Elegy For The Sick Ones

All over America
the last poets are dying --
starving for poetic insight
lack of a reader's ear
trampled on the freeway expresses.

This is the last poem:
there are no others to be born.
(or maybe it's America that's dying --
victim of its own dream curse?)

The isolation of a changeling
barters for release; pastel anarchies
have ceased to exist
in the land stuccoed by Little
Denmarks and other holiday retreats.
The Big Munch sucks in his grape punch
and grills their steak on wrought-iron
furnaces of the chosen estate.
What choices to make, what progress
to arrest, from impeccable high places:
the marbled pillory crumbles under its onslaught.

Front Cover  Back Cover

Page 26 (Black Book: Light Heart)