Joseph Charles Kennedy

The goose that laid the golden egg
Died looking up its crotch
To find out how its sphincter worked.
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To look at this fictitious steed
You'd think some mixed-up farmer
Had crossed an eagle with a horse.
It carries knights in armor
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Permit me, friends, my evening meal,
These few small crumbs of bread I steal,

I mean no harm. Remember that.
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On Christmas Eve, the night unique,
They say we beasts find tongues to speak,

Yet at this crib I am so stirred
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Here lies resting, out of breath,
Out of turns, Elizabeth
Whose quicksilver toes not quite
Cleared the whirring edge of night.
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Out walking ties left over from a track
Where nothing travels now but rust and grass,
I could take stock in something that would pass
Bearing down Hell-bent from behind my back:
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Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch,
These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch
Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye,
One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly—
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Why oh why did an active volcano
Have to poke up its nose in our yard?
It goes gloop like a sink full of Drano
And it showers down rocks that hit hard.
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Walk with a bluebird in your heart,
Along life's highway ambling.
You'll always have an ample stock
Of songs and eggs for scrambling.
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Ginsberg, Ginsberg, burning bright,
Taunter of the ultra right,
What blink of the Buddha's eye
Chose the day for you to die?
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At the market Philbert Spicer
Peered into the bacon slicer—
Whiz! the wicked slicer sped
Back and forth across his head
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Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.
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You touch me.
One by one
In each cell of my body
A hearth comes on.
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Molt that skin! Lift that face!—you'll go far.
Grow like Proteus yet more bizarre.
In perpetual throes
Majors metamorphose—
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To Someone Who Insisted I Look Up Someone

I rang them up while touring Timbuctoo,
Those bosom chums to whom you're known as 'Who?'
...