gershon hepner Poems

In that dark place where I dwell
there are wounds that never heal;
please don’t tell me that you feel
my pain, for no one goes to hell
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For Joseph Schildkraut

Miró, Miró, on the wall,
who's the fairest of them all?
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Do objects have the right to many lovers?
The law books tell us mortal men should stick
to one inamorata between covers;
to women they give but a single pick
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Be humble in your maker’s face.
Not in God’s image––specious vanity
that those who’re grandiose still chase
in denial of humanity.
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In the darkness there exists
the objects only light
can indicate that you have missed
because they're out of sight,
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Unprincipled and treacherous,
and sympathetic to the lecherous,
Wagner proves that there’s a chasm
as deep as musical orgasm,
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Like Trigorin in “The Seagull, ”
I like to store the lines I’ve heard
and quote them in my verse––it’s legal,
and even if not every word
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Rejected by so many, thwacked with a thump,
and by the electorate darn nearly dumped,
diminished in polls by majority vote,
deep-sixed in a creek where your shit doesn’t float,
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Show less, leave more to the imagination,
becomes the rule that every stripper knows,
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Representing saints with paint
is to the mind of moderns quaint.
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