I could sell water purifiers
and do some people good
by straining out carcinogens
that might get in their blood.

I could sell encyclopedias
and help nice families out
with everything they need to know
or care to learn about.

I could sell fancy automobiles
to people moving up
so they can ride in luxury
and never have to stop.

Or I could give away these lines
to children yet unborn,
who may or may not give a ****,*
whom I will not have known.

You may be forty-five today,
          But still look twenty-one;
And even when you’re eighty-five,
          You’ll be the only one.

I live my life to hear your laugh
          And see your smiling eyes;
If I could gift wrap happiness,
          You’d get a big surprise.

Each day and week and month and year,
          My love for you goes on;
And it won’t stop no matter what,
          Not even when we’re gone.

“I’m getting another car,” said Michael.
He zipped and snapped his shorts.
He looked out at the lake.
The waves splashed up the steps.

Margaret said nothing.
He turned to her.

She sat in *******,
holding her shorts,
glaring at him.
“Another new car?”

“No. I don’t want the note.”
He looked out at the lake.
“It’s a used car.”
The waves rolled down the steps.

She slipped into the shorts,
lifting her ****,
pulling them up.

“Don’t worry,” said Michael.
“I’ll find one with lots of leg room.
It won’t change anything between us.”
The waves splashed up the steps.

“We’ll see,” said Margaret.

They looked out at the lake.
The waves rolled down the steps.

He fell in a hell of love with her —
for art’s sake. She was a pianist.
He thought only of what she played,
and she loved him for listening.

Soon he composed a lyric.
She laughed with such resonance,
putting his only song to shame,
while ******* private melodies.

The walls were rich with hangings:
a mirror for her, a clock for him,
a portrait of a portrait —
all in good taste, for art’s sake.

They struck at all the world
expecting it to cringe
in fear of purest hatred
wrought in a name: Allah.

But Allah loves the world
and favors many names,
so Jihad They declared
on jihad in Their name.

Old man of the new South,
champion of losers,
poet of prose,
one hundred candles are not enough.

On this date born
before Adam fell,
you saw the serpent
and lived to tell.

You tell it so well
even the ding-**** bell
won’t silence your still-talking
ever-prevailing inexhaustible voice,*

as doom itself is drowned
by the sound of a civilization
gathering round
the only candle worthy of your day:

the sun.

I’m tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat,
or children in the rye without a catcher.

I’d sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a frigid doom.
Why chase the wind when we can turn and face it?
Why measure time by the mirror in our room,
when we can follow earth, sun, stars and moon?

And if I stop, and if you choose to stay,
I’ll know that now, today, is all we need.