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BUT ALL SARCASM ASIDE
And now I’m wondering
about a society
that lets golden shower fetishists
determine job worthiness
and I see up in New York
Giuliani all upset over
cow dung on a painting
but he’s okay with human feces
on a toilet plunger—
which is good he’s content
on at least one subject—
but all sarcasm aside
the legends will diminish
with the passage of time
and the mythic proportion
is greatly exaggerated
and the vida loco
in these here Estados Unido
can get out of hand
and a Nazi comes marching along
to challenge the American wrestler
as they keep the same old storyline
only fancy to change the byline;
alarms on the clock
are still ringing intensely
but it’s too early to get up
and banned books adorn my shelf
in open defiance to the ministry
and only my wit
keeps me from going up the river
to Sing Sing or whatever awaits
but I ain’t a New York poet
cause that’s just a cliché
and I fancy myself above that
but I see the whacko
getting all jacko
on something slightly potent
and the power of my awe
(consult thesaurus for better words)
just bowls me over
but Roget was a Frenchman,
n’est pas?
I’m not even fully fluent
in that tongue yet
but maybe I can influence the slang—
take it to the college kids
hope they come along for the ride—
the social commentary
has little impact
and here on election day
I know better who I didn’t vote for
Than for whom I actually did vote
Desolé sit u n’aime pas mon teté
Nietzsche and Whitman and Blake, Oh my
retain their sacred slots on my headboard
as the incense gently caresses evening
and the pompous demeanor is let down
to privately ponder this precise moment
ich will Deutch lernen
but not for documenting mein kampf
still alive in alleys and shacks
tattered about the American countryside
the Amnesty International t-shirt
now bears many holes and stains
does that make me a radical now?
I have my scars and contusions
harvested throughout my travels
but sound policies alarm me
in this age of unconsummated blowjobs
and semi political satire
remains a holy grail of accomplishment
but the subtle nuances
always end up being exposed
I was listening to unlucky seven
when my weakness overcame me
first person narrative
always tends to ultimately
fess up the author’s flow
but character assassination
is akin to real assassination
in various spiritual contexts
but what’s left to be said
after the demise of culture
and that psychic rot
that implodes inner corrosion
maybe the soul is just
only what is left if you are lucky
but the fanatics and heretics
will not capture my heart
let alone my soul
11-2-99
