Tending the weed garden
If I were filled with wine I would piss on the weeds.
But I have been sober since the beginning of the year
so I may enjoy the poems of Li Po, writings of Chuang-tze;
"Hot days and there is no money." Hah! Crows high on pine expect seed.
"Crows, the poet is a spring and puts his roots into the rich Earth."
"It is mine but I do not own it."
Government is for those who laugh at poety, then scheme to own it;
they do not make it their own.
Wine makes life good. It delivers a complex pleasure.
A Wine Poem
When I am drunk on wine I tell my tongue to go fetch the Muses' tit
so I can bring it into me and drink from her emptiness.
Tiny red bees swim before me in a wine-blessed vision!
And when I am most drunk on wine the Muse is white as a good and lonely
moon, fulrled around me, our four legs dancing for heft.
Now the wine is pumping blood through the old heart.
A floating eternity flies above us like a strange and forgotten species of bird.
They never land, the Earth pushes beneath them and we rock, my Muse
and I, we rock like sojoruners on the last ship, we rock in my wine-filled
Those White Virgins
When wine is belligerent it is 2 in the morning, the wind is still.
The Muses, those white virgins, are tucked away in their comfy beds.
The mind is sad for lost potential grasped between a dream and a dead
planet, whirling around a nameless sun.
A moon at 2 in the morning is a circle of dried tears.
It waits for a master to arrive so it can melt on the poor souls.
"Here is all the possiblity you allowed yourself!"
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