Monthly Archives: June 2014

 

The homing instinct is universal,
it is not the sole property
of pigeons, dogs, and cats.
“Can I go home now?”
But no: why would you want to?
You are not as shit-out-of-luck
as you might think,
you are luckier than Lou Gehrig,
self-proclaimed luckiest man on earth.

For Home
skewed dreamland
never truly owned­­–
The block of houses
along the Jersey Shore–
titled or Section 8 dumps–
eminent-domained from the poor,
handed over by the City,
bought up as tear-downs

to erect no-view-of-the-sea
million dollar condos
Red Roof look-alikes
where drug dealers are As Usuals,
prowl the Long Branch streets
undisturbed by gentrification,
making their heaven of someone’s misery.

Home is a Brueghel landscape
The Hanged Man dangling
from the gallows, Mary Surratt wrapped
in black swaddling.
A high school tramp sashays
through Monmouth Mall,
pendant earrings swinging.

Can I go home now?

Once your home is gone
if you have an imagination
that outstrips fear,
then wonder at the ingenuity
of the created world
and at your ignorance of homebuilding skills,
marvel at the drainpipe snakework
now exposed to light,
somnolescent roaches awakened
scattered in a panic.

Home is where the motherfuckers can get you.
Duck and cover, stupid.
Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little
had it right about homeland insecurity.

No inference or artistry here.
Home is no place to hide.
In the light
in the Church
in the hospital
all are suspended in black swaddle.

God has spoken, his Monty Python self
“Oh, don’t grovel!”
clacking puppet jaw,
the answer to your prayers
Redemption
only if you can laugh
through signs of the times

Brain-dead woman
Parkinsonian Pope
Black Mountain poet
Chicago novelist.
I, none of these, have given my sons my living will
my best piece of poetrie,
to wit:
on the day comes I can’t chew my blubber anymore
put me on an ice floe,
not food for worms
but Purina Polar Bear Chow.

My older son calls me
chatty baseball talk and
then “Okay, the question you’ve not asked”
(his uncle comatose
one month today
self-opened veins
now failing kidneys,
his mother, my Former,
a raging madwoman)
“There is no change,” he says.

Yes there is, for finally
I am thankful.
Stevie Winwood
said it better than I can dream
And I can’t find my way home anymore
either.

 

 

(After R.C.)

 

Old Falls Road, the signs have been removed.

To keep the tourists confused. The secrete

Where dinosaur age mushrooms

Prevail against the odds.

My lips ease off timeless elastic lines,

Blue Danish goes soft in jazz.

Wine becomes warm, we sit afterwards,

Backs against the leaking rock face,

No ancient roar now,

Just the chirpy tinkling,

Of private reclaimed places –

Where a lyrebird drinks.

 

 

 

 

That's how to get those sharp creases.

That’s how to get those sharp creases.

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