It is better that the dead.....

I can no longer see them in my conscious mind
gone t o wherever it is they go
they have passed beyond my visual limits

I can hear them
remembering exactly the punctuation and the explication
I can hear them
and fell the stilletoes of criticism
and the razors of unintended consequence

ah, language, you are cruel,
insisting on precision where there is none,
in a world where a closet may hold clothing or dark secrets,
in a world where every German word holds ten english probabilities,
where context is invisible
and the dead cannot be seen

gnossis and vorostratis find a lichen to their liking

it was in Paris when we last met
an hour or two
a short weekend for me
a long one for you
you were off to the country
and I to the work
it was pleasant to see you
and more so to know
that neither of us is dead

I am still astounded by the coincidence
of frequency and amplitude we have regurgitated as friends
and the indecent alacrity of our chance meeting in the Phyrst
it is not so bad to be a Polish poet or linguist
and not so bad to be loved by many women
I could never love in return
only sad to remember their pain

I have done it again with my Armageddon love
with my stories and the inevitable depression
with my lust for life and the inevitable need for solitude
it is not so bad for me
I am alive and can walk for miles
drinking beer and reading old Ezra's rants on beauty
thinking I could have been him
had I not been this semblance of me
had I not been taxed with marriage and fatherhood
had I not been subject to the inheritance tax of Catholicism
guilt, the sine qua non of the Church of Rome

and I am guilty again, although not yet charged
with crimes against the heart and the mind
I object! and yet plead guilty.
I know this self
this hollow sphere of grey matter
which quivers and pulses at the smell of woman new

I am a vacuum and brown dwarf
creating my own solar system
of ineffective planets
and stars which will not burn

I am the Houdini of the soul
escaping my own prison
without a key
without a clue
to my boring audience

Giovanni, once a discoman

he once had a disco in Bad Salzuflen
with music and dancers and beer
the heat was expensive
and unreliable
he now has a kneipe in Herford
where older people fill their evenings
and others the wee hours of the morning

he once had a disco in Bad Salzuflen
a great shock of thick black hair
he now has a kneipe in Herford
a white moustache
and a shiny head

She is Depressed

not enough money
not enough time
nothing certain
a man in love
but not in reality

I wish I could reassure her
I wish I could reassure me
I wish I had
the smallest of answers
rather than the vastest of uncertainty