Napkin Poem 4

And when she drinks the bad December blood,
you must remember that you cannot hold
her cup, or flood her bold eyes' passionate
and loving stare with murky hate, abrupt
and bare beneath the skies, in case she thinks
compassion is a myth, a legendary wreath
of gold, formed by an ancient smith.


It must be clear to her that even though
she's cut you, no authority is yours to pass
the judgment or confer the fear, but
just to stick your finger in the flow of
tears, for you are guilty too, and for you,
it would be wretched to deprive someone
who stumbled of the love that leaps alive
in the furnace and the ancient smithy's flames.

Napkin Poem 2

Let's take an already
clean-shaven fella and cover
his face with shaving cream.
Let him glide a bladeless razor
down his motherfucking perfect face
and we'll claim clean-cut precision.
In the name of the sponsor,
the channels, and the holy dollar,
amen.

Napkin Poem 3

Why, we will see better days
Days of sun when surf rats scramble
Scramble in the tawny sand and dunes
Dunes that live to cast their shadows
Shadows by the sinking sun and rising
Rising of the pale little moon to light
Light the evening and the lovely
Lovely faces of the lovers.

Where You At, Mister Malone?

I woke up this morning
Hung over and weak
My eyes were all bloodshot
And my jacket reeked
Of the cigarettes I smoked
And the whiskey I drank
And the perfumes of girls
Whose faces were blank


I walked out around noon
To look at the sky
The trolley was wailing
My neighbor was high
On little white pills
And a funny grey smoke
He stared like a standup
Who forgot his own joke


I went out this evening
Just restless I think
Bought a handle of stuff
Almost too strong to drink
And I picked up some friends
Lit a fire and then
Laughed until it became
The next day again

Silver Father

My father maps the darkened ways to light

Beneath eternal stalactites that hang above the grave

Of man - cartographer of Plato's cave,

Silver-bearded Atlas bearing constellations on his back in spite

Of pain, arms like barrels of wine - and at the world's height

He brews wisdom in a silver chalice like a knave

Living in the sunset of all ages, playing his lyre in the conclave

Of the happy, for the golden, ever golden banquet hall's delight.

My father is a wolf, dragging home

An infected wound he will not lick -

For his cubs might even need the silver foam

Of his saliva, if they are sick.

My father has designs on time no artifact

Can hope to have, unless it be

By imitation of his heart - in lieu

Of this, call down the curtain on his act

And say my father is more strong than me,

And you will see, more silver-light than you.