Ignatius gnats that
fly never so far away.
The presence overstays,
the annoyance abounds.
Alas am I stuck to
fate noble entwined
the name of mine
to these gnats that fly.
You’ve chosen me
lucky, but luck
rather I’d be
the fate of my loved one
and I instead these
gnats and me.
Middle-crossed symphony
agéd watcher, unmusic
undanced though
the talk abounds.
Absent smiling face, even if
he were here
it wouldn’t be grateful fate.
We danced to music this once;
he danced, and my followed eyes,
feet down below shackled to
the mind.
We never danced again,
nor he and me and then alone just me.
In front of mirrors closeted my feet
socked create minimal beat. Song, music
unlike this, repeat and arms flair, doing
justice to my two lame feet.
She in my preferred place.
No musician am I, thus redundant, replaced.
She stares not at my chosen lover’s face
and I wonder why she’s taken my place.
Her fingers do move, but then so do this hand’s
five. Pen is my fiddle, but the bitch
still took my place.
Follies:
No one and nothing is mine,
and who would want one when
one brings only bad ones? And
who would want nothing when any-
thing is much better?
__________________________________
The touch of familiarity.
The look shared of trusting eye.
He blinks not when he stares:
the same trick from he to me.
If he stares not at me,
then I’ll stare at him. He played
a song for me: well-played.
___________________________________
Who’s the John who looks like
he’s waiting for his Vietnam draft?
___________________________________
All hail the follies, they that all remain!
After all the fires, after all the
too-late rain.
All hail our not-so heavenly
follies that lead the way to
deceit again.
Don’t read over my shoulder, the greedy
reader one. I curse your spirit
and wish you far now roam.
Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
unclean.
The fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.
The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.
Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.
I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.
But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.
To try my triumph,
to fail my past.
To colour anything so darling is
skill,
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.
Where are the current WB Yeats?
To which do they write?
Where are the muses, Maude
and daughter fair?
To those in America under new
orange-rule, the American huns
of an American age – where
are the geese flying when
everywhere is a grave?
I bought you ink;
I thought it prettier than flowers.
On the Road to Reason 