Poetry for the Masses

to see all the things you promised me

like a tiny city on a giant's toe

on a mountain made of music down below,

and there's no reason to go back

and love me now

when all the time we spent together

is just a river running

into now,

and so I fly over your house

with wings made of newspapers,

and I am looking for the window

you used to leave by

to come see me,

with your hair like a trellis of yellow roses

but there is only a shopping mall now

and a parking lot of sadness,

so I will go back

to my bedroom tonight

and sleep alone

but holding the memory of you still

like a song made of yellow roses,

stoned,

and lovely

by the bridge,

we jumped into the cool water

like knives,

feeling the cold

whip the darkness

of our souls,

still searching for more

among

the bronzed bodies

of the campfire,

whiskey,

snakes,

dancing beneath

the stars.

you eyes

like rivers

running

There was a time when I skid

along the surface of the city,

wearing the same suit every day,

and drinking liquor to keep out the sun;

and i always had a book in my pocket,

like a key hoping to unlock the universe

and find its hidden power;

I was only 21, and wanted to believe

there was something more

than college degrees and sports cars,

more than Bibles, footballs, and mowed lawns

manicured for nothing in the midnight sun;

and whatever light I had carried from my youth,

withered like a leaf in the winter of my despair;

I spoke deeply with the homeless and the insane,

hoping to glean some wisdom

or some insight into why and why and why,

but their words were like onions unraveling into nothing;

I walked so much at night my feet would bleed

in wingtips too small for me,

but I never noticed until I had worn callouses on my ankles.

I was so far in my head and my philosophies,

I couldn't even feel the simple pain of my own feet,

so where was I and who was I, I don't even know.

On one of those walks through the dark

alleys of my youth, I met my shadow

reading the same book as me,

and he told me all the answers were inside

I just needed to go deeper, read more,

think more, and ask more,

so that I wouldn't end up like everyone else,

but the more I asked questions,

the lonelier I became

as everyone I once loved,

began to look at me

like a dark cloud hovering above

the picnic of their lives,

and I knew that I was going to have

to choose between sunlight and shadow,

between life and art,

and so one night I got into a fist fight

with my shadow, punched him in the face,

and broke his glasses on the pavement.

He laughed, wiped the blood from his face,

and said, "You'll never survive without me,"

but it's been twenty years since

I beat his ass, and put down the bottle,

and I have looked behind me since;

I know he's there, of course,

but I already know what he's going to say

she was giving me a blow job

and nicely because i had mowed the lawn,

and cooked some chicken legs;

was it labor for labor

or love?

I cannot say,

but we both ended up having a good day

with smiles on our faces,

so if this is the communist utopia

bring it,

because I have had it

with my 9 to 5

and all I really want to do

is write poetry,

cook chicken,

when the revolution comes,

i will be stoned out of my gourd

watching TV with my lady

naked with me on the couch,

eating chips, and laughing,

and when the newsman

interrupts our favorite show

to tell us,

"it's over, the poor have won,"

i will say, "we did it,"

and mount my lady

like a stallion

and ride her into the sunset,

the way Marx would have wanted.

I like to do her from behind,

and imagine I am in Paris,

at the time of the revolution,

and the heads of aristocrats

are tumbling, and the poor

are storming the bastille,

and flags are being raised

to celebrate the dawning

of a new age, as I ejaculate

into the Palace of Justice,

we're free, and everyone

cheers until everything

goes back the way it was

with the rich fucking over

the poor, and the heating bill

my neighbor, the mad russian,

we called him,

with rasputin eyes,

and unkempt clothes,

today is telling me he’s lonely,

says it’s been a long time

since he’s “had woman”

and all these years

i thought he was mad,

because i hardly saw him,

and once saw him gesturing

angrily at the moon,

now i see he’s not mad,

but just a lonely man

lost in a country

full of concrete and neon

that doesn’t care he’s come

from a thousand miles away

where his father was blown to bits

in WW2, and his widowed mother

by some miracle of God

made it here

to this small town in AMerica

where her son could inherit

a small one bedroom place

where her son could look out the window

and watch the rain,

and then one sunny day

talk to his neighbor

and tell him briefly,

sadly,

and honestly,