A prophecy

She makes love to me with her eyes shut
Maybe I’m one of the ones she visualizes,
maybe not
In a park surrounded by yellow, white, and red
tulips, I sit with my arm in a sling
She’s a shape shifter, lovely and,
a profound teller of wild, cyclical tales

Like a play that is rehearsed and rehearsed
and meticulously worked,
sometimes our interests align
and sometimes we distort, shift and search
When I get too old to get a kick out of Spring
what then thrills if not the sharp, shrill
rhythms of her song?

Do you think I care to put on a show?
One works for two or three live friends
and for a few others one hasn’t met
and in dialogue with the dead
The angry young woman shrieks at her son
“If you fucking do it again
I’m going to knock you out!”

I admire a young Spanish woman
in tight, tight, jeans
And Gabe mocks “Hey Pete,
I didn’t know you like ‘em cheap”
She’s not cheap, you damn fool
She’s just different from you and me
None of us are cheap
Why do you play games on your phone?
You should be dreaming of
illicit love and sorrows that mark
your short, lusty liaisons
The air we see in a masterful painting
isn’t like the air we breathe
I love that taut little melody; it suits me

We look fresh in the morning
In the evening the blue, haggard tones,
that mess, will slowly infuse
and she’ll wear her fleshy mask
carefully, snugly, selflessly
A clear idea for what you’ll do next
is reason enough to keep working

Our eyes aren’t cameras
They don’t print the light
Our ears aren’t tape recorders
They don’t record the sounds
We make the light
We make the sounds
The tulips are bigger, brighter now

That blue pile on the street is no
mystery—it’s a dirty blue sleeping bag,
with a beggar-man asleep
Sometimes in the stress of exceptional emotion
we blurt out what we really think
If you’re a savant who believes in unguided markets
when do you call on your holy of holy gods for guidance?

Of old Degas who was then
quite blind, it was said that he looked
like the ancient poet Homer whose
deadened black eyes were fixed solely on eternity
Here’s a repressive country that pretends to be free
where every hundred years or so we can expect
a total buffoon, a complete idiot, to rule over us




-April 30, 2016-