SAME OLD, SAME OLD
From the caves of Lascaux
to a Lantana Beach, Florida-room,
fat flies cling to salty gingham curtains.
Opaque claws from a feral priest
or the governor of a slave state
overseeing plantations, herding cotton angels
with heat lightning breasts of 13, 14 or 15 years.
The chimneys of southern mansions
coughing pestilence, helicopter insects
migrating corner to corporate corner,
according to the magic pipe.
Discipline . . . . . . . . . rape of culture,
homogenization of one solitary human
Evolution as it stands today
gives me a fucking headache.
Tomorrow, dementia, that arcane disease,
sometimes known as monetary transfiguration
(from the 13 ruling families to you and me)
but otherwise known as he who has possession
of the bomb.
Follow the bomb,
& you’ll find the money.
(For Charlie Watts)
Who knows what these poems might do;
they’re out there attacking the Diaspora
like a sponge on a freckled Formica counter
licking the coffeemaker’s chinchilla feet
disguised as a bitch in heat.
Who knows what the bitch might do?
Last I heard that bitch electrocuted her old
man for loitering the local Starbucks.
Meanwhile, hunkered low, in a flickering
dank & dark Maryland basement, Gary’s
Terps snatch another one from Duke!
FART FOR ART’S SAKE
We’re the only two folks in the room
who know that a fart machine is tucked
beneath the cushions where a dozen people
converse about Italian soccer,
how Wallston’s Objective Correlative differs from Eliot’s,
why Goya was Lorca’s favorite,
or how a rising and falling spondee burps
one bubble of mud from its dry riverbed.
Then comes the inevitable lull in conversation,
allowing each a full three seconds
to collect his or her thoughts.
That’s when the farts erupt,
near the far end of the couch,
next to a table with an imitation Tiffany dragonfly lamp.
That’s when three females abruptly excuse themselves
and head for the kitchen.
On their way out they ask,
What’re you two laughing so damn hard about?
Pregnant pause precedes another explosion
below said couch,
already under suspicion.
Heads in unison rotate toward the CEO
of Primordial Realism himself,
dozing comfortably at 9:23 PM.