Karmic Crunch

Celan’s always there with
“ the style of your silence”-
of this our quirked-up Chuck
is quite full aware, and, thus,
overthrowing wholly himself
to passion’s wide whim,
proceeds he, with gusto, from there-

“Of such styles speaking,
mine’s done caught
a taint of violence-
all clenched-cramped-crimped-
just to think of that
WonderBread simp offends
my auto—oversestimated sense of style,
get me me all worked-up.

Let them proclaim from Bangor, Maine
to Bangladesh that Senor Tesh
is an accomplished pianist,
a smart, kind man-
his cotton-pickin’ radio show
drives me outta my gourd,
sicks me to my quiv’ring quick
makes my necks-back hairs stand up.

That vile, soft cock shit
(or flaccid hits for those urbane)
sets my teeth agnash, unsheathes my sword
boils my bile, arrythmias my heart’s hot flame-

and for love of Lords and Ladies all,
for the sum of all my silver, gold and cash
I’ll say it loud and NOT shut up!”

To punctuate this little rant
does our ever-chastiseable Charlie
absent-mindedly as always
deposit his briefcase in the boot and
close his car’s trunk – CLUNK- upon
his most innocent pinky fingers.

And while nerve-endings
scream with stinking pain and
he emits a low spittle spraying howl,
his incessant thinking stopped,
little lingers from his snobby plaint-

he lifts his brutish head
and prays for rain.

Sun Slapped

On the sleepy unwound watch
of the pale risen moon
at the blue-green sea’s edge,
in plain sight of any knave,
pelican pairs keen
wingtip to tip-
a simple scene
of timeless time
outrunning the onrush
of shore-bound breakers.

The subtle return-wave chorus
rose and rhythmically receded
over heart-sized stones
to the womb of all waves.

There where every/any-thing
might be said, be seeded,
might be, be saved, become
all angles (irreproachably acute)
Are one-
approach, converge
and connive toward connection.

An influx songful to the blood
made its peculiar appearance
about the corners of Charlie’s
now mopeless, now mirthful
mouth and eyes.

Deluxely felt he then
some hope-sewn confection,
that weaked his worthless knees,
unstuck, uncursed
his sore throat’s throttle-
it swiftly wide opening-
an action accentuated
by the fletched glances
he wine- less dreams he sees
dancing in a Siren’s
guileless eyes-

which like greenblue seas
do shift and shine.

Foolish,
unscrupulously swooning,
his thick-lips pursed round
mostly major melodies
loped this lack-logic lunk
of an over-gnarled Charles
well into the star shot,
cool-clear night which followed.

And
believe it or not
our sorry subject’s
longing heart –knot slipped
itself undone without
his fearful interference.

It left him ‘most full-up
with resuscitated song
all loud and strong and true

and to merely keep from
singing
shouting
wailing

(the terrible doubt
of appearances)

was all our Chuck could do.