Tell Me 'Bout It

Rimbaud you were flamboyant
with your derangement of the senses!
But you got nothing on me!
Even with your wanderings,
through revolutionary cities,
with bad companions
and outrageous gestures,
ah, the outward show
of such social rejection!
And you certainly drew
all the slings and arrows!
(Oh I just saw lightning
outside my window,
heard big bangs of thunder!)

Yeah, anyway
you were all decked out
in detrius of cultures
long dead, still walking,
wrote your mad cryptic poems
to accolades of the avante garde,
how nice.

No, no, you misunderstand!
I am not comparing my poetry to yours,
my pen scratchings,
visions from high mountaintop
and low swamps.

No, but you still,
you got nothing on me,
I can arrogantly proclaim this
with full confidence and
utter defiance!

You knew it had nothing to do with art,
and so did all your goofy friends,
even Kerouac and Ginsberg knew,
it wasn't about art, it never was,
it was all about the
brief mad apprehension (ah, ah,
big lightning now,
crashing thunder,
the rain finally falls,
a good thing,
for the heat of the day
was oppressive in New York City,
I woke up this morning literally reeling from it.)

A Painting on the Wall

The little boy is sitting
in a tipped over chair,
holding his admiral hat
in his raised right hand.

The chair is black velvet
with golden fringe,
he looks quite poised
in this tumbled over position.

What do I know of
cowardice or courage,
So easily confused
in funhouse mirrors
of desire and passion?

Or the difference between
deliberation and indifference?
Ah, there is no clairvoyance
in me, no special insight.

He sits upon the tumbled
black velvet chair,
wearing yellow and blue,
stiff ruff at wrist and neck.

Relaxed even in disarray,
I suppose he could easily arise.

Tools of the Trade

I never wished to be
a scientist,
yet always gazed
with wonder
upon gleaming glass
beakers filled with
colored liquids
of mysterious recipe.

And although faint
at the sight of blood,
I thrilled to the
shine of surgical
instruments upon
immaculate mirror
of steel trays.

In childhood,
the contents of
my brother's leather
shaving kit
became my top secret
spy paraphernalia
as I would slink
through my home,
collecting evidence
of villainy and crime.

And oh, the frustration
of reckless shopping,
purchasing tools I
lacked the expertise
to employ, seduced
by appearance, blind
to utility,
abandoned
to disuse.

And now, oh now
I have golden statues,
jewel colored pictures
of great intricacy,
Small, heavy brass cymbals
connected by rawhide
thong, chiming
endless pure tones.

I have bamboo boxes
filled with precious secret recipes
of rare substances from
far away lands,
esoteric texts
of great antiquity,
and strings of fragrant
sandalwood beads,
that never
gather dust.