Three Poems

Untitled

a spare change philosopher
rides the CTA
and emerges from eternities
of Platonic
jiggles and twists
towards Chinese Art Museums
and Butcher Shops.

a soft philosopher, he
strums his jews harp
his sacs banging together
like sour chimes.

his blowsy pagan art
and neolithic ordor
offends the morning crowd
and a pendant
hangs round his neck
like a Runic doublecross
bisecting centuries.

mlb          Albuquerque, Albireo Quarterly, Spring 1976

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A Party

At parties
I'm something else
as Quinn
describes my bag.

One Ofay
awash in splibs
as black debate
wings thru Beaujolais
and Calvert with Coke.

Close the books.
Furies in the streets.
And all the time
in that little room
a party.

mlb          Albuquerque, Albireo Quarterly, Spring 1976

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In a Strange Terminal

In a strange terminal
memories fracture and fragment
like hungry and inquisitive flies.
The flies chatter incessantly and
sense and settle on a second's thought.
Their wings never stop and
they feed on my past
weaving the most fabulous stories
in some obscure language
which I can barely discern.

mlb           10/03

In Memorium

The Great Gorgo

Carney days are dead
Gorgo, the Great, is gone.
The fire-eater extraordinaire
consumed fire
his throat and belly
glowing bigger.
Crazy Gorgo
could blow flames
Through his nose
like a laughing dragon.

mlb                        11/66

_______________________________________

Chairman Al

     Chairman Al sits behind his desk
like a delicate spider
his hands judiciously spinning schemes,
explicitly almost prissily
setting out the ground rules.
His instrumentalist mind outling
probabilities.
His words grasping books like flies
and drawing nutriment
from empty heads and fleshy tidbits.
Contingencies and alternatives
spin against and flake
the file cabinets
stuffed with inactive folders
sprinkling the present with past glories.
     His style, a crude mix
of faded ivy league and southwest macho.
Wearing heavy turquoise
like a collapsed halo,
each stone a story,
an endless litany
of carefully cultivated monologues.
Hardboiled mannerisms shrewdly exploit
the exquisite fabric of a self made man.

mlb          6/76         
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To Brecht

When I sleep
I sweat all over.
Wind makes
my eyes tear.
I drip.
And each cigarette
pushes my heart.


mlb          7/66