Certain phrases, even tautologies
make apparent the dumb lips movement
as if anticipating the taste
of some wildly exotic liqueur.

Would it be any less troubling to remember
that nothing can be said new that’s not recycled,
and nothing’s known that hasn’t seen a prior sun.
Perhaps this heart wants to prematurely sing,

unable to leap high for a certain conciousness
employed when derailing its predictable sanity.
And you retell everything from beginning to end.
Now, are you tintillated by the evening news?

Now that’s another story stuck up on ice.
So consult I-Ching and throw the dice.

.

.

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Resurrection

For once, I would like
to raise myself upright
like another Lazarus &
walk away from living legends,
like Christ, who stone cold
dead & already filed away
amongst genteel Popes &
Generals of historical genre,
who walk amongst & by us
as dead do readily enough...

.

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On Two Elm Streets

What if you lived in a small town
with two streets named Elm Street
and a phallic fire hydrant donned
every single corner & every single
dog owner walked two smiley Pekingese
Just before summer you went away
then spring came back twice, twice
wearing its usual dubious grin

What if you lived in a quaint neighborhood
where two quarrelsome judges had to be
restrained by twin pillars of law and order
and some toothsome Officer Friendly
flashed a flashlight on a found pile
of Fois Gras growing behind the garage
And the homeless drove two family cars
while those in single room apartments
had to walk backwards on the way to work

What if you lived in a small town
where all seamstresses were into daydreaming
but made sure hemlines were double stitched
and you never waivered in your belief
that what small town newpapers wrote was true
And war’s hell, but soup’s better tasting
sipped out of a shoe and the fork stuck
in the road actually seperates two Elms.

.

.

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Goethe’s Statue

Lake Michigan winds kiss the copper brown,
as if by proxy on Goethe’s statuary gown;
blends well enough with browning grasses
where wisps of snow melt into brown puddles.

Lincoln Park lagoon must harbor ancient bones
with overhangs of gnarled tree limbs
extended skyward like wrought iron filigree
seemingly refracted off the frozen ice.

As usual, there’s no point to any January,
that turns deaf ear to early arriving spring,
as you scan over the scenery expectantly
like waiting for a Mr. Godot’s phone ring:

Yet sensed something subtle creeping up in mind
reflexive as Goethe’s statue patinalized behind.

.

.

.

Imagination Ditty... Imagination initiated your sex proclivities
Imagination invented your war toy machines
Imagination plots without you your revenge
& assuages before Heaven for your good grace
Imagination tempts your fiery love for excess
with impunity
& carries you away, scaling an alpine daydream
on a whim & carpet ride like a personal genie

Only the vampire in your heart, knowing
you better, checks imagination in flight,
realizing inevitable non-existence’s plight
rendering you youthful only in imagination,
still drunken & disorderly on survival instinct.