late
in lamplight's hiss
I sat and watched the attic dust
dance under spotlights cast
by moonbeam
          skylights
on a stage of memory
and forgetting

He was a toad catching flies
Except that with each lashing of his tongue
He pulled down aircraft
And long could be heard their cries:
Blessed be, Amphibian Creator!
Death to America!
Frog is greater!

love is the crustacean
who remains after the moon
has pulled away the waters of infatuation

Wisdom carved in stone
is lost / what we know we know
under an accumulation of moss

Give a man a book,
He'll burn it for a day.
Give a man a typewriter:
His mind will burn forever.

an idea blows
across a global garden
cities shake like leaves

Despite all my rage
I am still just four minutes
of silence
                          —John Cage

/1975/ My mother died,
And forever cold she burned: cremated
No ceremony, no final goodbye,
Her will leaving me uncompensated.
Alone but for her ashes in the urn,
Which sometimes buzzed like bees and wheezed like breath,
I kept it shut until the day I learned,
That she would be my burden even after death.
Now every day I lift that hideous lid,
Remove the tiny skeleton within,
And place screeching in its awful stead,
Held by the tail, still in its fleshy skin,
A freshly caught rat / Hungry ash covers,
The dead too devour their living lovers.