With grades like those

Feisty pigmy goats will bite and butt,
rut and fight against anyone
They have no idea how little they are
They think they’re giants
Little flecks of glass embedded
in the blacktop sparkle like jewels
A sunny glare in my eyes,
deception in a cloudless sky
Grass and tree scents
the diversity of green scents
the exuberance of purple weeds—
roguish, rude weeds by the roadside
He drinks a dragon’s blood and thinks
he hears, at last, the birdsongs right
Too much explanation before,
too little sweet soft vibrancy
Howard gave advice about the “mot juste”
the perfect word for that comely space
Between long baths and shots of insulin,
there’d be the perfect word
So precious this life, so slow
If he bought tickets to a show
and nobody wanted to go,
he’d go to the show alone
“With grades like those what
do you think you’ll be when you grow up?”
“A baseball player, Pop, a baseball star”
“Right, a baseball player star”
Like an automaton
the same deviousness, guile,
gestures and promises—
The same old stuff
Folks from Yale think they’re giants
The ground they walk on grates beneath
their feet as though besieged by love,
by the one they love

A predator dressed as a friend in need
like a harmless kitten
Your predator, your kitten—
Young but not youthful
I have a special thing for exalted ladies
with wistful smiles
and lusty, lively hearts
So many of us got lost
Scars form and the pain returns
if only for a few moments
He thinks of the void and how
the wanderer finds peace
He gets all mystical
on the elliptical
Yah, thinks he sees gods,
as one tune follows another



-August 15, 2015-