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I meet the dead poet for our rendezvous, as planned.
He looks good, even if dead,
and wants very much to know
how things are going.

I began by describing his memorial service,
Trying to tell him who was there
Though I knew far less than half of them,
To describe the poems that were read,
alhough I didn’t understand any of them,
Except for one of his poems,
Read by the woman who led the labyrinth walk,
The woman with the seven-year-old boy
Permanently attached to her side
The boy I played chess with
While others ate and schmoozed.
I’m not very good at chess.
The boy was worse.
I made sure all games ended in a draw.

The best poem was the poet’s own poem,
Read by the woman from the spiritual center
About a time when the poet and his very Jewish father
Went to the local Catholic Church,
Something shocking all in itself,
To help the priest untangle and string the Christmas lights.
I don’t recall the specifics of the poem
But it was very dead poet-like
And involved allusions to light
And color
And Prometheus,
who stole fire from the gods
and gave it to humanity.
It was a lovely poem.
I even called it brilliant
Which, of course, the poet liked.

Afterwards, we found ourselves sitting at a table
In a Serbian café drinking kava,
Charming the young waitresses,
And drawing the attention of other patrons
Who were amazed that foreigners were among them
And wouldn’t believe the poet when he told them
He was dead
Although they promptly brought him
A tray of peeled garlic cloves
And conveyed numerous facts
About the garlic’s healing properties
And how easy they were to propagate,
Which inspired the dead poet
To put one of the cloves in his pocket
For planting when he got home.

We were next in a hotel lobby
Where a poetess was giving a reading
That was impossible to hear
Over the din of the crowd.
So the poet moved as close to her as he could
While I went off to find a new pen
With which to write the amazing poem
I knew was within me
About my encounter with a dead poet,
who I knew well.

You cannot imagine
How hard it is to find a good pen
With just the right sharpness
To create a good poem
No matter how many stores you visit.

I say flautist
And she says flutist
She says well dressed
And I say nudist
Flautist
Or flutist
Well dressed
Or nudist
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see

She likes the high notes
And I say play low
She wants more rhythm
And I want more show
High notes
Or low notes
Rhythmic
Or slow
She’ll take her clothes I know

She likes being well draped
And I like her bare
She is socially nervous
And I couldn’t care
Well draped
Or bare skinned
Socially nervous
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see

She lives in a small town
Her needs are quite few

She was perfectly happy
Until she met you
Small town
Or needy
Self conscious
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see

I say it’s Paris
And she says Pari
She says, it’s no go
And I say we’ll see
Paris or Pari
Le no go
Or oui
She’ll take her clothes off for me

She plays the classics
And then plays the blues
She is red headed
And there go her shoes
Classics
Or blue notes
Red headed
Or gray
She takes her clothes off … hooray.

blood, blood, irrational blood flowing through my gates
down my thighs useless and hysterical.

what shall we do with this blood

are we in control or are the fates?
here, i shall paint your face with my blood,
draw blessed archaic symbols
on the walls of your arms and legs
remind us of the hunt, the sustenance we need.

i call upon you to taste me
as we smooth the way
for your
dna  

to come inside me
when the blood is flowing

and it is safe to welcome these eager explorers,
this advance party of terrestrial observers
who shall all die in their service to the queen.  


yes, i shall conspire with you
to send forth another party of your henchmen

your visionaries
inside the road to the sacred city
I shall welcome them passed these holy gates
to meet my ancestors and my future 

to become the entire history of our species
to merge, to reemerge
potential bearing potential being potential
and for some while,

for the first time in a quarter of a century,

all this blood shall cease.