mmmmm"Invitation to a Ginger Lady"

mmmThe table set with victuals rare & dear,
every spice that one could scarce procure,
& truest Hearts of Comradeship are here.
And yes, they hope your presence here to lure,
to take the Seat of Honor, as it were.
All pleasures that an evening could portend
are joined to buoy up the throng with cheer,
yet Spare, enough to share with you my friend.

mmmThere's witty ladies, elegant & fair,
with myriad kinds of mind & heart's allure,
who wear the clothes of gaiety with flair
to share with us Le Haute Cuisine du Jour.
Their jests & friendship drives away all care,
since girls of all the nations will attend
& one of each of every shade & hair,
yet spare enough to share with you, my friend.

mmmThere will be music playing everywhere,
& many kinds of well-aged wines & beer,
sweet women singing, saucy savoir faire,
your host himself a loutish clown to jeer
until there will be naught but pleasing cheer.
And if our guests, too drunk their way to wend,
should chance to ask, there will be beds, no fear,
yet spare enough to share with you my friend.

ENVOI: This plea is done. If you will not be here,
then know, my Lady, that this heart won't mend.
I could give every girl on Earth a tear,
yet spare enough to give to you, my friend.

[("Methitabel of the Yellow Eyes")]

mmmSHE CAME a homeless waif from the streets
petite-- probably stunted-- with eyes too old for her age
we took her in--occasionally-- we were a meal & a crashpad
& then it became apparent she was quite
quite pregnant...


so she stayed for several months more-- just until she got
back on her feet-- so we said-- & she gave birth to triplets
so now we're stuck-- she'd raised them to nearly toddlers
& left us to watch them on an errand
then disappeared...


her family wants her kids-- the family that nearly killed her
with neglect-- as for our latchkey-- by this point
she's presumed dead-- no doubt at all-- not with
what we know now & her children swarming the house
like locusts...


one day we'll happen to chance upon the poor-thing's body
what will happen when our temporary custody expires? what
will happen when their foster wards them worldward? what will
happen when they stumble on their doorsteps? they have their
mother's eyes...

mmm[('The Weird & The Lucky")]

mmmmmI-- The Weird

mmmFOR HE on whommmmfate's finger has fallen
there is no escapemmmmmmthere is no power
neither wind nor willmmmmmmcan move its mark
be he king-- churlmmmmmmmplowboy or prelate-- still

it will end hardmmmmmmmmmand be so endured
it is for himmmmmmmmmmmmas a player in role
who adheres to textmmmmmmmthe words speak through
but are not hismmmmmmmmmmthe clown ends bad

but can not turnmmmmmmmmmbut for this fact
he's sore with smartmmmmmmmand paces planks once
since these props piercemmmmmthe script skull enseared
and no repeat performancemmmmis allowed nor commanded

the horizon is flatmmmmmmmmmand has us encircled
the way is darkmmmmmmmmmmor is blazingly blind
the woods lies thickmmmmmmmmand hides all highways
but thicker lies fatemmmmmmmmand it suffers us


mmmmmII-- The Lucky

mmmFOR SHE on whommmmchance change has broken
there is no awningmmmmmmmthat can shield her
there is no high groundmmmmmthat can uphold her
for she is windblownmmmmmmlike a leaf falling

like a stray coltmmmmmmmmmbewildered in a hailstorm
splayed and then sinkingmmmmlike twigs in whirlpools
upon her is fallingmmmmmmmmfortune like the rain
nothing here is certainmmmmmmneither man nor woman

nor steel nor dogmmmmmmmmall is at random
like litter in barrelsmmmmmmmtumbling about from breezes
and all our precautionsmmmmmforesight strength and preparations
are set at naughtmmmmmmmmone with the litter

who can now scrymmmmmmmmthe trial of tomorrow?
who can now saymmmmmmmmwhich ally will turn?
chance wheels about usmmmmmlike tears in a cyclone
and all is forgottenmmmmmmmmlike teardrops in rain


For Sean & Shel

[("Libra")]

mmmIN CROWDS she felt an unaccountable sorrow
& the happier they were the worse she felt-- what was wrong with her?
did she love stillness-- solitude? or was it an inward balance?
for she was always contrary always fighting upstream in this river of flesh
it became automatic-- she abhored the home team-- sang songs
of other peoples 'til she hardly knew her mother's lullabys
& why not? why does this all have to be a bad thing?
or do you admit the possibility of aversion to yourselves honing toward instinct?

mmmmm[("TIRED'')]

*

mmmSHE IS falling & has always been falling
she doesn't know why she is falling nor why she has to be falling
but she is certainly-- instead of standing upright
instead of strolling-- & none could know what she makes of this
this perpetual fall...perhaps one could ask-- perhaps one could be
but nonetheless she will fall & will not stop

**
mmmHE IS grasping at ghosts grasping
at things of light & substances & shape but yielding
as water & numb to the touch-- who are these or
what are these if anything & could they be or are they
delusions-- no-- they're too vivid-- have weight & place
but here's the horrid thought: they do not include him...
he is the spirit-- he is the inconvenience to be disavowed
to be rubbed out-- to have never been-- who is that
reaching out as if for us?

***

mmmPRIVATE AS the toilet are our bad dreams
our fantastic self-deceptions & those nightmares we can't shake
like the ones about the fat lady who breaks the carnival ride
& sends you flinging to your death-- or the assumption that
your closest women friends really wanted you all those times
you were closest of closest-- instead of wanting who they always want:
an abusive fuck with money who treats them like shit
& as far as that goes-- they can't even imagine you with a penis...

mmmWHY BOTHER at all? it's the very unanswerability that hovers
like an evil star over the whole proceedings-- threatening to crush us ant flat
if one could know with distance-- in survival of one's demise-- it meant something
then there would be no tension-- but would this flow as effortlessly?
Old Stevens keeps chirping about in the branches-- falling in the raindrops:
Death is the Mother of Beauty...rushing down crick beds & snapping up worms
the pain is the beauty the beauty is in the pain-- & moreover the uncertainty
okay-- undeniably & powerfully the uncertainty-- there's rising realisation
after initial trials that one must choose one idiocy & stick--
because time's not enough-- born beneath the event horizon the funnel closes
about us & we're drawn into singularity to boil away into atoms into x-ray

"Dandelion"

You saw outside, in lawn half-mown,
the kitten's grave beneath a stone.

Well marked you once his mew & moan,
then, when he chased the rat & cone',

& claw in paw on wall he'd hone.
His coat was red & gold in tone,

his eyes like sun itself had shone,
but now, beneath, he lies alone,

with sluttish earth girt 'bout his bone.

"Say, what a sack for us is sewn,
by three damed Fate, each one a crone,

unless we're like the leaf, wind-blown,
that neither far nor high is flown.

We are yardwork, the rest's on loan,"
you think, then answer your cellphone.