Elegy To My Son Or What You Will

Scoot, kid, in any juvenile contraption, please

impart your light to my understanding of the world.

Yours are the funny hours, the funny job and some bad ideas

still young and drunk and to bed not long after ten or eleven.

I am so dumb. Cowboy of old swaying a hat, cornered calf

my world's under mist, loving razors, no dreams of any sort

the handkerchief is a traveling bag, all mouth is the bartender

dramatizing the meanings of nature - the poor fool is hanged

While little bunnies turn guns on themselves. Go play,

and do not leave. sorry to bother you fatherly ghost,

das nachtgespenst! To this day still, I am amazed and hidden.

Apostle

School door to summer days,

being ridiculously transparent

in the actual tones of speech -

seraphic shit, hero of gist.

Your consciousness and me.

When others are sleeping

believing the lies we rue, tiptoe

for we mean unseen beauty

and rapture in a garden of weed

rivaling our own words.

To this day, on the outskirts

of my body rich with moronic

ideas of two, the longest spoon

floats in tar colored themes and

variations of your piano lessons,

and for a long Nantucket minute

everything is celebrated in secrecy.