Isn't it strange when you find poems you can't remember having written in your hand...what? you're too young for that...well, wait...
these were in a daybook of poems...
the slaves of Paxtang
named after "great men"
in one corner of the Presbyterian cemetery
Once, there were always stone walls
closing graveyards off
but no more.......why?
And my favorite stone
a woman's, polite
begging off
or asking memory?
"Will You Mind Me?"
*
Three crows scissor
morning trash set by the street
gleaming black Hefty bags
polished by rain
like Fellini's ocean in Casanova
they eat through gashes
eatch takes turn being the lookout
*
7:20am
too-low plane
diving fast, it's a Stuka
three intense seconds
wakes Paul who rolls over
disappearing
into another life
time and again
we compose ourselves
from what almost happened
woven with what dreams did
*
what do I miss about Mary Jane?
Not much, really
just Chagall & lovemaking
were my two excesses
& listening to the rain
in that viscous medium
was sort of nice
how mind did its backstroke
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