the cave of Plato's shame
Posted: September 6th, 2011, 5:32 am
I try to say what I don't say
nothing is like a world
in a gum drop
in a young girl's first sexy look
in a tear of amber and dew
in a shroud of windows
in a needle of ink
a shiny penny on the bottom
of a gold fish pond
once all poets spoke to me
and some whispered from
the cave of Plato's shame
but Monk was spinning on his cosmos heel
on his turntable in my LSD head
I don't remember what I knew when
I only write what I once know then
I gave all to the wild flower words
but they can only say
what I can say after the bloom blew
I was buried in a book
my eyes were on a roll
I lost that Bukowski bent
even though it was as real as heal
as illusive as a holy whore
a bag of clown wind
as meaningful as the rent in the veil
of newspaper on a city bench
the blind dust speaks of a greater way
poets are out of their minds on corners
of diamond blue days with jazz blowing
in from greater recitations of 50's 60's
I lived in the city lights as time waited
for the Howl poem to catch up
Bobby K still walkin down Kerouac alley
with that glittering faery dust in his wise eyes
that slightly floating off the street ground
with those fluffy clouds that were so like tiger brights
following him around in the forests of the Frisco night
and Philip L lookin like a self-respecting owl of Venus
North Beach surrealist should
a thousand ancient falling leaves of poems years ago
and they still bum dimes for river red
on a cold gray Frisco afternoon
nothing is like a world
in a gum drop
in a young girl's first sexy look
in a tear of amber and dew
in a shroud of windows
in a needle of ink
a shiny penny on the bottom
of a gold fish pond
once all poets spoke to me
and some whispered from
the cave of Plato's shame
but Monk was spinning on his cosmos heel
on his turntable in my LSD head
I don't remember what I knew when
I only write what I once know then
I gave all to the wild flower words
but they can only say
what I can say after the bloom blew
I was buried in a book
my eyes were on a roll
I lost that Bukowski bent
even though it was as real as heal
as illusive as a holy whore
a bag of clown wind
as meaningful as the rent in the veil
of newspaper on a city bench
the blind dust speaks of a greater way
poets are out of their minds on corners
of diamond blue days with jazz blowing
in from greater recitations of 50's 60's
I lived in the city lights as time waited
for the Howl poem to catch up
Bobby K still walkin down Kerouac alley
with that glittering faery dust in his wise eyes
that slightly floating off the street ground
with those fluffy clouds that were so like tiger brights
following him around in the forests of the Frisco night
and Philip L lookin like a self-respecting owl of Venus
North Beach surrealist should
a thousand ancient falling leaves of poems years ago
and they still bum dimes for river red
on a cold gray Frisco afternoon
if the fog rolled in any louder from across the bay I'd have to duck