He doffs his own abysmal light
in petty streets of thieves.
He passes by a horse
wrapped in pure velvet.
He scrapes his nail on carriages
that may be made of gold,
and everywhere, in doors,
old men with helmets.
The days are fading in and out,
the air, the crippled leaves,
and everything alive is moving slowly
toward places where the body disappears,
the eye perceives,
the shadows here are somewhat less than holy.
This infatuation
needs examination.
A preference for guns
amongst the thousand funs
indicates a flaw,
even for the law.
Take the rod God gave you.
Bullets cannot save you.
The lizard we beheaded once was wedded.
I must say I prefer iguana breaded.
Of all the monsters, I prefer the gila,
grilled and marinated in tequila.
O, dirty gray-brown scaled dinosaur cousin,
I’m just glad that the noise you make’s not buzzin’.
In his tiny fallout shelter,
singing songs like "Helter Skelter,"
Tom Thumb sits alone and cries,
wondering what decides who dies.
It was late in twenty-eight;
infamy will haunt the date.
Skies turned white and mountains tumbled.
All the human race was humbled.
Now it’s narrowed down to one.
Earth’s new Adam is Tom Thumb,
doomed to live without an Eve
in the nuclear reprieve.
Genocidal apes at last
have evolved a future past.
Tom Thumb in his metal box
dreams he could turn back the clocks.
Multinational jive transponder,
breaking code on a vagrant lake.
On a raft, with an urge to wander,
eating lamb with the need for steak.
All the elements cloud right over,
like the eyes are attacked by night.
Why’d they have to go kill Smokey Stover?
He’s the one guy who seemed all right.
Parameters now blur with meaning.
All the contacts have disappeared.
Former straight things are now quite leaning.
Gossamer is the word most feared.
Telemetrics usurps all the answers.
Water climbs to a higher ground.
Stun the painters and cap the dancers.
Here’s a photo of one last sound.
I’m flabby philosophically.
I’ve joined a cigar band.
We smoke while playing tubas.
The bland must lead the bland.
I cater now to no one.
It’s later than I think.
I’d rather read than eat, alas,
But can’t give up the drink.
I’ve watched in sheer amazement
The dear departed leave,
Then come back just to decompose
Each tenet I believe.
The history of progress
Has doubled back, it seems.
We’re raking leaves from long-dead trees,
And piling them on dreams.
At night, I disassemble,
Re-gather in the morn.
Two times of three, I favor glee.
But sometimes I’m forlorn.
It helps to have good friendships.
A pet is handy, too.
This ‘elderly’ is new to me.
We do what we must do.
