A Eulogy for Poetry

She waits
parked outside the biker bar.
She’s a motorcycle momma,
she dances for herself.
Sex is her weapon, she wields it well.
I know it’s all a tease.

While Walt Whitman rides a Harley Davidson.
He is on the outs with authority and society.
Meanwhile, the old man sits in the corner drunk.
Out of sight, out of mind, he was having squab for dinner.
But, on our side of the fence,
we know Jesus never rode a Harley.

Poetry is dead!

The Paumanok is a dead fish,
a dormant doormat scattered on weathered rocks,
too young to die, saved by hell’s bells
spiced with nutmeg and a sprinkling of pecans
that go well with my verses.
An attempt at a shaky snaky plea to soar
with hip-hop riches
praying that it must be the perfect word
dangling on the tip of my tongue.
But sometimes there is only writer’s block.

So long live poetry!
It leaves only ashes in our mouths.
Still others shout poetry doesn’t die, it evolves.
But she told me she knew poetry.
so we have to hold our breath
waiting until America turns blue in the face
and falls on her own sword of sorrows
a martyr for your salvation.
Or is she giving the world the finger?

It doesn’t matter, as always
I stand on the platform waiting for the train.
it’s just another scene in the odeum of life.
So I look out on the ocean’s horizon to span serenity
watching summer’s dead leaves drift away,
I recite an ode on the eve of a bad omen
as Michael Jordan takes to the air and
Mrs. O'Leary's cow jumps over the moon.

There is no gravesite for internment, only ashes
to the wind, flowers and memories.