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So strange to be sane with madness barking all around&#8212!

Posted to Poetry

All the kings of England had a few ships of their own—
A warlike fleet—
There was but one Church—
One’s too many & a thousand ain’t enough—
Thirty ways to burn, only one way to drown—
Plague from overseas—isolated Eastern European enclaves immune to AIDS—Coincidence or correlation?—
April 18th, 1066—
The Tuesday night after Easter Sunday—
A sharp flash of light cutting through the sky,
trailing heavenly wrath & fire—
I passed out,
spilled from my chair to the carpet—
A desert but for irrigation & waterworks & William Mulholland
& a thirst in my throat drank me drunk—
Rip open the tombs & set the spirits loose drunk—
Head bobbling up & down—
Her head floated up & away,
carried on an easy breeze like a balloon lost from a child’s grip—
Nobody should have to shave & go work—
Cain brings the harvest of the earth & his god rejects it—
Cain slays Abel in a jealous rage—
From my Spanish blood stems the capacity for unlimited cruelty—
The pencil through the hand, stigmata style,
& death means nothing to a Spaniard,
so wrote Hemingway—
I drove south in D-minor beneath grey clouds with pink underbellies—
Floating above ourselves,
taking the rest of the day off—
In her breathless baby doll voice:
“I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me.”
“Couldn’t you?”—
If you take Jhoon Rhee self-defense,
then you too can say:
“Everybody in my class
they always kick my ass.”—
The twentieth century trousseau & the long seeping luxury of fatigue—
Just a small sour sugar ball with purple candy coating—
Wet sex will keep you occupied
& frivolous news will keep you entertained—
William the Conqueror—
Your fat head, your orange brick face—
That’s not what I want to look at—
Saint Zita with a mop & bucket,
if I buy Lemon Pledge will you dust my shelves?
Will you wipe clean the Bayeux Tapestry?
In the new sunshine spring dropped to the earth her breezy green dress—
She was invulnerable to cool—
The kiss left me gasping for a question mark—
“You don’t sound very convincing.”—
“That’s because I’m not trying to convince anyone.”—
Drop leaflets from a helicopter—
The only thing I liked about you was how much you liked me—
Insects splattering against the windshield in a clear sticky mess—
You could write a poem about her clavicle & I did—
Sitting on a hard chair,
sitting on a vinyl sofa,
photographs in black & white fading in & out of focus—
Falling asleep wide awake with fingers twitching for sensation—
Motel motif, motel chronicles—
Park where you can see it from the window—
At breakfast the ceiling fan reflected upside-down in the silvery basin of the cereal spoon—
Lonely as that solitary beer standing precariously on the bannister
& sweating thick beads down brown curves
like a Puerto Rican girl in NYC summertime—
The bartender spoke up with a squeak like sneakers on a basketball court—
Print that in the Plain Dealer—
Parked at the Visitor’s Center down by the Mississippi River
& took a trolley ride—
Wearing a grey-beige felt hat picked up on the cheap
At A. Schwab’s department store—
Met Mr. Schwab, a cadaver in a wheelchair at the bottom of the rickety stairs
decrepitly handing out souvenir postcards
reproduced from photographs he had taken in the 1930s—
A ghoul feasting on the flesh of your aborted fetuses—
Ninety-nine bottles of blood on the wall—
“What do you do?”
“I’m a bond broker?”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“I suck cock & make rich white guys richer.”—
Spanish moss of New Orleans—
Audubon Park sunbathers—
Tulane University—one-lane streets—
Holocaust upon the altar & all role models into the fire—
Too many fingerprints on Mount Everest—
She worked at the Jewish Community Center right next door to the synagogue
with the lovely spray-paint swastika adorning the double doors—
Vicious fishes taste delicious—
A weak simpering bullyable voice—
“Ah, alcohol, sweet accelerator of romance!”—
“Forget the arsenic, I’m worried about the levels of old lace in the water supply.”—
Next up in the Battle of the Bands:
the 1918 influenza versus the 1910 Fruitgum Company—
I disappear in a crowd—
All the graveyards are full in Hong Kong so they eat their dead—
Trying to save paper by writing run-on sentences & calling them poems—
Thunder boomers in the distance like a faint but spirited drumbeat
& on the air the dry sere smell of lighting—
Hitler’s mustache picked up fifty thousand at Sotheby’s—
The doorknobs from Auschwitz sell six for a dollar—
Kristalnacht II coming soon to a multiplex near you—
Death to all those who would mumble & sweat in the service of a king—
Machines never commit suicide—
& the morning after everybody swears there was no party
but you wake up with a lampshade on your head
& hair like the devil’s sewing thread—
So strange to be sane with madness barking all around—