I
           ‘It is impossible to say just what I mean’ J. Alfred Prufrock

lilacs have withered in the dawn
geraniums lay splayed in St. Benedict’s hands;
down the alley, among the shadows, a throng
of black-hooded footsteps echoes off the wall –
while blood-stained thorns penetrate his death coronal

I have kissed the rusty orangutan
and found him not my own;
I have lain with the signing rhesus monkey
and still I am alone

in no dank corner of this dark world
have I followed empirical meaning;
but on a ledge, on a cliff’s edge, searching
the nagging depths – my mind begins to groan,
and at least find meaning in the arms of a girl

Philosophy, that comes to men
Men of Age, with unassuming ties
confines me to my heart, and refolds
my crumpled mind with never-unified lies
where Kant and Hume and Descartes’s voices end

                      II
           Song of the X-Generation

we do not care we do not care
we do not care what song you sing
we who wear our colors in our hair
we do not wipe our soiled hands clean
with one more wasted political vote –
do not dare disturb the universe
with one more wasted discourse
on laws to end all pain;
we let our willow souls lapse into a strain
of a songbird’s unrelenting note
for a life not so diverse

we do not care we do not care
we have our PlayStations, we have our games
we walk the crowded streets with faceless names
that even you would recognize; –
that’s not the sun that burns our eyes

we shall not measure out our days on
frequent flyer miles
and country club dinner-dates
with fine Riedel wine glasses, dancing drunken spirals

we will not walk the streets with our fingers straightening ties

                     III
           ‘Hirtengesang :  Frohe und dankbare Gefühle nach dem Sturm’
           – Beethoven’s 6^th Symphony, 4^th movement

we care for the chimneys, the sparrows and rabbits;
we care for the sheep and care for the fences;
we long for a present with fewer past-tenses
that batter our days with unbreakable habits

just the winter frost on morning’s window pane;
bald eagles flying high above the grimy rain;
we care for the living; we mourn the dead
we long for a vision of words now forgotten, left unsaid

10/31/2000