March 11, 2004

Most kings fight their crown
before they put it on,
their kingdoms squandered,
their money laundered
to clear their minds before the dawn
wine was poured with too much haste
Love was shared with little taste
and though the heart is cut and paste
the waste has bled it dry
once a Lord, now a demon,
and the waves have tossed
into the mouth of the whale
all his semen

if you see Prometheus
tell him I forgive him
I was only mad at him
because he stole my girl
it really wasn't about the fire
it was because…
he stole my desire

NUREYEV SEE MY LEAPS!
I played with thunder once
now I'm called a dunce
because my dimes I keeps

if all of Shakeaspeare's sonnets
could fit in my hand
I'd throw them at the band
and invite the family stone
to make a stand
and blow some smoke
at Bruce and Patti
then polish the crest of the Duke of Earl
(THIS IS A TEST!
SECRET SQUIRREL!
SECRET SQUIRREL!)
….by the way an oyster once said to its pearl:
one day you'll leave me for another girl
and I'll be high and dry,
but when I think of you,
I'll bring a tear to her eye,
she'll drop it on a passerby
it'll bring moisture into his world
but back to the sonnets
and the trees they press
LA – LA – LA – LA
5- 6- 7- 8
CINCINNATI
BLUE SKIES
BLESS!

I ain't looking for any followers
though I never turn away any Olivers,
Olivia's or Olivier's
and will squeeze the oil out
when it pays
and spend the amber weathered days
looking out for Cromwells
whose time delays
the prayer that pushes churchbells
into rings producing ground swells
in saffron scented waves
though sometimes the church smells
of incense and decay
recently
I bowed inside one
briefly
sometimes even argonauts
pray to feel more priestly
and survive the battle
with their wounds
though dressed in bandages
mostly

straight on through the narrows
the ship is clipped and listing
the demons taunting the captain's mind
are the only things not drifting
he once dreamt of warships,
of heroic deeds and thoughts
of being commander of mores
though in fairness the days
were never his
his vision has turned to barnacles
and rust, and speckled by the scarlet milk
coughed up by wonded sparrows
but that's life at sea
there's too much dust
in destiny
to blow off or avoid
an allergy
to the life that slips
beneath the waves
and chokes on fate's equality

for fear of ladling hope
into the wrong bowl
I crushed it with a stone instead
the harvest that had gone
into the soup along with
sweat and brine
once swayed the tomb stones of the dead
once I carved a valentine
from the disparate portions of
my unloved flesh
the wound is still fresh
so a cotton ball I've wed
so now
the fate of the nose
between the ball and the seal
is down to how slippery his chances feel

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