Funeral Song

Funeral Song

If you planted a tree for me

I would be happy

send you rain to make it grow

like trees should

with lonesome groans so quiet

not even earth could hear

such natural industry.

If you planted a garden

I would be so happy

I’d sing with thunder

and dance like lightening.

I’d visit with humming bird

silence and together with winged vibrato

we could sing the hungry masses.

If you had a baby I would sing

hosanna to a god of your choosing

give you a silver hammer to swing,

to praise the pope or Malcom X.

Let me be your silent servant,

your communist lover

Sieg Heil sweety and party on.

Baby Baby

Baby Baby

Have you gone to the moon?

Are you floating on a white fluffy carpet

somewhere above Erie Avenue?

That’s where you danced to the music

of your breathing,  smiled a gypsy smile

only you could smile. Damn I miss you

little girl in a big girl world

laughing with each cloud sweeping pass your rooftop.

How can I now dance or think of nightclubs

where you laughed and played the fools

to buy you another stiff one?

The boys always wanted to share theirs

making you laugh still louder

you baby girl in a big girl’s world.

Josef

Josef

Mortgage lovers take my home

repossess it all amigos

smile that groovy thing you do.

go ahead and grease me

I’ve been bending since Vietnam

Banker my friend

take my car

you’ve already hit a jackpot

Walmart I’ve bought more food than needed,

take my card.

Electricity boys and girls

fuck me some more

I’ve nothing left to do.

Chase, Capital I’ve cut my cards,

turned them into guitar picks,

works nice Benito.

Seems to me

the alligators

of democracy

are way too hungry.

Freedom?

Keep it in your pants Josef

 

Finality

Finality

Four in the morning

birds are still sleep dead

the river still moves like silk

lamenting the cry

of eternal matched

mourning doves.

Five-thirty

first vein of light

reveals the nudity

of our village

I live here

sadly you too.

Six and I’ve decided

claustrophobic love

cannot exist

Seven

my oven hangs

its mouth with enticement.

Conversion

Conversion

I prefer to write in catacomb silence

under an inky night sky

hearing only batwing whispers,

puppy dog tales of yesteryear.

I long to see your ethereal nudity,

transparent lace across your face

it is you of course I long for

oh sweet lady of sin and coveting.

We spoke of god so many times

I fell weakened to my knees

only to realize that god is me

praying to the coverlets of existence.

The Nots

The Nots

Humanism is not given like a birthday gift.

It is there or it is not.  Thirty-seven million nots

crawl this teeming land of ours, straight laced MGM lovers.

They love the black and white of existence.  Gray is dead.

Humanists are hated by cowboys.  Zane Grey created humanist

bartenders with a shotgun under the bar just in case one of the nots

gets rowdy, blows a gasket and shoots a lousy card dealer.

It was the right thing to do after all, evangelically of course.

Is there another right?  “Mortician man, come measure me a coffin.”