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Poem of the Week
How I made my Fortune
Just a simple walk down the street,
if anything simple can be authorized,
but no, too easy, the crashing down
around noise leaving nothing to be desired.
Green and blue the breezes waft through
your lover’s hair, and she turns to you and says:
“My father left me a fortune but told me
to absentmindedly invest it in circus stock.”
Tears are not for the terrified of loss management:
a philosophy born of the sovereignty of a soon to
be extinct class of paramours, righteous ones all,
masturbating under the banner of a corrupt non-profit.
An automobile hums a lonely tune out of key and
maneuvers you into a corner where an attorney
stuffs his card into your pocket in case you ever need
representation, but you feel outré, a bit cramped by style.
At the zoo you bet on the animals, especially the snakes,
the stripped ones, the ones hanging from branches.
Afterwards, you kiss and make up with your stranger,
who pushes you into the path of a rogue city bus.
Back at home you wonder where you are and drink poison
because it tastes so good, so godly. You genuflect to your
ancestors then swing from a chandelier, but your weight
is too much for it, and it rips from its anchor bolts in the ceiling.
How much of all this is authorized is classified, as if you care.
Fortune’s good, made to crash through complex desires; nothing’s
too easy: you understand how to out-maneuver your own philosophy
during a simple walk down the street, the kiss still on your lips.
Posted at December 27, 2005 12:12 AM