Cigar Smoker’s Blues

I bought a cheaper
cigar than usual,   Continue reading 

Red Flag Waving

These words aren’t words— 
at last, they are only

mutable captives 
marched into a permanent desert;

this page is but a bare floor
marked by the footprints

of slaves seeking a master
never to be found.
                

And these lines— 
not lines, but flying insects

rushing toward the flame,
the caged ape swallowing its key,

Napoleon calling for Alexander
on the Isle St. Helena;

these lines are the bread lines
for cultivated hunger.

                
This verse is not free,
and this poem is no poem—

it’s a red flag waving at death,
at the comical futility of the poet’s

every utterance be it rational
or absurd, sublime or grotesque;

its rhythm is neither tranquil
nor its inspiration divine.