My Old SchoolCrippled by shadows, wait in the dusk for nightPlayground ghosts move the swings gentlyTrees bow their heads and sigh goodbyesThis is how it is, here, nowPale moonlight rises to show nothing newIts been this way for so long, far too longPinebranch fingertips drop needles, stars twinkleThe moon turns its attention to the tidesOld bricks, overgrown with weeds, murmuramongst themselves about children now oldNightbirds keep reverently quiet and dreamThis is how it is, here, now
HomePink flamingos and garden gnomes, bright sun, long shadows across the lawnA screen door slams and a fly buzzes in, through my ear into my brainJesus Christ walking across a puddle, something in my sweet tea, minds a muddleA car horn honks and a mother yells, "Y'all come get these groceries!"The TV's on a soap about lost love-bones, a queen sits in my dad's chair, fizzled and stonedLight a Newport and try to forget the static on channel ZHelp me Rhonda my hat-heads flaking off, the dust on the dresser grown fat and softWho'll fry the bacon when I'm gone? Who'll remember this day?
Soul JuiceSqueeze out the last drops in glorious colorThe rind is mashed, rotten, ruinedBut the juice is beautifulWhen I dream of myself, or others, we'realways in our primeand beautiful.
A Blazing HatA blazing hat, a tattooed heart, he walks through the crowd aloneToday was going to be a good day, but now the sky is greenand everyone is speaking a new languageWhitebone orb over the merriment, his clothing reeks of sadnessToo late for the releasing of doves, or for happy farewellswhen strangers wear blinders and greet shadowsThe newest tattoo reads "poet", which may as well read "isolation"The simmering stew of vaguely familiar faces in plots of earthwaiting for burial, or arrival, or knowledgeThese are the days of broken-down carnivals and fly-away balloonsThe days when your face is not in the crowd, not anywhere at al
Cartoon SkyCartoon sky, fold and tear along the edges, see whatsbeneath the carnival atmosphere, the loopy cloudsand finger-painted sunBehind the balloons and love letters and candy applesBeneath the everyone's-a-winner liesThere isTar-black night, cold and carnivorous, stars waitingto swallow your dreams wholePreying monsters, from the backwoods of consciousnessCracked plaster iron-bed institutional rooms, underdim moonlight and swinging bulbsThis isthe never-ending night of life, unpainted, unadornedBeyond the illusions painted on by windmill mindsCold, isolated, too real to comprehend withoutthe cartoon sky and paste-on
A magnificent work, though.