Peace in My Desk Drawer

Parading amongst the hollowed stacks
of boiled books and cataracts,
a busy bee or Burt Blue-Green
covers the books and magazines.
Dirty, keyed fingers and mouse and screen,
Buddha, black with smithareens,
coffee-maker, you belong to me,
must cast all out with a feather's beam.
Sitting silent, queer, and cool,
quaffing coffee, keep back my drool,
but it drips, desperate, bored, and lonely,
and drenches through my moving pictures-
Must always think, "If Only, If Only."

Ghosts

They prance about in the now, their time.

Peering out my doorway at the torrential storm, I can see them, darting and dashing, wailing and splashing,

With a pleasure I shall not know.

They’re ghosts, the ghosts, they certainly must be, their ghastly reign in the times
of rain keep us inside, in the calm quiet shelter, avoid the wet swelter, and we
are safe from them.

Might I suffer a fear of the watery wetness in the stead of something ghastly and
begotten?

Such a fate I’m certainly not in as I cower in fear of the awesome and
severe, the kind that defines me, the kind that reminds me, the kind that is not
for me to know.

The sheets fall hard and show us their flippant runnings-about, two, four, ten at a
time, in wispy weaves they wind, doing their deeds, nerving our grind at
untraceable speeds in protean rind,

Mysterious as they are, their function is there to see, to us, to all, to know who
really turn the seasons and take the harvests, who spin the strings and burn
the forests, the mealy larvae we truly are.

I tremble to write.

But, after all the awe and angst, the probable peace of the Proteans pokes through,
though none have sought to pry, to prod, to prove the profound novelty of the
apparent thesis.

I hope they don’t.

For the eeriness with which a man is stricken is colder than the storm that beckons
him inside, the thunderous stirring of paranoia emanates, vibrates,
menstruates, salivates, and levitates through the endless hallways of his mind
as his jaws, spread wide, scream silence at the fear in front of his endless
cohorts, I beseech thee, Let Me Be.

Let this be the sufficient warn: let still the souls of the dead, the former men, the
outcast ideas, the gatherings of the despicable what-was, and I, too, shall,
much as they must have, learn the expected of a dead It, their diligence, their
efficiency in completing their tasks is too great and obvious to think I shall
not,

So as for now, I huddle indoors and seek things due and ought for living mankind,
for it flutters and fades and blossoms in haze, but to finish fast and
furthermore:

I venture to my frosty work, run beaten mitts through black-white Earth writhing
alive in the slithers of the slight and dead and slightly dead, and soon.

So if the sound and solemn obligation of the dead should shower Life with more
until it pulses again, I proudly crawl amongst the copious, the wormy masses of
blackened flesh, regrets, and I-wishes, for come whoever come who may come who
white and come who black, coming forth from Charon or coming forth from
Aphrodite, I must continue Life, I must continue Death until I might at last, at
long lengthy lasting lubricated Last, hang in the void and know nothing again
for I have been a man and I have conquered it all.

Let the rains fall.

The Subway

Sitting on the subway, watching the lights go by
Man in front seems okay, a woman begins to cry
But good to know that we’re all here, sharing a piece of day
Hope we all stay when we get there, together burning man's time away

A Celebration of Detachment

I’ve thought crazy things tonight,
things that befuddle and bamboozle,
send the brain all-zerfuddle and zarfoozle.

I thought the craziest things just then
Things about flyin’,
And things about dyin’
And how we’re headed towards an uncertain end

Oh, yes, the craziest things I thought
I thought how the forests,
With all their trees
Were like the dogs
With all their fleas
Oh, what crazy, whimsical thoughts were these

I saw the men,
With all their cares
And how they swelled
Beneath their hairs
And as they, the men, grew again
they destroyed the earth,
With knife and with pen

Crazy, splendidly foolish,
Pre-fucking-posterous things
Of the impossible feats
of the daywalkers and nightsleepers
All the lingo-talkers and when-sad-weepers
These deeds of the doers have bested all pursuers
And so they all walk on
This modern day

It is not altogether, this, what is me
And this, you might gather, is how it is to be
For if I’m to be free, and my heart aglee
I must think these crazy things
Or else I’ll no longer be