Monday, March 28, 2016

poem of the day 03.28.16

easter sunday

walking seventy-fifth street
with my wife

in the kind of sunshine
samuel beckett and i both hate

baby carriage psychos
pushing moon-faced mutants
along the pavement

the church steps are full of people
in their dead men suits and whore heels

all love to god but little left for humanity

what sick dullards they are, i think
as roasted pig flesh permeates the air

oh, i have holes in my shoes on easter sunday
holes in my spirit that can’t be patched

by anyone’s savior

and four more hours to go
before i can forget them all

this holy artifice

by having that first glorious
and life affirming



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