I Consider Mozart

8.

I consider Mozart
in a cold Vienna.
An 18th century man about town.

When he opened his door what greeted
his eye or ear?
Did he wake up whistling,
and if so would I ever conceive
of those melodies he made?

Sometimes I sit at 1:30 in the morning
waiting for "genius" to strike and
leave behind something that
will not leave a negative
impression
if just once.
Just one legacy that does not include
a drunken utterance or
a crack of the skull.

It is at these times that I consider Mozart.
An 18th century man about town.
Opening the door onto a snow laden street
and lowering his head against a cold Vienna wind.

How selfish I am to compare my ramblings
to fantasies, rondos, and sonata perfections.
Comparing water to fine wine
or foul stench to sea breezes.

Dramatically dubious am I this evening
of how Mozart and I could ever be likened.

Me a 21st century man about nothing,
considering Mozart at 1:30 am.

Club Foot

7.

My corner room has become
a bombshelter.
Or so one would be led to believe
with the barrage of poundings
that my ceiling sustains.

Eating my dinner I duck for cover
as WWII rages above me for a thousand dollars
per month.

Two terrible parents, two ignorant corpses
blissfully idling in a cool quiet drawer.
Two little children, two little mice,
scurrying and scooting and leaping and laughing.
Jumping over the moon and traps
on the floor.

Unbeknownst to
them is that below this scene
Creeps one wise-old alleycat...
with a pension for cremation
and a taste for mice feet.

A Full Dancecard

6.

I'm the first to discuss
all the things I'm going to do
later.

So-and-so is waiting for such-and-such
but there is this song I have been wanting to
listen to
all day.

Also,
there is an article about whales that
play racquetball while shipcaptains
keep the
tally.

I like the fancy of a fickle afternoon
of put offs and push aways.
But come the morning
its always
still there:

So-and-so.
Such-and-such.
Stuff-and-stuff.

An Epic Poem

5.

I thought about you for hours.
I stayed with you for years.
So I decided to write you
the following epic poem.

Here goes:


"Bite me."


//Fin.

The Secret To Longevity

4.

I used to walk around for hours
trying desperately not to appear desperate.
Mulling over my life and twisting every situation around
and around and around to really get a good view of every
angle.

I would look at it upside down and rightside up
and vertically and horizontally and from a gently
sloping cockeye.

After running through this Escher inspired
amalgamation of views I arrived at the same
place every time:

Exactly where I started.

After awhile I got wise and decided to just stay home
cook a healthy dinner
and let it just play out.

Solipsism

3.

Rene what do you say,

would you like to get a drink sometime?

We can meet at the spot my mind made up

and have some cocktails I imagined.

Mine will be green and yours will be blue

though we will both swear up and down

(whatever that entails)

that they

are

both red.

Square

2.

Television mocks me. Take me away
o box of our evasion from
reality and real estate and
mouths to feed and those
we hate.

Show me that somewhere someone
is worse off than I am.
I used to be interesting and
now I'm just interested
in one half hour divided
into 18 minutes of mindless
and 12 minutes of buy this.

I can't wait to turn you on again
so you can return the favor.

Un

1.

We were something back in those days
slick oil and snakeskinned knees.
We thought that we were marble
set in stone and permanent and gods.
We used to stoop-sit under drunken evening darkness
marveling at cosmos that we swore spoke our names.

Four years later look at us now
you dead, I on the way
one foot in the grave with bottle and can.
Our names were forgotten
the minute we packed our paupers bags
and checked out for the last time from
the old inward courtyard.

Now there are others
doing the very same things
swearing the very same legacies
and being forgotten at the very same
rapidity.

We were something.
Destined to be nothing.