Chorus Rings

Storied so chosen, bold.
Gloried, arise—
on up
from the fold.

Arriving loose,
bereft and heartsick cold;

How still the chorus rings on.

Waltzing adrift,
as of, but a cloud.

Shunting images ill-fitting
a shroud.

Glazing stars sobbing,
out loud;

How still the chorus rings on.

Awaken, if sustained
by a demon.

Swelled kissed, desires,
late dreamin’.

Cloaks eye, thralled dark, oh…
leave ‘em;

How stil the chorus rings on.

A year per diem
does lower count.

Sun-hit snows, flower west,
seedlings mount.

Portraits encrust within
flame, healing fount;

how still the chorus rings on.

Taping Asides

I’m a throwback-to,
a cutup of,
a dead, asocial,
intermediate stage.

on a rock show
shown, in a song,
from a Bertha.

Then, I was a kid,
a twin tower,
not withstanding,
for a lot—

then, I would not
a lot to stand for,
back again.

I think, I sink,
in the Pepsi-cola,
in the gallon.

I choke, I coke
out red tan
in white carton.

What can I do,
I can guess?

I’ve tried,
my pocket holes;

I did address,
a book,
to date.

I, once kept
in a junk drawer.

I was not tidily
kept, the junk drawer,
or the little junk.

Holdings on.

I found a
all folded.

I like a sense if zoning.

holding on,
silent now.

Just a minitaure,
just impressions

where it
they used to pour.

A black-plaited

a reviving,
lust affair.

I swipe white
cookie dust,
near in my eyes,
in white magic mountains.

I haven’t had,
cooking yet,

A model best,
goes to, a
particular typing,
of childish abuse.

Now my poem,
says, self-

I word, I will,
not have a vote.

I do not dry harbor,
the infinite, or
the manuscripts,

or the poet.

Matricidal middling?

So Christiania
did defeat

I swirl ointment,
over orifice,
over pre-skin,

observing particle,
of accuse, this time—
in your curls.

Ay Johnny

I saw a movie one time,
it starred Gregory Peck

and your fall-by-the sword
love affair with Errol Flynn,

I said “Oh, no! no! I’ve been through
this movie before.”

All I really wanna do,
(sittin’ on a barbed wire fence),

singin’ love’s praises, I sung
the song slowly.

I’m on the pavement (muttering small
talk at the wall), only sighing:

I can walk around the block,

I see my light come shining,
got my back to the sun,

sick and tired of the war,
got a new pony and I’ll lie

in my bed, once again.

My name it is nothing by the name of Priest;
they asked me what my name was,

his name wasn’t Henry Porter,
I said “Captain Kidd”,

but I feel just like a Jesse James.

I was young when I left home,
I’ll be a long time gone

walkin’ down the line,
that long lonesome road, babe—

I can’t help it if I’m lucky.