Sunday, November 6, 2011

Bree pome

and i have on the porch
just smoking an isolated burst of generic joy
which i acknowledge briefly,
and consider

the whole lack of sources—at once, so
that it is without being,
it is (just like death) everything.

i think times
of our little talk.
you say, ‘no one is happy’,
me say, ‘i am,’ (knowing you are).

if when joy i think of u then
what more proof do you need, rockstar?
ejaculation? honorariums?
or, worse, death?

get over it and on comes the next,
even tedium, staircase of days spent wiping
tiles clean of our any trace.

until the next good drunk
or fabulous sunset
or night spent with Miller
a bottle of au Francais well worth.

this is happyness, in between things,
me having your goodness
to hold mine up to.

you being, so-to-say in median res
away from me being away from you
in the middle of mine.

hopefully we neither ovus occupied,
free to smile, bend, snake,
agile as runningbacks,
can without feeling pressed
just take

what comes your way, a lined in goldleaf
presed suit of wool
serged to prevent unraveling,
in just your size.

what enters my picture but the
Cadillac of purses, an Eco
filled with ample bills to back
my every bet.

life gives all (we need), at no cost to us
but the time energy and passions
we spend receiving it.

your bad back and jaundice,
my migraines and suspicion are
no thang, baby, when we
don’t make things of them.

summer flowers smile tenfold,
each direction
while we mutter over cold soup.
we are eating our soup!
how is that?

winter flowers screaming drown in
ice of winters gaze,
let us drown, in ecstacy
of each others' wars, and wage.

the rest the year, come spring,
(change), come autumn, change accordingly.
but weep each December! weep
openly in April!

you’re still here, pretending
happiness is for fools not kings?
your glass is full, and we (all)
are your audience. speak, king!
(or truly weep).