Ramble OnRamble on?When twilight fades from the dying dayand the nightingale's song begins to play sweet melody, filtered strainsthat echo down sweet lover's lane I pause, collect myselfand of the air I slow inhale rapturous, the flower-laden nightgolden blooms fading from the lightand wild things, yellowedeyes just past my sightbreath deeply, of the dying day, while I make my lonelyway down lover's lane.
Sympathy for the DevilHe looked like Jesus.The Son Himself, smoking in the laundromat.Maroon beret, red wool turtleneck, dark jeans, birkenstocks.Purple granny glasses.Snappy beard, trim like you'd expectMary's toenails to be.For twenty-two minutes he explained to methe nature of man and thought, the universe, everything- "Listen," he said. "Listen," and his teeth were brown under the influence of decay. "Listen," and I was listening, "you can't- y'know, life man. Life is this crazy cosmic whirlwind, it's like- life is- Damn." He took a breath, popped something blue and round as my thumbnail behind those oc
Are We A Mused Yet?Are we A Mused yet? Poetry is the practiced cultivation of so much bullshit, in which writers generate a beautifully complicated series of cadenced and semi-musical rhymes of rhythmic structure, then present it in a purposefully obtuse written form, or verbally, with phenomenally bizarre intonation; the idea being that anyone who lingers around corner cafes or coffeeshops, drinking wine and smoking clove cigarettes- habitually garbed in turtle-necked shirts and snappy berets- must be justified in doing whatever the hell they want. This is particularly true if said poet is trying to convince beautiful women in the audience that they should s
SparkSparkA lament!words shrilled in protest, an elegy in half-syllablesand inadequate verbiage.Tears hung pendulous in her green eyes, a pianist's fingers clenching in consternation.She wailed because I did not turn to Himand surrender.It was not something I could give away, this cross I bear-the burden of failing, of succeeding, of loving and hating.Of all failures I give only to myself, and where she mourns, I amtriumphantfor having failed to succeed, having done it ultimately alone admitting only that I can be broken-in the darkness of closed lips, once, I betrayed myself.Above all else, I would have her s
Jenny's SongShe told me to walk her way, that so seductive way, with a shake on her hipsand a smile on her lipsshe put a little pressure on my fingertipsAnd then we were bouncin' and jivin', movin' and groovin', time stood still and rippled pastthen came flying like a forward passWe tore up the floor, then I asked her for morewe were back on the sceneback out living the dreamFeet in the clouds and our heads in the whirlWe clicked at the hipand I spun around that girl, singingWe were bouncin' and jivin', movin' and groovin', Danced to the way the music was playedCaught in the beat of a rhythmic gyrationthe body la
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