A Heretic's Hymnal
guzzle Folgers instant
by the metric boatload
& gobble almond-butter sandwiches
into the wee hours
Dear Mr Kelly, Black Seed colleague,
you've got me reciting Psalm 91
and perusing Bob Kaufman
and checking out YouTube
for sonic parsecs of democratic jazz.
Dear Bob Kaufman, bless your ghost:
people who decide such things
call you a minor, a marginal figure.
I say glory to your solitude,
hosanna to your loneliness!
It's a restless and alert voice you give us:
irritable with a hundred hallucinations,
deft with a zillion catastrophes,
insistent as a drum, smoky as a saxophone,
hermetic as Hart Crane, gregarious as Ginsberg.
It's windy out
& almost summery
at 2.30 am
on January 12th
of the year of grace
twenty hundred twenty
The ornery southwest wind
improvises notorious warfare
between long-dead winter leaves
& the stars above Menotomy
Sunday, you beckon me
to the small Episcopal chapel
where good souls flaunt compassion
and spread mercy's contagion.
are my luminous mysteries,
beads of a dissident rosary,
stars of an anonymous
& deathless constellation.
This could be my New Year's poem,
poor banished child of Eve and Adam.
Poetry by Thomas D
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Written on 2020-01-12 at 12:46
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