Drake's Thoughts

I've returned to the old days of murder & adventure. This can't end well
for the girl.

It's easy not to end up in prison
by living lawfully
but what if their law
isn't yours?

The muck at the end of the road is nigh unreachable
but is stocked with sugar barbs. Oh, the sugar barbs.

The muck at the end of the road is night unbearable
but still full-grown student athletes
weep & delight at the sight of bears thrown
for a "worthy cause." [link here

to a video.] [he remembers, again:]
my brain isn't the internet. It's
mine, all         mine. [
this lament.]

Haiku

Haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku hai

High IQ - I SMART
I like art, and poetry
I'm pro-symmetry

I'm all haikus now
not just most of the time though
constantly, bitches

Militant haiku
Haiku-man double barrel
Shoot em up, murder

Happy/Sad Haiku
Read this in a happy voice
Read this one sadly

Purple Reign

I am Lesotho, King of Nigeria.
Nigeria is no mere peninsula.
Come Christmastime, it is an isthmus
And when it rains, it pours.

It never rains in Africa

It never rains on Hanukkah

My harmonica is ensconced in velvet.
So plush.
So lush.
So much
for any fabric besides velvet

Soft as cake
fallen into a velveteen lake
eating velveeta cheese
with baked beans.
Stay lean

Stay mean for mean's sake
Drink sake if you mean well
Don't know what I mean? Well,
shit. Sorry sorry. Not sorry.

Twine Harp

1.
She wanted to play the twine harp,
boy; she was the chairmen of the board,
crooning away. Sometimes, underneath the
sheets, the skeins and cormorants of the lecture
assailed her, then (& at once) like the birds and corns
of the lecture, dropped by the wayside, picking
up again, paying attention for once

to the tune in her head all along. It went:

here amongst the flowering glass
is a cowering flask, or a cornered man
here all alone are my compass thoughts
directing me somewhere.

2.
You can see what I mean. The acorn, melancholy
as always, nestling and kneeling it her shell,
crying: "Let me out, World, Let me in, Ground, 
I want to be a tree in you." (Which was, of
course, bound to be misinterpreted, by all a
manner of people, the gender-benders and ever
worse the homophobics screaming of, well, gender-
bending; the American Legion screaming of
whatever they care about; the American Red Cross
concerned about the transference of empathy
to a common acorn; etc.)

3.
Lord I am with you, in a way, even when I'm
(or especially) flying a kite, guided and buffeted by
the wind like a pale orchestra conductor thinking to
himself about his wife's muffins, how warm and fresh
they are and how he'd rather be home eating this
warm nutty fervent loaf instead of up here,
moving his arms like cantilevered flower-stalks
to the general assembly, saying as much as
has ever been said, with his hands, but oddly
unsatisfied, a crow overhead circling.

Every now and then (& again) a crow overhead, looming
black and large and intact & intelligent, remembering
your face & coming back to haunt it, kaw-ing out! her
slim furtive disapproval of all things human; circling,
circling, but never attacking.

4.
This is one reason I may never
a bird-watcher become. (Twine harp,
lest though unseat me yet, twine harp,
singing of birds and singing-songs of
avian homes, high in trees I may
have wanted to climb. Climb, still, climb;
I still climb, may climb, I aver that I shall
even one day yet, still want to: to climb.) Climb.

5.
Climb the latter of the underground bed, toward
the thorn at the root of the orchestra which says
to her memory that her memories are sacred
and that witch who stirs the pot is a witch indeed
but only doing what her dark sisterhood demands.
Thus a witch in name & act but not less sacred
before God and Man and Time, slim virgin (--[Mary]--)
though she may be. We cannot say why her orchestral

mother has not touched her yet, blessed her with the grace
of human kindness, & Innocence undressing, like
a fit young girl removing her blacklace brasier, a
moment that, when it passes, you will not realize
is the best moment in the world, never before
surpassed and never before altered, without memory,

a bird in the stone of the nowhere cauldron, a bird
her memory or her memories allowance of it; her bird
a nowhere camera looking back like lost feelings of love;
like lost feelings of love I hound you, back now, against
the wall, into the dark remiss virginal entrance of your
vault, your camera store, you dark circular mind, your
organ of origin, your anthropic pulsating center, your
closed orchestral mind, blind & innocent, with justice,
once and for all, amen.

5b. ([the burn-able] Afterword)
America. Chelsea & the gardens & gay men strolling
backward down memory lane, memory fucking lane, Lois,
Memory--you know, the shades drawn and the cocaine
on the desk and the drug problem now being discussed &
the frothy kitchen (& her GODDAM DISHES! YOU KNOW?)
her goddam dishes forgotten, for once, remiss--all bitches
snow-blown complaining of bid-for (badly) stitches in their
bosom's compartment coverings, these bras of the Lower
East Side tenement buildings, sex & class & poultry water
dripping like remorse across a dully bull-blood-red road
made furtive by stooped tourists, gaining information
about the blood-water, needled past, who (if she had feelings
for once,) would rather be just
let for lone a-once. Just left alone. The past;
She.