Michael SchiavoTonight's Biography Made to defy both the rabble and illuminati, Indentured only to the heart, he could charm Countless laughs from the most devoted pietà. He was always hanged in absentia for such turmoil. All the ladies came and wailed. Every crow Eaten was slowly digested while a modern persona Leapt from the foggy noose into the fray . . . Such silliness cannot be counted as loss. Come with me and listen to the muffled lorelei, Hallowed among critics and their lover dæmon, Idolatry. To them, let me say: nothing is allegorical. And love, when I say "love," is my only Horatio. Very foolish, I know--so was the Family Romanov . . . Of course, that ended badly, but it took a great while. Gasworks By the River Living in the past must agree with you, Its saccharine a locality you simply can't forego. To keep insight inside design complicates What should be a buzzing. Genealogy threshes The many postcards you would send, being stuck In the burg where you wanted to live without me. The pearls are dipped. She craves the votive candles, The green lacquer. "Love is a thing of beauty And beauty is created by artists and the greater The artist the greater the art." So says cinema. I can't find, in that kind of talk, the sentimental. It all comes down to economics in your book, As you see love as a gambit, a theory, a page: But it's not, it's not--it's the way you looked at me In that maple time, that kinder age. On This, the Day You Leave, Forever, For the West Our ultimate goal is to make everything sport So that competition may be bred for the sake Of betterment. Your--funeral music. Rather I'd go into some sleet-soaked avenue parched By drunkenness and keel from seraph to seraph In a bold attempt to find the top of the hill. How I can reconcile such notions to my temperment Of love-and-love-again is another awkward focus. Faith, somehow, in someone, drove me these decisions. I should maybe not believe how she came about, But that night is already here. I've tried to trample Doubt into the cobblestone sway I walk, But he keeps coming back into her life. It repeats itself--blazing palace, crumbling stockade. On Independence Day The mule is untidy, so the philosopher takes him Down to the river for an evening bath, unawares Of the infantry on the other bank, ready to shoot Any animal that even resembles a good intention. This is not the mule. The mule doesn't even kick Any more, let alone do his stand-up act. Shall we talk about associations, and brotherhoods, About fraternal benevolence? Let's not get involved With things that have never been on this earth. Let's only speak of books we know we can read. Under the broken arch that leads into the valley, The river digs his grave. He's been born; He has worked; and now, he is going off to die. He's still in love with her. She would not take his hand. He is not ready to die. California Blues California is nice this time of year. Or any time. Or any year. Anywhere in the country is nice Where you're not occupying a plot of earth, A pocket of air. Best to cast your feet Upon the waves and row yourself to a shore Where they still believe what you say. You'll not Convince me anymore. I've been deep in convict Blues, deep in the well where cruel women, brave Women, smart. I know I'm returning to nothing. Nothing of the vagrant summer we spent, nothing Of the earth torn open out of elected providence. Nothing is a charm. The betterment of my feelings Is all I want. Nothing is regret. Nothing is true. Nothing is conditional. Nothing is better than you. Advice to a Clam-Digger The world is turning away, denying the importance Of palms, and concord, timeless tomes of aging villas. . Voyaging out of the cavern, the land becomes A robin the first of May, sun-like towers hesitating, Reversing, blowing dust that dust chokes on. . My mind thus letting tune and toad amalgamate Into a cure perceived as the sole purpose Of invention, not really picking apples fallen In the orchard at distant twilight. Distant highways. . Not really remembering the way you were. . But remembering you exactly as you are, Still fleeing the grave authority of the misinformed. . Understandable that they should want control. . Unable to understand how they could overwhelm. |