So we have remained,
With the constancy of stubborn and vestigial elms,
Through any number of moons and Junes,
Equally as many improbable springtimes,
Madnesses of petunias and potholes,
But with a fidelity relatively unstrained, untested,
Our travails being minor things,
Trivial as opposed to titanic,
Our hithers and yons no more
Than the muted triumph of simply carrying on
And we could ask, one supposes
Have we truly loved, then?
Such questions are best left to poets and philosophers
(Grandiloquent fools with time and inclination
For such lines of inquiry)
And though the panorama of our time together
Will be an unprepossessing thing,
No strings heating up and crescendoing
As the camera pans wide in a sweeping crane shot
Of great craggy valleys, the zenith of white-capped peaks
(The lumpy moraines of our landscape,
Merely bits of sediment moved half-heartedly by the odd glacier,
Providing rather uninspiring visuals)
We suspect, no we know, know in such a way
That it is as unremarkable as blinking an eye
Or making some unconscious sound
Which annoys yet endears in the same moment,
That we would be all, give all,
Unreservedly and unhesitatingly immolating
Any thought or concept of self in service of the other,
And the notion that all of that occurs
Away from the watchful eye of director or camera
Does not diminish it in the least.

Together we probed mysteries of the dark
Though you said true love was for losers and saps
(Oh God how I loved you, my Joan Jett of Arc.)

You moaned like a ****** those nights in the park
As I tried to snare you with all of love’s traps.
Together we probed mysteries of the dark.

I was a way station, no more than a lark,
Though I searched your eyes for a trace of perhaps.
(Oh God how I loved you, my Joan Jett of Arc.)

I sought to engender romance’s first spark
In the wake of unfettered zippers and snaps.
Together we probed mysteries of the dark

Our orbit of something completed its arc;
I sang Ave Maria, you whistled Taps.
(Oh God how I loved you, my Joan Jett of Arc.)

One morning the truth hit—cold, brutal and stark;
You’d left unannounced, leaving me to collapse.
Together we probed mysteries of the dark
(Oh God how I loved you, my Joan Jett of Arc.)

What did the poet say?
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed,
Yet such a sentiment is wrong, deeply and distressingly so,
For the nectar of success proves most enticing
To those whom Dame Fortune
Has coquettishly extended her index finger
And, twirling it ever so slightly in the air,
Has let him taste (for the briefest of moments, mind you) the tip,
A momentary sensation in the merest fragment of time,
But the sweetness, the utterly transcendent joy
Contained in that single frame in the long movie of one’s life,
Becomes not a cherished memory
But an unfathomable grail which engulfs all other desire,
Supplanting any semblance of prudence or reason
Until its recipient is no more than a small boy
Who, forsaking all other toys, hurdles bicycles and baseball bats
In the absurd pursuit of a runaway kite
Which has wholly bewitched him
By the alluring pull of the string,
The mad and joyous dance against an endless field of blue.

You would not, as a rule, find her ilk in these parts;
Indeed, frat boys from the state school from a few blocks off,
Failing to heed the subtle changes inherent in the urban landscape,
Will occasionally stumble into this where-they-don’t-want –to-be
And, paying no heed to decorum or traffic regulations,
Get to some anywhere-the-hell-else in a hurry,
But she walks, oblivious yet impervious to her surroundings,
Around this part of Quail Street pretty much every day,
So much a fixture of the landscape
That she knows most of the folks on the stoops and porches by name,
Those she can’t remember bestowed with pet names
Such as “Bright Eyes” or “Little Foot”
Or some other appellation which does not engender street-respect
(Indeed, once in a while, someone unfamiliar with her repartee
Will get up with the intent to Shut that stupid ***** up,
But they are met with a restraining hand on the shoulder,
Not a confrontational grab, but a pressure which says
We just don’t do that to this lady on this street.)
Those responsible for providing sanctioned aid and comfort
Are of varied opinion as to her being help or hindrance,
Her strengths being more attuned to the mercurial than the measurable,
(Though all involved marvel at her ability
To seemingly waft into the frame when necessary,
Simply materializing to hold a baby or push a car to the curb)
And, to the outright consternation of some of the sisters from St. Rose
Who come to minister this pew-free flock,
She pays fealty to a multitude of gods
Who occupy an ever-changing hierarchy in her pantheon of deities
(But those are the catechism textbook nuns,
Whose professions of faith are rote blunt objects,
Women who confess everything but the sin of pride)
And she brightly spouts notions which centuries ago
Might have earned her a public burning at the stake,
And even now makes some of the sisters a bit uncomfortable,
Nattering on about how all things are of the same matter,
Immutable yet indestructible (though her happy mutterings
Are sometimes interrupted by an uneasy rasping cough,
And no one can say, after all, where she sleeps, how she eats)
More often than not punctuating the sing-song psalms
By kneeling to the pavement and kissing the very dust and detritus
Littering the street, all the while tittering *Holy, holy, holy—see?

There’s no arguing that idealism has its place,
For if it does not flower, bloom, and spread its seeds
As the dying dandelion casts downy remnants hither and yon,
Then we have wept our tears and trodden in funereal processions
In pursuit of nothing more tangible than the wind itself.
That said, my boys, we shan’t live out our days
In some misty fairyland where the streams run with single-malt
And the trees are heavy with lamb and rashers;
This world can be a bitter, unpleasant place
(The unconditional love of mankind
Being the sole province of Our Saviour)
Where a man will give his wife a quick peck goodbye,
Then give a swift kick to a limping puppy sitting on the stoop,
Or the kindly veterinary will raise a lovely mouse
Just below his missus’ right eye
Upon returning from his local on a Friday night.

That ‘s the game as it’s played on this pitch,
And injury time has a whole new meaning here, lads,
For many’s the striker who is carried off
With pennies over his eyes.
Again, we have no quibble with Locke, Voltaire,
And the rights of man,
But know this: your leaflets will tear and blow away,
And speeches which roll through Parliament and trade union halls
Like great thunderstorms which blow in from the North Sea
Shall fade into the silence of minutes bound and shelved away
In some corner of the vast library of the forgotten.
You may shun the handwork of Messrs. Lee and Enfield,
Simpering that the rifle is the gavel of the coward,
That the garrote plays the music of the ******.
Tell us, then, where the bravery lies in scribbling crimson prose
While ensconced in the warmth and safety of your rooms,
What dignity is gained by meekly dropping your gaze
When confronted by the stare of the Black and Tans?
There is no valor in sighting down windmills.

There was plenty cats who could ****** a quarter offa backboard,
They used to say up at Happy Warrior,
But the Goat was the only one
Who could float so long that he could leave change,
And then they’d slap each other on the back,
Laughin' until they couldn’t breathe.
Some folks still tell the story, old timers—hell, old men now,
But they don’t laugh much no more, because they all know the story;
Ain’t one of those things where people ask Whatever became of...
Like a Boobie Tucker or Funny Kitt, because Earl was a myth, see,
A neighborhood Icarus, but one with moments of doubt
The pusher, all loud clothes and soft smooth voices,
Played Earl and played him to his weak hand.
College coach ain’t gonna push for no brother
Who ain’t got the grades,
No matter how much lift he got.  
Then what, man?
You gonna hang outside the park, leanin’ on the fence,
Some old man whose name used to get you respect?
****, man, you think you can fly?
Man, I got somethin’ make you fly.
The pusher baited and Earl hit the hook hard;
Wasn’t long before he was noddin’ on corners
Like some old **** wino,
Pretty soon a stint Upstate after he botched robbin’ some bar,
Then a long slow slide until he died.
The Hawk, Alcindor, The Pearl—they knew he was the man,
Best ever according to Lew, and man how he flew,
But the streets have their own peculiar physics
And the rim ain’t nothing but ten feet off the ground.

There’s no love that’s forever true,
No guarantee he’ll stand by you.
Heed well, then, what I have to say;
You keep that boy six feet away.

It’s in his worst nature to roam—
Ensure he’ll always stay at home.
Make it impossible to stray;
You keep that boy six feet away.

If he refuses to see sense
And does not show you deference
Then put him and his toys away;
You keep that boy six feet away.

If he feels something is amiss
Purchase his silence with a kiss.
Then always by your side he’ll stay;
You keep that boy six feet away.