Categories
Poems

Unspoken Consolation

This dog is a reincarnation of a reincarnation

of Allen Ginsberg because he’s mystical

and gives me queer looks.

He loves to smell piss and shit, and he’s beautiful

and black and white and if dogs were poets he’d be

the masterful, subversive beta-male.

Ginsberg stares at me thru big brown eyes while wagging

his tail, thinking about absolution.

Now he’s licking his penis and grunting.

Now a cat is sitting on my lap staring at the wall,

since he’s a reincarnation of a reincarnation

of William S. Burroughs, he’s crying on the inside

about murder, but not really feeling guilty. The animals have seen

it all before, but not for forever.

Categories
Poems

This Same Spot

Keep poets out

of the planted beds.

There is something wrong and

it is not just inside the head.

Another confession in which the

guilt remains a secret still.

And that dream with movement

through the physical remains.

Finding a gigantic infant weeping inside

a small box and loneliness and waking-

up screaming on the inside trying to forget

of course and this was just two days ago.

That same day it was an identical situation,

static, paralyzed in that position. Now it will

be known but it won’t be for the better,

and it doesn’t matter if it matters.