The Old White Dude's Song

Have to wrench myself away from Facebook.

Doubt if my posts are very helpful.
Mostly, I want to defer to POC and younger folks.

I am a person of luck.
My perspective is probably not helpful
to those you are trying to audit the books

of privilege; better I defer to POC and younger folks
for clues about how I should think about the dreadful
times we’re living in. Facebook

is just a gold brick,
everyone clamor-clambering to be among the kind and helpful.
I want to defer to POC and younger folks

for direction about what tasks I should undertake,
or even if I can be helpful
at all. But it’s OK for me to post poems in our little Facebook

group. They also serve who only micturate,
said Milton, in a post that feels very helpful
to me today as I browse Facebook,
occasionally sharing posts from POC and younger folks.

Disobeying the Curfew

Trying to use my body to think.
My body says I'm tired—
time to say goodnight to Facebook!

How many deaths will it take,
by covid or by fire?
Trying to use my body to think,

and my body says I’m on the brink
of sleep, so I’ll pull the covers
up and say goodnight,

body serving brain an oblivion-drink,
kissing all my cares
goodnight—letting my body do my thinking

for me, while I feel my tense neck
rubbed and soothed by your firm fingers, dear,
until we say goodnight and I close the book

I’m writing in.—OK, I'll get out of bed
and walk into the yard!
It’s dark, so I’ll have to use the night to think.
Time to bid these times goodnight!

Sleeping Through the Riot

Mayhem risky and irrational.

I fear it helps the authoritarians, but what the fuck?
None of us is more than a scared, vulnerable animal.

In my sleep, my social conscience is a locked confessional,
only vaguely aware of the wailing fire trucks—
life-berth risky and irrational

(not listening to the bullshit in
my head or on my cell device),
never anything more than a scared, vulnerable animal.

Got my Black Lives Matter sign
in my front yard, and not ashamed of my luck,
aware that my privileged oblivion is risky and provisional

and that my life has never been more than conditional
on forces that favor me and ignore most black people,
so that I can lie in bed like this, a soothed vulnerable animal,

feeling in my own skin what white tranquility
means—but fascist mayhemmers may break
into my home and destroy this scared
vulnerable animal.

The Bridge

I take long, separated walks

(receiving phone texts)—I’ve been “isolating.”
Miss you and the music.

How long, how long (may we predict)
must we continue “isolating?”
I take long, separated walks—

when someone approaches, I balk
into an alley so I can keep “isolating”
(head full of music),

and when friends visit, I don’t really want to talk
to them—wearing masks for “isolating.”
My long, separated walks

serve me well, I think,
in my steadfast “isolating.”
Miss you and the music.

Filling my entire urban district
with my sandal prints as I’m “isolating”
on my long, separated walk—
feet tapping our music.

Covid Memorial Day

People are ashamed
that they don’t feel more concern about the covid dead.
We know we ought to care, and we blame

others for not being more inflamed
with indignation that President Trump hasn’t made
a tearful statement—especially shameful

because of the day it is today—
Memorial Day, day of honoring the dead.
We’re ashamed,

first because Trump played golf yesterday,
second because he didn’t much mention the covid dead
in his appearances today: ashamed

because we expect our president to commit some heart-felt
utterance about the dear-departed dead.
But isn’t it hypocritical of us to say we expect concern

when we know he doesn’t feel any?
Could it be a relief not to have to care about the dead?
If we don’t blame Trump, we won’t have to blame ourselves
for not caring more. No blame, no shame.

Dissociation (Put the Lime in the Coconut)

Thinking about dissociation—

that’s when you don’t feel that your body belongs in the world.
You need a physician,

but no one treats conditions
like yours, viz. feeling like a girl
when you’re running for the board of a men’s association—

Christian, at that—confident relaxation
scarcely to be found.
The physician

you consulted put you on dilantin
because you had weird brain waves and classical migraine,
but it wasn’t epilepsy but dissociation

your problem was—indications
bad all around.
“Doctor! Doctor!” (you said to your physician), “prescribe me a potion

that will let me exist in the world as the person
I feel I am in my very own skin and NOT SOME MAN!”
Thinking about dissociation
makes me need a head physician.

The Death of Poetry

Is it fair to expect a poet to be a Thespian?
Can I win a prize for impersonating a goat—
judged the best medium

between chthonic and mortal worlds, acting on a proscenium?
One of the most renowned of all those lyricists was Nero.
Nero was OK with being a Thespian,

but did Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus
perform in their own goat-
songs? The chorus was the medium

between poet and audience, singing
traditional stories to musical measure,
bright, clean, and Apollonian.

Nobody expected a big narcissistic
hanky-head like Wagner
to crash the stage and be the medium

between the sublime and the assinine—
our own nastiest instincts grasping us by the throat.
Thespis didn’t sing in his own character,
as Beckett’s Malone did—What tedium! And I call that playing?

Eye-I-Ai-Aye

I see whatever I see.

Is it because of my auto-adjust feature
that the world looks pretty to me?

Be that as may be.
it’s said that nature is the best teacher—
I see what I see,

and it’s never more than what’s right in front of me.
I look away if it doesn’t give me pleasure—
I mean, if it doesn’t look pretty to me.

That’s why I love photography,
and I’m reluctant to use filters—
I want to settle for what the camera sees.

People say I have good eye,
but I want my eye to exert no pressure
but just see what it just sees.

That’s what I wish my poetry
were: just a register of raptures—
nigh-erased by whatever I see
that looks pretty.

Club Androgyne

Girls must enjoy their bodies,

and love showing them off.
Of course they do.

That’s why they make such good striptease
dancers, performing in the buff,
flaunting their bodies.

Boys all want to be girls
too, so they can go parading with enough
skin showing (of course they do)

to give the girls cooties.
Don’t laugh.
Boys enjoy their bodies

too, wishing they could be
female—but who could pull that off?
Of course, I’ll do

anything that’s needed to get my jollies,
any opportunity to take my clothes off.
Boys enjoy their bodies.
Of course I do!

Me (Orpheus, the Yokel)

Can these villanelles be exemplary?

The speaker’s a flirty autoeroticist in love with their own feet.
Well, that’s me.

Who else could I be?
Or can I just not take the heat,
trying to be exemplary?

For someone to want to read
the villanelles, the speaker must be a compete
character, separate from me.

OK, maybe that helps me see
my way. The old yokel’s feet are still pretty;
but they’re also still me,

so how can the villanelles not be too salty
for poetry fans to want to read?
Well, these smarmy villanelles can be only be exemplary

if they’re about the God of Poetry
Themselves, child of Prince and Beyoncé—
a flirty autoeroticist in love with the world’s feet.
Well, that’s me.

After November 3rd

After November 3rd, the coronavirus will go away.

No one will be infectious, and golf will resume.
The virus is just false news anyway.

Everything will be hunky-dory
again for folks who want to gather in a room.
Even if the virus doesn’t go away,

we’ll frankly be happy if YOU get it and die.
Masks just bring everybody down,
and the virus just mostly kills choir singers anyway.

If people don’t go back to work, how will we pay
the relief checks we have to send?—
checks that won’t make the virus go away

and that are turning us into a socialist society—
no one will be allowed to have any fun
anymore on the billions we’ve got stashed away.

The virus causes more inconvenience by the day—
wearing a mask is especially dangerous for black men.
The virus just mostly kills confined or incarcerated folks anyway.
After November 3rd, the coronavirus will go away.

Lilacs Out of the Dead Land

Poetry is the most self-conscious art form.
Nobody can forget about the line breaks.
Can poetry keep you warm

and save you from harm,
in spite of all the pretentious pricks?
Poetry is the most self-conscious art form,

but can poetry be about self-harm
or the lonely soul that the world forsakes?
Poetry must keep you warm,

feeding a little life with dried tubers
(whatever “dried tubers” may be).
Poetry is the most self-conscious art form:

there’s the self themselves immersed in their labors,
worried, but feeling creative and free—
warmed and calmed

by the peaceful hum
of self-consciousness itself.
Poetry is the most self-conscious art form.
Poetry keeps you warm.

You're the Top

I have so much fun in the morning.
Am I a literary persona?
OK, yokel warning!

My eyes adore me.
You don’t wanna
know the details—so much fun in the morning!

How necessary
for the average reader
is a yokel warning?

Well, that reader’s
put off by the self-exhibition—
too much info for the time of morning.

Remember that radio program
with Dale and Jim-Ed?—
they had to have an Ethel Merman warning:

You're the smile     on the Mona
Lisa. You're the Nile    You're the Tower of Pisa.
I have so much fun in the morning.
Ok, yokel warning!

Joe Biden Villanelle

I’ll have no choice but to vote for Biden if he’s the nominee,

in spite of the creepy “touching” problem he appears to have.
I don’t have to believe Tara Reade

to know there’s trouble. How can you be a croney
of Joe’s if he puts his hand on your butt?
I’ll vote for him if he’s the nominee,

but I’m afraid it’ll just be a vote for male supremacy.
I’ll feel like a robot,
and that’s without believing Tara Reade

much. I don’t know if Tara’s getting paid—
I doubt it—that would be too large risk for them to take.
But even with abusive covid poison in the air, Biden as nominee

feels like the mistake of our young century—
relying on a fuzzy-minded touchy-feely guy to save
us. Tara Reade

is our least nightmare—worst is the manipulative hegemony,
the avuncular glow in the face
of our nominee.
Who believes Tara Reade?

Writing the Poetry of the Pandemic

My head is empty.
I knew working on my pandemic book would make me dry up.
I’m almost seventy

years old, with the dignity
of a big-eyed pup,
and my pen is empty,

but I'm scratching away
anyway on my pandemic book.
You’d think, at seventy,

I’d display the gravity
of age, but I dropped
my respectability-ballast so my hold is empty.

Luckily, I have my pandemic book to fall back on! I avoid despondency
by trying to keep up
with how life changes from day to day at seventy,

but I feel I’m approaching a crevasse in history.
There may be no more poems in the world to come!
My head is empty.
I’m almost seventy.

That Dang “Poem” Rhyme Again!

I don’t ask you to read my poems—

that wouldn’t be fair.
Again with “poem?"

Like stones
to fill a jar—
I’m the only one who needs to read my poems—

to raise the wake and float the boat,
heavy with cares.
Again with “poem?"

I might live to be eighty, but I’ll never rhyme
“poem” again (until next time), so there!
I don’t ask you to read my poems—

who has time
to read all the poems people want to share
with you? Again with poems?

Gauche to bring a machine gun
on a date with a fairy
elf, asking them to read your poems.
Again with “poem?”

"You"

I found “you” in my poem,
the second-person-singular pronoun.
The rhyme I'm thinking of is “home.”

I’ve been through all the “poem” rhymes
already—“lovin’” is a sappy one.
I found “you” in my poem,

but I want to be “they” or “them,”
and "I" hope “we” can still have "our" fun,
now that we have to stay home

and exchange messages on the phone
that don’t quell my apprehensions
one little bit. But I found “you” in my poem,

so I don’t feel all alone,
burning and yearning in my lonely room,
my unmade, empty home.

"You"’re the honey in my honeycomb—
“you,” my poem’s electrical ground.
I found you in my poem.
The rhyme for you is home.

National Pride in the Time of Covid

The number of Americans who have died—

I think it will be two hundred thousand before it’s done
(but maybe I’m misunderestimating high).

But is our national pride
injured, as we see other counties that may have won
their battles against covid?

No, we’re satisfied
to be bad world citizens,
living the high life while letting the virus ride.

Companies like Facebook and Amazon
know they rely on international markets in the long run—
the number of Americans who have died

may not much affect their bottom line.
The banks and investment companies make plenty off us if we’re dying
(I don't think I’m misunderestimating high).

In the meantime, let’s give ourselves a shout-
out for never putting a mask on.
Will we be among the number of Americans who have died?
I hope we're misestimating high..

Guilt as Innocence

How do you put your regrets to rest?
If you completely feel your culpability, will they go away?
Will you again feel blessed?

I put that theory to the test
nearly every day:
I try to stun my regrets to rest

by savoring their bitter taste,
offering myself to be their prey—
feeling almost blessed

as the snake of regret invades the nest
of my self-regard; or, I erect a lonely grave
for each regret to rest

within, and house its ghost.
Never not obsessed, I pray
for more and more guilt to help me feel blessed

again. How do I know when I’ve really confessed

my sins to God?—
When my regrets are at rest
and I feel blessed.

Pillow-Princess/Power-Bottom

Am I a pillow-princess
or a power-bottom?
I gain purchase

either by spilling myself all over the bedsheets
or by calling the Madam
and asking her to send up a pillow-princess—

a dewey dame with a delicious
taste for Sodom.
I carded the purchase;

then I lit the incense
and smeared the pomatum.
So can I be the pillow-princess?

If I’m mister, I’ll be ms.
Yes, I’m on the bottom—
on my back anyhow, trying to gain purchase

by receiving a hundred plus a thousand kisses.
That’s what you call being a power-bottom!
I’m a pillow-princess.
I gain purchase.

Plea to the Liberal Media

Some things are too well-understood—

like the Republicans destroying American democracy—
to mention on Facebook.

We can wring our hands, but it won’t do any good.
Our friends are the only ones who see our posts, you see,
and our friends all understand

all too well what’s happening in the world.
Our lives are at the whim of a plutocracy.
People we think of as our friends—

like the New York Times and the Washington Post—
are constantly tickling our death-of-democracy
vanity by publishing Trump’s face,

and we rise to the bait
by going into our righteous democracy-loving apoplexy,
touting facts of which our few remaining friends

are far too well-aware to need to be reminded,
as covid administers the coup de gras.
Some things are too well-understood
to mention on Facebook.

Psychotherapy in the Time of Covid

Yesterday's four-o'clock Doxy.me session was rescheduled to this morning,

but my therapist cancelled again because of their childcare problems.
This is psychotherapy in the time of covid.

My desertion signal fires with little warning,
as my psychotherapist well knows (me from Adam).
My rescheduled psychotherapy session was canceled this morning.

(Trying not to remember the other poems with this rhyme scheme.)
My psychotherapist knows quite a lot about Adam.
This is psychotherapy in the time of covid,

so it's safe keep my real personality well-hid
and just answer to the name of Adam.
But Adam’s rescheduled psychotherapy session was cancelled this morning

and rescheduled again to Tuesday at 2:00 as usual—exactly a week from the time it was rescheduled
from. When we do meet, I’ll attend as Aladdin's
lamp for my psychotherapy session in this time of covid.

I’ll rub the lamp’s tummy to release the genie,
trying my best to mix up Eve and Adam.
My psychotherapy session had to be rescheduled this morning.
This is psychotherapy in the time of covid.

Trying to Stay in Touch With My Shrink

I’m supposed to have a therapy session late this afternoon.

What will I talk about?
The only thing worth talking about is my doom.

Always convenient how quickly doom comes to mind,
but my therapy sessions have mostly been cancelled lately,
so I’m not sure this afternoon’s

session will really happen.
I may cancel it myself.
I’m putting my therapist in a tough spot, I fear, talking about my doom

while not really wanting to be saved. Does the end loom
for our relationship?
I guess I may find out this afternoon

at about 4:15
(if she’s a little late).
I’ll know my doom

when and if she shows up on our phone-
video meeting on Doxy.me,
scheduled for 4:00 this afternoon,
to talk about my doom.

Editing the Villanelles

The villanelles are a never-ending slog.
Maybe I’ll be able to make attractive little collections
to feed the dog.

Always feeling like that vaudeville frog,
unearthed in a construction
site. It was a dreadful slog

for the frog, idling through history like an unplugged
vacuum cleaner—hibernation
finally ending in a webbed-foot clog-

hop: goodbye my baby,
delection-confection,
goodbye my ragtime dog—

hat-and-cane and the whole froggy
routine. But we know what happened at the audition—
all the frog would do was croak.

Writing’s as easy as twirling a log,
but how may I successfully evade contagion?
Another day in the never-ending slog
to feed the dog.

Villanelle Virus

Are my villanelles like a virus?

I think they had "gone viral"
well before March

2020 when we had to put a stop
to all functions where people
gathered and where the coronavirus

might spread and get a full grip on us.
But the villanelles didn’t
stop—there were one per day in March,

and even more  in April—
can’t yet speak for May.
Think how sick you’d feel if you had to edit

hundreds of villanelles, insidiously
constructed for the cloning of aural
features, such as rhyme. The Ides of March

came, and the new Julius
Caesar was still howling in the forum
about taking more and more constraints off the coronavirus,
so I’ll keep writing villanelles for another decade of Marches.

Let Me Tell You About the Sunny Spot I've Found

What if I were to tell you in free verse
about the sunny spot I’ve found?
Would I make it worse?—

the smariness,
I mean? Anyway, I was wearing my bathrobe,
and I tried to sit on my back porch and write verse

as terse
as a morning shoot-around.
But what made it worse

than ideal was the windiness—
almost colder than inside.
What if were to tell you in free verse

how near approached the hearse—
black-leather seats and tires of rubber?
What could be worse?—

a breath-stressed curse!
Yup, there’s the dank tarn of Auber—
death in free verse.
What could be worse?

May 1, 2020

It’s May Day today,
but I’m feeling sad right now.
Will there be more to say?—

a sad refrain
for a song to crown
the Queen of May!

But we have to stay
at home right now.
Will there be more to say

when the gray
clouds clear two months or more
past this sad May Day?

It won’t be till past July
that we can sing our songs
again—all we can say.

Nothing to do but pray
and try to be glad right now,
because it’s May Day!
Will there be more to say?