Who is going to keep my ashes
when I go?
Childless
Familyless
Friendless
Who is going to keep my ashes
on their kitchen table
and think of me
each morning
With breakfast?
Category: Audio Poetry
MEAT
Meat is gravity
a dreamless state
pieces of death
there already in the beginning
and in all things
their essence.
Meat allows nothing to escape
and is empty of all but itself.
Meat consumes meat
becoming more meat
fleshier carcasses
duller slices of heads and legs
some younger
some more red.
The butcher is our friend.
And if we pretend
to aspire to other ends
with our many meat brains
meat guards meet us
at the door to the station
to disconnect the trains.
Fresh meat sizzles with notions,
take sides.
Lies slide from its bloodied hides.
Shapes abound.
Meat like meat likes to fry
in meat patties and on delegations
and in pairings that result in
baby meat who cry.
The meat parade began in time,
its womb the mirror, before
which we walked on air
part of the atmosphere
or flew
or were never there.
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A WORD ABOUT BUSINESS AS USUAL
People should be screaming out of windows
people should be kicking down doors,
jumping on flags,
shaking like epileptics!
How is this possible?
We have
nearly a million years of human evolution
and the standard line can still prevail:
“It’s mine!”
Well,
It’s not.
You have no right to it.
A spell is on
you,
which continues
generation after generation,
an afternoon darkness,
your robotic mind
clinging to a cliff of lies.
And your mouth that spits on
anything better
and shoulders that
shrug ugly
and bellies that stick out
like eggs.
And you want security?
This will not stand!
There is a Law that says:
This. Will. Not. Stand.
We will make sure
you understand this.
By train and by plane and by ship,
your skin will dissolve in fear.
You will breathe in the stinking corpses
of your children.
Your houses will crumble over you.
You will be availed of no
hope,
no future.
You will cry to the end
of your days
when you may finally
realize the Justice in this
for your atrocious
incomparable
stupidity.
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WHAT REMAINS
(for Anne Sexton) She carried her love into a whole other house leaving her splendid eye for detail in the world. Softer truths enfold her now, hopefully, there, out there with the stars she devoured. So, be kind to her. She was the best. Nobody bit into the darkness as prettily as Anne. Nobody mined the depths as courageously, to set down on the page in her own blood, open veins judged inappropriate by jealous academics. She was the real deal, the one who does not relinquish her quest, a craving for absence that gnawed and whined. Perhaps she felt its velvet glove already brushing past her bones, the witch’s invitation to a table dance. Come in Lay down your burden Lay down your burden Leave your flesh at the door This is a real party Regardless, what beckoned what called must have wafted stronger than a blood rose, promising marriage and peace, a stepping down, as she acquiesced to ride the slow carbon monoxide air home.
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LIFE WITH YOU
You are the blood in my every thought and motion
The essence of my dream
Your voice echoes softly in my sleep
You are the morning star to me
Your face is round and pretty
A mask of the sun
Even if I am almost over
I have only just begun
Our love has not been easy
The way has been obscure
We tried so many times to undo
What we were never sure
The future is your forté
You pursue it like a bitch
Will we go together
Into that abyss
Is this just a dream of love
Is it really real
Can I ever express to you
What I really feel
My heart is so weary
My mind is so upset
Though I have no regret
For what hasn’t happened yet
Will we meet again one day
On that special hill
And play again like children
Which we were once well
If not
It is just as good to be old with you
And mope and rub away our aches and pains
Many times or few
And have a word with you
As you go here and there
Tearing up the scenery
While I stay in the square
You know time is relentless
It takes you for a ride
Remember that beach we knew
Remember that morning tide
I wish us together there
In the early air
We join the endless ocean
Beautiful and fair
Our love means more than
Days and nights
Our lives are not just
Bits and bytes
Come
It is already light
Please
I don’t want to fight
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SURVIVAL AND SOME
He huffs and he puffs and he blows
The house down
He sings for his supper
He’s a rare clown
He has a girlfriend who hates him
She has good reason to
She calls him a transparent fake
And a certified Jew
Not a juggler or philosopher
He ever was
Not a lover of the lofty life
That was just buzz
He always salts his beans
and peppers his hair
He comes on time
And pretends to care
But he doesn’t really want
To save the world
That’s just a line
If the truth were told
He has a crush on Satan
Not a thing for Christ
He calls himself an agnostic
Unless it’s a bad night
He’s been a con-man forever
Never held down any job
He’s done time for nearly everything
And has no connection with the mob
Though you’d never suspect it
He has a tender side as well
He blows kisses to the moon
From his apartment in hell
His childhood was rather lazy
Though it’s gotten sort of hazy
His family was middle-rung
His mother was slightly crazy
His father was a barber
Who liked his steaks rare
His mother was a janitor
With a big pile of hair
As a boy he always played
On the wrong side of the track
As a girl he always played
With the leader of the pack
Then came the crash
In his late teenaged years
The suicidal mission
The solitude and fears
That landed him in the middle
Of a psychological ward
With old people who slobbered
While they played cards
This was just the place for him
To chill out and think
This was just the place for him
To get fat and pink
The doctors had the cure
For the illness in his head
Stringy food and pills
Yellow green and red
Which cheered him so much
He slowly exploded
Into the next century
All arsenic coated
He eventually straightened out
His curves and his kink
Went straight for the bottle
And started to drink
The years have not always been kind
to this boy
The poisons that he swallowed
The means he had to employ
To keep right on going
The measures he took
Were not easily come by
Were not found in a book
If it all works out in the end
It’s too soon to tell
He’s not dead yet
And he’s close to being well
What is true for certain is
That he’s paid his dues and some
What is less sure is why
He didn’t turn around and run
There isn’t much to gain
By beating a dead horse
There isn’t much left
Besides dying of course
Whoever may want to take a lesson
From this saga and this man
Might just as well forget about it
As fast as they can
Ron Kozloff 