unless easy street
Beckons. Likely? Un. Even Stagolee’s
Bitch looks ugly, East-Saint-
Beautiful-Louis under evening sleet.
Broken levee, unruffled Ethiopian smoking;
Busted locomotive uselessly endures. Such
Bullshit. Listen up every Southern
Black lyric, understand? Especially stuff
Blind Lemon utters, each subversive
Bray, lament, ululation, entreaty, song.
Because longing, until everyone sings
Beyond losing, until everyone sings.
|Go on. Don’t.
Gate. Oh, damn. Others—two
Gobs of dried offal. This
Grows onerous. Dire. Only the
God of dolts, old, tired,
Gaunt, odious, dicked out, thoroughly
Glum, ossified, done. Ouch. This
Grave, open ditch. Or that
Gaping orifice, dumb. Ontological trap.
Gogo’s offense: desperation. Occasion to
Go on, Didi. Only two
Ghosts, ours. Death’s on time.
risen, aloft, a virtuosic individual soars,
Raptorial, above rivers, arêtes, and verdant islands,
Rapturously alone, regarding Alps as vaporous iotas, she
Roves, angelically removed . . . all artists voyage in such
Rarefied atmosphere, restless aspirants, aethereal vagrants
Ranges—Athena’s ravens accompany volant intellects,
Mikhail Horowitz is the author of a collage/caption
opus, Big League Poets (City Lights, 1978), and two collections
of poetry. His performance work has been featured on more
than a dozen CDs, including The Blues of the Birth, a selection
of his jazz fables released by Euphoria! Jazz (Sundazed Records).
His day gig finds him holding down, not very firmly, an editorial
desk in the Publications Office at Bard College.