XVI.
Noose swings
a pendulum
the bough bends
clouds drift
white swans
in a big blue sky
the crowd is gone
the body removed
wind sighs like a baby dreaming
like a scythe through wheat
like Nature's breath
at the end of man
XVII.
Ice hocky is for nerds. Claressa
sleeps only with Chess Grand Masters
my puck, treasure of my youth
pawned for an original Staunton set
hand crafted for Morphy
the shopkeeper says
I love my life now
Sicilian Dragons, King's Gambits, et al
but still I miss the ice
the sound, the glory of it all
XVIII.
A failing somewhere
in the cables
the spark has gone awol
the machine, dumb inert
sits still as a corpse
grass tall as elephant's eyes
in all directions
sun turns it to a griddle
tomcats spray it
spiders build civilizations inside
my lawn becomes a jungle
neighborhood petitions are raised
desperate I contemplate
the few alternatives I have left
XIX.
My illness is not defined
and rarely manifests itself, except
on blue moon nights
of odd leap years
I sometimes take upon myself
the odious burdens
of the aggreived
I'm too old to wear a cape
but vengence is sweet
to contemplate
or deliver from a .38
XX.
In the still grass
the mowers won't reach
they build small homes
of dung and dirt
at night they pry
the windowsills
and dance upon my sleeping face
no quadrille no minuet
raunch and men's club repetoire
I imagine slit skirts sliding off
I see their tassels in a whirl
these tiny sprites, these mini nymphs
these naughty, naughty
little girls
...
Adding your comment:
