Desecration of a Statue
She stood tall and strong and willowy
She matched the grace of Leonardo
The clarity of Picasso
The lyrics of Wordsworth
The intensity of Milton
And the power Merit Ptah
She was admired by many
Stricken by few
Envied by simpletons
Humbled by graciousness.
Then, startled, she awoke
Slowly, dazed, unbelievingly
One fine summer night
After playing with friends.
Her solitary sojourn
Amongst the grass and rushes
Was not pieced together
Until she saw the strewn knickers
The missing bra
The blood soaked legs
The torn vagina,
And the tattered dress…
Fifty yards away.
Surely the statue would stand
For another turn around the Sun
Desecrated by another human man
Who only howled at the moon.
Always Have Food In Your Pocket
That day awoke as dark as any
The rain dropped in large swaths
Across the landscape harboring malaise
Just the same as every yesterday.
Counseled to stay indoors
The magic of three years ago quietly forgotten
As the street-lamps dimmed to a close
The music silently blaring as always,
Until all ears tuned in at the sight
Of muscle men and tadpoles lining up
In their quest to sojourn awhile longer,
Sheltered from the front of the pack
By the lengthy lines of armored cars
And bicycles and tin cans and morphed dwarfs
Aligning themselves with spectral storage
Of unison, squandered by minions
So crafty and small, they disappeared
Behind the grand massive mahogany doors
To shine their luster upon each other
In scented tinsel and intemperate stockpiles,
As mamma stuffed baked bread into her pocket.
The Spectator
The hurt was calm
Passionless, and probably
Not subsiding
Anytime soon.
It appealed to the onlookers
Its operatic splendor
Dried the wet
And wet the dried.
Unless the sun shines soon
The giggles and wriggles
Will persist
And multiply.
Not until little men and little women
Shed the treble glaze
Of comfort, contempt and wellness
Will the bystander be blameless.
It’s expensive to stay silent,
Easeful, fulfilling, fulminating,
Furtive, creeping, opaque,
Less falling than limping
Listless, not lifeless
Until the penny drops
And you are next
In the long spectator line
That has already
Been foreclosed upon,
Until death do you meet.
Anthemic dungeons, galore,
Belatedly evocative
Of fully flawed and fragile humanity.