Weeds
Movement swells to decadence;
Popularity takes tolls,
Drains a flood of reverence:
In his grave the Founder rolls.
Scripture sanctions sin and stress
Where the Great Religions go;
Rights of Man turn Brutishness,
Renaissance turns Rococo.
Revolution bangs her drum
Beating movements left and right.
Till a Restoration come,
O, beware the acolyte!
When I Sit, When I Lie
When I sit my tush
quite happily
keeps me on the ground;
when I stand,
the cushions
of my feet.
And when I lie,
my front or back
or sides
buffer my mass
to save me from being
swallowed by lonely Soil,
so nostalgic
for my inexorable
return.
But when I sleep
my skull
can’t hold my dreams.
Tushless, footless,
sans sides or back or front,
buttressed by mere weeds,
sleep cannot sit;
dreams don’t stand still:
both swirl in fitful starts
then sizzle a magic path
in an instant to the antipodes
like a drill-nosed mole
or soar to the moon
the stars
or even You.
I didn’t look up
I didn’t look up
to see the cloud
that’s not there
anymore
and now I
never will—
I never
can.
But one brand new
is apt to brew
tomorrow.
The Poem about a Flower
I never said I
wouldn’t write
another flower
poem, but
that I would try
not
to,
since you said you thought
it wasn’t right.
Uh-oh,
too late.
What
to do?
Where to go?
Right’s a thankless virtue,
no?
Oh,
go ahead and remonstrate,
go round me, or go on
if you’re really
mad
and it’s a going
kind
of hour.
Who but me is really going
to mind?
But is it really
so
bad,
since the thing is really
about us?
Or if there’s nothing really
to discuss,
don’t speak
and I’ll be gone
in a week
or two
like a flower
as you know. . .
or in an hour,
like you.
Just Too Much
you’re just
too much
that’s what
you are
and now
that I
know what
you are
you know
I know
what you
are and
that’s just
too much
too much
too much
too much