Reality

It's not the blue patterned curtains
that close in on the out.
It's not the poems that fly around
the stained glass lampshade.
It's not the home made candle
that depicts hills and sky
and crazy cloud formations.
It's not the Pink Floyd tapes
that lie cross-eyed
on the green lawn carpet.
It's not the antique dress
that hangs kicking from the hat stand.
It's not the brass bed
that blushes when the hem
of its petticoat is lifted.
It's not the black shower curtain
which brings out the whiteness in the soap.
It's not the air that escapes
through the fine nostrils of the
lace tablecloth.
It's you.

Lou Reed's Sad Songs

Bundled up his sad songs
so he could get some rest
Took ten on a picnic
and left them there
Staked nine out
in the midday sun
Put eight through a mincer
at Vic's abattoir
Buried seven up to their necks
at low tide
Threw six to a flock
of angry parrots
Dropped five into
a muddy well
Pinned four to a tree
in a dangerous forest
Shoved three down the back
of an unkempt couch
Kept two for us
and gave one back to Lou
So he could hug
his sad song

Fighting the Currents

Trees have bones, you said
and the air changed.
Mosquitoes shifted from the space
between my hands.
Soldier ants spread out
from the shadow of my foot.
Tree bones, I whispered
and held my breath.

All Over America

People steal collections of his poetry
every day. They're taken from shelves
in rare bookshops, where they sweat
for hours in big overcoat pockets.
They take them from the bedside tables
of luxurious hotel rooms, wrapped in
monogrammed towels.
In libraries they're often reprimanded
on the stairs.
In prisons they're confiscated
and locked up with the Hershey bars.
In the rush hour
people take his poems home
through the subways.
The poems usually have to stand.
They're taken into restaurants
where they listen to one-sided
conversations on mobile phones.
But when his poems are taken
into hospitals, they ease themselves
through the sliding doors,
dressed in immaculate
white shirts, open at the neck
and soft grey felt sombreros
that tilt, all the way back.
Whitman's poems come to the suffering
with time on their hands.

Left on the Shelf

Betty loves books
she sniffs the pages
all the time.
Betty wants to be
a librarian when she
gets out of Ward 12.
Betty's been told she'll
have to sniff the words
touch, lick, suck, squeeze & spasm
if she wants to get a job
in a library.
Betty loves erotica
she sniffs the wardsmen
all the time.
Betty wants to walk the streets
when she gets out of Ward 12.