POETRY
A Young Boy Pulled a Bust
A young boy pulled the bust
from the river, not knowing then -
the who, the how, or why or when
a great emperor had sunk
to such an ignominious end.
Heaving the darkened stone ashore,
rolling it proudly over cobblestones,
an erudite man of academic inclinations,
stumbled from a pub in time
to bump into the resurrection wagon.
Casting inebriated eyes upon the mossy fetch,
he belched a boisterous proclamation,
“…there, young lad, Hail Caesar!”
then stumbled off in a steamy fog of peptic beer.
The young lad, having read
a thing or two on his quiet skiff,
turned ‘round and headed back to the pier.
POETRY
Culver City Spider Messiahs
Moss in mind
starts when you’re young;
teach them claptrap sofa-screeds,
watching a spider in a crack,
twirling invisible tweeds,
sewn and spun at the point
of long steel needles
in the hands of a
spaced-out hippy nymph.
If you sit and do nothing-
she once said without speaking-
if you just wait and wait
and smoke and hesitate,
when the haze starts to dissipate,
send your girl cross’ town,
majordomo to buy a dime,
and smoke some more time,
then watch the news,
remember a few facts
and use them to fashion
indolence and apathy,
since all other ideas might
affect the deep depression
I’ve worked so hard to
put into this couch.
It is, after all,
on her couch,
better a potato
than a grouch.
