A Plate for Hurling
Letter to a Young Poet #1
If it ain’t Brecht, don’t fix it.
When the subway runs above ground
you just gotta ride out the rattles.
I counsel patience,
I’m no doctor.
I can’t complain;
there’s been praise and treats.
I don’t know where
the queer poets have gone;
all the rooms full of straight boys
read odes to John Weiners
sucks my dick.
The call to shift was there again,
and we sweltered to be attained.
Beneficent in the depths of swamp-mind, our
minds were underwear to the greater dreaming.
His skin commanded Africa to be smooth
and immense; the ocean around him
slurped with continental plates which
heaved and lumbered to new directions.
The tectonics entranced me,
geology increased; I had to be there.
Picture it a calling: bluetime, almost fallen,
almost before-fallen. All boys there
bundled reeds into a clubhouse,
the fracturing ceased,
and the pinpoint day dissolved to
Yes, But There’s Sexy In Your Being Wrong
I was long in the tooth already
when you came all over the phone book
but the present is a nice gift
dug from the Great Rift Valley
all strong in bone and hard of mind
and left turn signal blinking always
however straight the road
I’m sitting on this pink couch for a reason
though it escapes me at the moment
the reason not the couch
my legs are crossed and never could catch up
were furniture to run as fast as mind
well yours at least you quick-witted thing
these nets and webs may vanish in sunspots
but your future solar flares crouch in ferns
and wait to pounce ungrowling and intent
and weaving into perfect snares
for the usual unsuspecting
as I wait subconscious and adoring
for the meaning, for the form