Once I saw Walt Disney as God
And Arafat His dark angel
no broken criticisms
just a whiff of foul play and exorcism
the problem is
I know too much to smoke Lucky Strikes
but I smoke them anyway
the pilgrims are all in their private comas
the cubicles of our fate
to be partitioned, isolated
on the lonely summit I sit
sequestered by my own will
the fruit of my own imaginings
the clock runs backwards
when you are asleep or enraptured
dreams have their solitary logic
the crime is taking and giving
it lasts as long as a DNA test
identity swabbed with religion
don't squirrel me
I'm a mobius bastard intact
a rubber femur and cracked elastic
still I smoke Lucky Strikes
staring cancer in the eye
a grim repeater, racist of doom
the room where I live is immaculate
like Mary floating on a lilly
virgins don't need vacuum cleaners
And Jay Leno can't tell me jokes
The last laugh is mine
I am the Communist Manifesto
My Latest Poem---What does it mean?
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Lightning Rod
- Posts: 5211
- Joined: August 15th, 2004, 6:57 pm
- Location: between my ears
- Contact:
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Zlatko Waterman
- Posts: 1631
- Joined: August 19th, 2004, 8:30 am
- Location: Los Angeles, CA USA
- Contact:
Dear LR:
The delicately fringed sidereal connections here-- the phrases and images-- are like angelfish fins, moving the same way the lace on a communion dress moves in the wind.
Like all of us, you are scared, but also strong enough and self-assured enough to look death in the face. I have a friend who's a surgery tech. If you want to know what dying from lung cancer is like, he says, just put an ordinary plastic straw in your mouth and breathe through that exclusively.
But as you point out, Arafat, in his private coma with the door locked and the key swallowed, has already cut the cake at the after-communicant party. He's just been conveying crystals of harem sugar down his throat with an eager tongue.
May you and I continue to make word creatures, my friend, in spite of this witchy cauldron on roller skates howling through the downhill dreams of MacBeth.
Zlatko
The delicately fringed sidereal connections here-- the phrases and images-- are like angelfish fins, moving the same way the lace on a communion dress moves in the wind.
Like all of us, you are scared, but also strong enough and self-assured enough to look death in the face. I have a friend who's a surgery tech. If you want to know what dying from lung cancer is like, he says, just put an ordinary plastic straw in your mouth and breathe through that exclusively.
But as you point out, Arafat, in his private coma with the door locked and the key swallowed, has already cut the cake at the after-communicant party. He's just been conveying crystals of harem sugar down his throat with an eager tongue.
May you and I continue to make word creatures, my friend, in spite of this witchy cauldron on roller skates howling through the downhill dreams of MacBeth.
Zlatko
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hester_prynne
Re: My Latest Poem---What does it mean?
Nice job by the late LR 
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