
beyond the beauty of sunsets and stars,
sure to be the next Mrs. Jack Richardson,
the queen of your life.
My poor fellow, she’s a cow, indeed
no bull with a smidgen of pride would consort with her,
and even though you
travel to the Pope and buy some humungus cosmic indulgence
that lets you rearrange the order of the planets
or schmooze with the Dalai Lama
so you can rewrite your very own karma
or purchase the New York Times,
the editorial department anyway,
so you can spin alpha into omega,
she will always be a cow. My poor fellow,
come and buy me a drink--I’m quite broke--
and I’ll convince you to forget what’s-her-name.
Now, that one over there--see?--
she’s so much more of what you need.
For genesis of this riff, see notes at end of Essay 1, The Plight of Poetry.
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