I Will Always Beeee

I will always beee

a guided tour
giving defender of
the Olde Lower East Side

I will always beeee

the court-appointed-broken-
fingered-clairvoyant
of my fictional familial

I will always beeee

like hirsute apparel
for a lacking love child
of Allen Ginsberg and
the Vienna Circle

I will always beeee

nineteen-years-old,
pointy headed,
cartoonishly
invalidated,
anachronistic in space

I will always beeee

unjust

I will always beeee

lethargic victim fodder
for serving-up
a Judeo-Zenoic legacy,
imbibing Hesiod
as I do apple juice,
diluted

I will always beeee

the subpar senior no-show
of a peculiar
generation
and its dismembered century

I will always beeee

a veteran abductor of the blind
intensioned,
con-comitantly euthanised,
bridge & tunnel sweethearts

I will always beeee

a depressed pots-and-pan-sexual
in your odorless, colorless, too chill
community college library

I will always beeee

a type of underweight bogey, a bookseller,
wardrobed by my Gorgon’s Gap

I will always beeee

an FM radio suckling, brow beaten,
eaten up, relentless…
gastronomical conundrums

I will always beeee

a gatherer of dust-bunnied post-
renaissance perfumed ministerial direction

I will always beeee

a sluggish video predator
wearing hairy
gallstones
of vegetation
at the wrist

I will always beeee

a half-hermit whose denied
authorial demeanor
is
that of Buddy Glass

I will always beee

Mr. BEFOre-WAR RIBkin,
I hear a misconstrued sense
of inauthentic twelve
or six, string pain

I will always beeee

artificial; in grief; molded off
my grandmother’s quiet
and genteel,
filterless orange grip

I will always beeee

a closet Yiddishist,
ladling out provincial poetry
from a bottoms-up
borscht
breakfast

I will always beeee

a hippie ethnographer,
marking
my hoosier subjects
under dark sizzling balloons,
siphoned gas inflated

I will always beeee

a greasy-shirted hull
washing
inter-borough Demeters,
engorged atop
raspberry
black freckles

I will always beeee

concealed

I will always beeee

cracked

I will always beeee

a scuttling, plastic,
rotary blade

bad-postured
on the straight and cruddy

narrow

Abie The Fishman(Wide)

My people fired idols, fertile crow to sell,
nickel-pure murder, they sired when thirsty.

My boys did surrender, moldings for birth,
hearing of what, what deception of order?

My wives were a-sturdy, a choice wet of lips,
coughing over to me->->->->->the real jawboned way.

My rams cued in shifts, maintaining an eye,
made a farm hand of me, figures with milk.

My cities, my wells, wedded pink siren cells,
goading to be heard, coupling to be gold.

My legacy of hospitality, just teasing alone,
a sandy procedure and not seeking guilt.

My grandson, the wrestler, dreamt, beloved.

My God! Engendered! Dense set yay-thick.