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Beware of the Poet Laureate Posse
Beware of the poet laureate posse.
They tend to prefer tweed, khaki's or something nice.
Brown, even black shoes.
Button down blue dress shirts underneath a sports jacket.
No tie. Never a tie.
Some wear glasses. Others do not.
Many are balding but could care less.
Marauding bands on bicycles, moped,
Or walking if they're feeling youthful.
Men and women of stealth. You can never see them coming.
They're gift, they're curse, is empathy,
For it is paramount to art.
An easy ride until you've grasped another man's inner psyche,
Especially when it comes to the wounded.
Who isn't guilty of something one way or another
In the x-ray, fine-toothed comb prevue of God?
They arrive jovial, drunken Buddha's and leave
Glistening, like a thing which shines.
The opposite of stone.
Armed with the names of flowers and trees, ancient and foreign Language, the knowledge of the root language of every word,
They often inherit eccentricity just as they do their flowing hair.
Like a reading I read each day through.
A passing license plate, the color of a woman's slacks,
A moving van or a limousine--all symbols that have a meaning.
The diagnosis: ideas of reference.
One way or another I attempt to master it, searching for meaning.
The great novel though I too often can only
Offer pamphlet trash with all due humility.
It's by the fruit stands that I find them,
Talking to one another or out loud in different periods
That no longer exist. That all still exist.
For whom Lord only knows.
Maybe us, maybe each other, maybe themselves.
"I saw the best minds of my generation..."
I want to fall in love again Alan.
I know you're listening.
I want to fall in love.
It returns me to that deep pocket of longing
And causes me to stare,
Though I would never admit whimsically.
