The Artist

The artist working on the street
Is too meticulous for his own good.
He is facing a large square building
With an enclosed dining area out front.
He is not painting the dining area.
He is not exploring the expressions on the faces there.
Instead, he is painting a landscape,
Adding to it greedily
As if each new detail were a gem
In a treasure chest.
The work, I think, was finished
As soon as it began.
Meanwhile, I sit watching him,
Unnoticed by the passing throngs.

The Guru

To achieve peace, I went to visit the yoga master
Guru Shihiri at his studio uptown.
Many of us came to take instruction in the ancient
Art of Hatha Yoga.
He expounded on the ten basic principles
And we the listeners were in awe at the power
Of his words.
We sat and chanted "om" continuously for half an hour.
"Be free in the ever-present spirit of each moment," he said,
And we all bowed to the great man.
Afterwards, on my way home,
I stopped at a pizzeria and got a calzone.
On my way out, who do you think was coming in?
The guru.
"Enjoy your pizza," he said, smiling.
"And don't forget to digest!"

Plugged

It's Springtime and all my brain will tell me is
"Sex! Sex! Sex!"
It resounds in the exact spot where the poetry should be.
So I take walks and stare at the beautiful
Women, and over and over it's
"Sex! Sex! Sex!" in my brain.
The stares come to nothing,
And the chant continues:
"Sex! Sex! Sex!" in my brain.
I go home, turn off the light
And try to imagine those beautiful dames,
But alas, when I do,
It's "Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!" in my brain.

Impossible Love

Poor sweet fellow lonely soul
That yearns for my love as I do yours
Can't you see that a love so sweet
Requires a boundless toll?
Of these funds I have been drained
For giving love that was in vain.
Now poor rose that longs to bloom,
I beg you, lock yourself inside a tomb
And let the voices of the dead
Comfort you.
For though our love can never be,
Death, too, is a wondrous mystery,
And perhaps within its hollow core,
Love itself exists
Forevermore.

Hope is the Last to Go

I hope I don't die an unknown poet
On a cold day in a room with no heat
Surrounded by journals filled with pages
And pages of poetry.
I hope the refrigerator won't be bare
Except for some moldy cheese--
Perhaps a Camembert,
And that two cats won't sit meowing by an empty feed
And the air won't smell like their piss.
I hope the mailbox isn't stuffed with bills
And letters from the IRS.
I hope I don't lay, all skin and bones,
In a stiff and musty bed,
A bottle of cheap wine, or perhaps
A vile of morphine beside my head.
I hope I won't be reciting my poetry aloud,
Causing the neighbor to pound on the wall
And shout, "Why can't you just be dead?"
And I hope as I go I won't think to myself,
In a hundred years I may be famous,
And laugh at myself as I catch the fact
That hope is the last to go.