Alas, No Yorick He!
Hank went back in time for a moment, pal.
He read from the printed page, “Will Spud find
true happiness with Sondra
Stonegrass, or will Amy Vladik grab his
hairs short, makin’ him bleat, billy goat like,
pissin’ on his whiskers?”
Hank called Margaret to exhume Red’s
remains from the cold grounds of Rockford, IL.
Her answer device said,
“Departed from here, next stop Heaven’s Gate.”
Damn, Hank’ll hafta handle the shovel
& pull up Red’s box.
Dem bones, black as a mud puppy,
got to be cleansed, to look like pearls, soft
in the moonlight.
Red’s carcass smelt so. Puh! No Yorick he:
‘cause, there hung the lips Hank never kissed.
Our grief, it asks for light.
Cycling Through
Day. Canal. Boat. Rain.
Wind is blowing from the south.
I’ll live for twenty-five more years.
Winter is winter. That doesn’t change.
I’ll cycle through and all. There’s no end.
Everything will be repeated as before.
Cold water flows to the Pacific.
Day. Canal. Boat. Rain.
Authenticity
I can’t be betrayed.
I have no people.
I don’t want to float in the bay.
I’m surprised that someone is
all that interested in me.
I never met anyone real.
Transubstantiation
A book as wafer,
This is my mind.
This is my imagination.
Take a look.
It’s a remembrance of life.