Waiting in the Conference Room

I’m in an office-

sitting with a very dignified face

among the dignified stuffed chairs

and polished wood and glass

And the people I meet

may never know

how weird I am,

or how I sang

loudly and very badly

to myself on the way here

Our discussion

will not broach the subject

of my drunken strolls

down Broadway

or my screaming pleas of mercy

to the blood moon

and all the women of the world

They think I am studying

venture capital

or the stock market

while I scribble

chaotic poems

and dream of swinging naked

from White House chandeliers…

Blizzard

patter of smitten flakes

showered like flowers

on everything

burdened against the chill

stare fire-eyed

at the soft white blanket

new earthly moonscapes

unspoiled

stone-grey trees

trace their cool layered fingers

against the angry wind

all so dangerous

and light

and fleeting

The Urge to Join the Circus

The urge to join the circus

means static

like a blood clot on the brain,

means quotidian slaves with decent pay

would rather shovel shit and hay.

The urge to join the circus

is not unlike the urge to kill:

it begs release, provides relief,

and heats a frigid will.

The urge to join the circus

means choosing net or rope,

means a life parading around

mocking youthful hope.