Poems are daemons to exorcized—
things without names, unthings named.
Poems lurk in primordial sea— the deathmute
Sleep’s statistical clutters quicken
desiderata of schedules wanting—
hegemony from standings trumpeting
triumph and trophy consummating…
I will drink to the arrogant bastard.
I will drink to the cock who gets plastered.
And I would binge with the impudent few,
Who dine of the deli... and the sewer too.
What if my name was Marco Fluno?
What if I drank a flagon of ouzo?
What if I flew to the moon’s o’Juno?
Would you go with me then?
Abed, waterbed, childbed, seabed,
sickbed, riverbed, roadbed, streambed,
hotbed, flatbed, featherbed, deathbed,
daybed, trundle bed, embed, test bed,
my mother is dying...
alone all by herself.
A stony eve at the Bedlam Ball,
An ursine scene entrancing,
As all about the charnel hall
The bears they were a dancing.
When we who dream in subtle greens,
awaken to the black of things—
a smile upon a faceted mask,
cries within the simple breast.