Alma as Icarus
Against all odds
the fallen leaf mounts the swirling air
As,
in defiance of its fate
the gull aims for and achieves
the blue vault
A Tale from Shakespeare Wags the Dog
Antony
who falls upon his sword
but cannot die
such a clown am I.
Complains the costumier:
These stains!
How do I clean this shirt?
Night after night,
stage blood and Texas dirt —
it’ll clog the machine!
Can’t we cut the scene?
All Fools’ 1994
The course of human life has run
to this unprecedented age,
The Age of Admiration
whose heros’ rant is all the rage.
Each hero who would qualify
must proudly show his losing streak;
Lonely puking in the dark
they practice for effect comeek.
Their looney mutterings to themselves
are featured in the media;
Sequestered on ten million shelves,
their rivals practice tedia.
Among the shelves, you’ll find me there,
restlessly rubbing on my lips,
dreamily plucking out my hair
with numb and nervous finger tips.
I worry (for I cannot stand
to think of anything but me)
that there might be a Salamande
inside me, squirming to get free.
The steady chewing in my guts,
this sense of losing everything,
these movements, quick, spontaneous,
have set my mind to wondering;
For in my dreams I see its eyes
straining to probe my dark within.
I want to cheer the Lizard on —
Keep chewing til you pierce the skin!
Break out! Escape! Go — chase a mouse,
enjoy the sun’s progress to dusk;
And leave behind your prison house,
my lifeless, uncomplaining husk.
The heros and their sycophants
will not take notice of my fate;
That’s fine; This is the end, at last,
for which I’ve longed, for which I wait.
My thoughts and I mix with the dust
of the millions of the years.
The Universe retains in trust
heros and rivals, deeds and tears.