I Still Love Lucy




they butchered the bastions of jungles
greased up concubines, bleeding eyes,
chasing rats into dark dreams, just beyond the dancing moon
where the night burglars steal pennies from the paupers
hiding in the back rooms of dripped denial
melting like an icicle in April
staining the cracked sidewalks of their lives, so incomplete

as the ferry slides across the channel
delivering the new age pilgrims to the shores of stagnant waters
the bells of ST Paul's ring a lazy burnt out chime
fearing even God may not care enough to save them now



I have seen large bombs falling from an alabaster sky
the dust of ages thrown into clouds
as I wondered if the earth tilted on its axis
enough to improve our states of mind
or bury us in our own demise
some last belch of karma
before we say goodbye

either way something has to change
we're still chiseling out tomorrows
in the hyper-flexed reality
of a bygone late night show

watching shadows dancing on a fragile wall
nodding heads at a passerby
crawling into computers
searching for a friend or two hundred fast in days

just a click and send away from
another instant message
freeze dried in the moments of
a twenty first century scream

yesterday, the neighbor's dog licked my face and moaned
I was taken by his honesty
never dreamed he might be gay
or, even worse a fetish for a human
with no answers for his actions
I assumed he had Alpo on his mind

it's always a quick fix
that leads us fast from
these frail confusions
until they mix up
in the bowels
of our denial

then like Manson they pretend
they never lashed out while
they gaze across a fiery desert
of their angry, bitter, thoughts
winking to imagined generals
parading in their store bought
twisted, screwed up, minds

I feel like some clay pigeon
crank me up and let me fly
take your shot but, at least let me dance before I die

in the hollows we are so protected
in these shallow vestibules of our retreated minds
where the lonely soldiers gather
where we spend most of our time

I saw Buzz Lightyear in my daughter's daydream
as Walt Disney ate a butterfly
and Harry Chapin sung about some taxi

we're all stoned and flying high
on the weed of our denial
nodding heads and pretending
we'll get by

in these milk plate days of low horizons
I write poems that explode
into an empty sky


while these haunting dreams
of a better world still
refuse to die


on the corner of an empty lot
I start laughing,

at Lucy giving Dezi
a black eye


ajs

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