There’s a guttural feeling
beneath the calumet
A grinding halt to the
ritual
Smiles hasten into
frowns
And I feel bad for the
one that pushed the bell
There’s a howling
suspicion in the wind
A fading superstition
that lingers in
Laissez-faire or Bourgeoisie,
Accommodations of
catastrophe
Serendipitous dilemmas
and
Sanctions breaking
down,
By the sharks of this
town, inflicting…
Surface wounds and
Surfeit shells,
Discrepancies and
songs,
Songs we’ve got to
know, ills we’ve learned all too well
Syncopation, spin and
spin
Whiskey, Rye, Tonic,
Gin and Gin
Serengeti nights be
told, of the hours spent in a Saharan cold—broken for feverish decals, labeled
carelessly on the backs of rickshaws, spider-webs and dropouts from bartender
schools that advertise in the back of free papers you find at late night taco
shops or seedy, shady, drowsed out jazz clubs—
Never acknowledge
those that deliver the news
Sometimes they’re the
devil in the messenger’s shoes
And sometimes they’re
simply the leftovers that the cat dragged out…that someone else has yet been
buried in the correct position, currently vacant, way out in left field.
SIN
SKIN
SINking
In
Abstract
Suspect
