With more skat
than a stray cat
can poke his eyeballs at
the punk
in the Midnight Choir
starts to twist and shout
Yet …
the All in All
all too beautiful
for even a bird on a wire
to sing about
Like that
concert hall in Vienna
where your lips
were so warm and wet
Getting a feel
of the real deal
… that love thing
Upon a mission
a royal commission
seeking foremost
the rock solid Kingdom
It all starts from within
Seizing the living moment
Best be in it
to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
To find truth
without love
or at least a trace
of faith and hope
like trying to climb
the highest peak
of Mount Everest
naked
without oxygen
or even a rope
Not saying it can’t be done
but man …
sounding much like
a clanging gong
in the Temple
of a world gone wrong
Or have I found
that love thing?
From the mire
of the dire basement
that we’re standing in
try as you might
to sight the heavens
across the endless skies
Far better
in the light
seeing the world
through heaven’s eyes
Heart and Soulful
Holy Mindfulness
is the rightful place
where we all belong
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I too
have tried
in my way
to be free
If it be your will
then let it be
Yet
here on earth
they sentenced me
to forty years of mayhem
for spying
the celebrants
of sin
Tell me
where does
this world end
and the next begin?
Because
I don’t like your
toxic culture mister
And I don’t like
the choir
you’re singing in
I don’t like Big Brother’s
twisted little sister
The King
of everything
He’s coming back
He’s coming to reward them
The King of hearts
and minds
the Prince of Peace
returning
But first
we seek the Kingdom
Then let freedom ring
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’ve been buried
and I’ve been dug up
I call it grace amazing
You called it dumb luck
And thank you
for those items
that you sent me
The stone monkey
and the ink
under my skin
I’ve tunnelled
towards the light
and now I’m ready
First
we occupy the Kingdom
then
let the revolution begin
Yes … Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water
Seeking the lost at sea
and the drowning
The stranger
the gambler
and me
And Leonard Cohen
he’s sailing on
to the Tower of Song
Through all
the rise and fall
the pulp fiction
from hell’s kitchen
I really like
to walk
that tightrope, baby
I really like
to hear
those Sirens sing
But to see that nightmare
of deception
prowling through creation
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom starts with
Remember me?
I use to to live
without rhyme or reason
Remember me?
I plugged your Hi-Fi in
You loved me as a loser
You’d hate
to ever see me win
With Christ Jesus
my ship has finally
come in
No longer tied
to a kitchen chair
With a Glory
and a broken Hallelujah!
But first
we take the Kingdom
Losing it all to win
And Leonard Cohen
he’s moved on
to the Tower of Song
I’m counselled
by a whisper
from the heavens
Once I was blinded
by visions in a spin
Now it’s …
So long Chicken Maryland
That frozen turkey
who nearly did me in
For now I’m guided
by the beauty of creation
and a thirst
for the Kingdom
where I first heard
those angels sing
Jesus told us
yes he told us
Kingdom begins within
And Leonard Cohen
he’s singing along
from the Tower of Song
~ by David B. Redpath © 2017-20
Artwork;
‘La Musica Sacra’
~ by Luigi Mussini
Photography:
David B. Redpath © 2017-20
David Redpath 
I think she called him, Doll-Baby
it wasn’t a relationship
it was ownership
subservient
a landscape
without a
horizon
modern life in Placebo City
human beings as objects and abstractions
human beings who retreat to the Torah or the Bible
to connect with individuality and wholeness, actual equilibrium
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reality had me squeezed like a tube of toothpaste
I was spitting nails, spitting nails like a big dog
down on my knees confessing my love
and she was releasing internal fumes
Placebo City, Lost River Township
a haven of resentments
mutual rage
ultimatums
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the intimacy of the river and death
lovers intoxicated with the constant flow
nightly the moon was watching them naked
sometimes licking their surfaces
leaving them consciously wet
more wet than Eve
after Adam
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the crazy people down the avenue
think suffering is sweet
their children write
school papers
on death
suffering is lukewarm
while death is boiling
the night girls crawling on Christ
crawling on Christ on the cross
desperate for the seed
what if they were
to give birth ?
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one arm cries for mercy
the other for justice
mercy rewards the winner
and neglects all others
ordinary people
water down the drain
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Imagine all the people
Feed from greed
Sharing and caring
Like sisters and brothers
Doing for one another
As if done for one self
All selfishness
Pride and arrogance
Left upon the shelf
The love of life
In every breath
Crystal clear
Without guilt or fear
Transparent and honest
It would seem
Till that Kingdom come
True feedom is but a dream
As Planet Earth is ruled
By a serpent of stealth
And prideful bitterness
Yet the One who redeems
Sheep gone astray
Will one sweet day
Return to free us
And that’s a Jesus promise
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sporadically, the balls would demand release
the team loved the Homerun Stud
no round peg
in a square hole
conventional
sometimes Greek
a reach-around, a warm gentle tug
what kind of guy would turn down a friend ?
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all this suffering
so the serpent
can shed
another
layer
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Much wizardry
was the done thing
in the House of Slytherin
My old friend Salazar
considered by most
to be strange and bazaar
was always high on the stuff
But his sorcery could only
take him so far
so he took the next step
from witchcraft to a fast car
The rest is history
Rest in peace
my old friend Salazar
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in a room with other men
many missing an ear
dog bites
knife fights
some cut their own noses
exterior information
conflicts with existing intentions
on a free ride
paying a heavy price
something sucks the chrome off
your shiny halo
your little private Jesus
he’s been diverted
to the less desirable
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solitude gnawing away
a simple call to the night porter
entropy—it is just too much
you repeat yourself
the night porter knows the ladder
he delivers uniqueness
he says, “something to separate you, Michael”
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consume the poison
all those strong locks on the floor
money escaping the wallet
nothing marring happiness
I have my ladder, Daddy
previous anxieties
no match for the attack dogs
the night porter floats in
he knows my level
not giving a shit
about surviving
do some more
never enough
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No talk and all action
in a world of blind reaction
The condition was cursed
by a dose of pre-existence
Grasping with greed
and bitterness
the Golden Breed
of feudal economics
and those broken spies
of trickle-down lies
all in the pandemic grip
of a global fever
There’ll be time for justice
when the stock market crashes
and sickness is forever banished
along with herpes and skin rashes
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my grandparents are still in the coal mines
they look away
little rich boy
they like so many others
cannot understand the value
of standing on flesh and blood
to survive on the frontiers of prose
colleagues with elephant dongs proud
lesbians afraid of the competitive arena
eventually they stray beyond the limits
details and depth unimaginable
genital puzzle-solvers
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The human graphic
lost in the dream
of an Escher scene
The degeneration
all processed and fossil fuelled
for the pleasure
of Narcissus the Extreme
with a declaration of war
from the Night Manager
“We Are All In This Together,
so no better time to surrender.”
Cosmetic mutations
on exhibition
with genitalia inflated
and degraded
… depending on the weather
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WHERE ARE THOSE ASS WIPES FROM LAST NIGHT ?
dental work with the dong
nothing less than a luxury sedan
sitting in the backseat
reading, A Revised Standard Version of the Reader’s Digest Bible
a heterosexual Aurus Senat luxury sedan
poetry gleaned from the sacred scriptures
tantamount
the backseat of a luxury sedan
autonomous actualization (Aurus Senat)
a complex symphony at your fingertips
sequences of fingering
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she was wearing her wedding day bra minus a cup
it was mobile home park but sort of different
one breast up, the other down
perfect thing for a Multiple
two pillows under the butt
my favorite ladder
“Daddy Ladder”
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quiet sex
an atmosphere of remoteness
she was thinking about dying in her sleep
she was thinking about her soul surging up
a fountain filled to the brim with her salty love
—————why did she hook up with a Multiple ?
he was closing down sex
jism was leaking down
near the sewer hole
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so in love with oneself
to break away to say “farewell”
damages that which seals the cocoon
that which withstands the insecurities
recognizable shadows drift about outside
autograph hounds and narrative detectives
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as a Multiple, I must talk the talk, walk the walk, carry a knife
scrape away at the mindless organic matter of everyday
FLORIDA: a vast impersonal background
an extraordinariness inherent where
our Lady Moon warms her toes
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As a rascal
a rascallion of oblivion
seeking the sanctuary of Nirvana
I spoke softly
and carried a big stick of Buddha
It was my big stick ideology
of alien diplomacy
The multiple was in the detail
of explosive theology
The hellion of destruction
was riding high
on a rising swell of anticipation
till the guardian angel
whispering words of wisdom
in a voice ringing
with multiple choice
rang the half time bell . . .
“Do not roast
like a meatloaf.
The time is nigh
to hit the trail.
So go saddle up
for some hot lovin’
Armageddon with the lot
like a bat out of hell.”
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Having just crossed the border
I headed straight to Miami
and the Clevelander Bar
for an icy cold beer
The bartender
warned me
to beware
and that
Florida
was
where
the Multiple
Michael variant
had gone rampant
I told him I didn’t care
No vaccination under the sun
can hold back a mega solar flare
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as a Multiple I don’t show up in photographs
sometimes children draw me on walls
people say mean things
and close doors to my face
the librarian has given me a dozen names
I am a Multiple, I come and go but not as I please
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As a singular
point of conciousness
I fell through a hole
in the fabric
of this temporal universe
after taking a hungry bite
like a tiger of the night
into the jugular of existence
But every singular rascal
is like a settin’ sun
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“Consciousness, no matter how
extensive it may be, must always
remain the smaller circle within the
greater circle of the unconscious, an
island surrounded by the sea; and,
like the sea itself, the unconscious
yields an endless and self replenishing
abundance of living creatures, a wealth
beyond our fathoming.”
~ Carl Jung
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Multiples toss stones at singulars
tell them to return to the other side
where educated men in expensive suits
collect funds and operate the toll booth gates
THE JUGULAR OF EXISTENCE
rendered rare moments
where the mighty tiger
damages the sky fiber
non-human agents
busy with repairs
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. . . a glasshouse of the abstract
where Pablo vents dissatisfaction
at the muses he’s disassembled
whilst seeking hidden meaning
from the Ladies-in-Waiting
A genius Minotaur
trapped in a bullring
by order of the Spanish Inquisition
as the Salvador and Diego Velázquez
take a guided tour of creation
Vermeer and Van Gogh were there
waiting at Singular Station
in the white room where it all began
with a refraction of the Holy Spectrum
El Greco was as mad as hell
He really didn’t care to go
but he got caught up in the undertow
after a night at the Honeymoon Hotel
in a room with a view of Placebo
Las Meninas has a toll booth hidden
under a Lady-In-Waiting’s skirt
Picasso spent a lifetime searching for it
From behind a golden baroque canvas
Diego Velázquez is quietly watching
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chicks with dicks were selling potato salad and club crackers
outside the racetrack , one could have extra mustard,
extra boiled eggs, even red potatoes on demand
I asked the best looking one of the bunch
if he/she knew any Bible stories
he/she said, “listen Honey,
if you’re wanting some
hanky-panky, you’re
going about it
all wrong”
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At a nightclub in Phuket a girly boy
came up to me saying there’s nothing
like a good spanky, and that the back
of my hand would do nicely.
I was on my honeymoon, with Linda
back in the hotel room, so I declined
politely. Plus, there were plenty of
Russian tourists about, who just can’t
resist a session with a whip or a belt.
In Thailand it don’t take much money.
The humble Russian Ruble can buy you
plenty of Asian trouble.
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it was all about becoming less of a trespasser
less and less horse-trading
with Khrushchev
who had his prostate
cut out twice and replaced
it talked in a strange tongue
not Robert Frost but close enough
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TODAY, Abe Lincoln was seen floating downstream
all kinds of gossip sprang forth
People claimed that he was gay
others said that he just liked sleeping with men
truth was, he did like sleeping with men
that same-sex relationships
were different back then
that males
could be affectionate
with one another and remain nonsexual
(+) except for cowboys and sailors and real men
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I don’t really give automobiles away
people just borrow them
and never return
the night porter
GUILTY
phone calls from South America
they’ve discovered my pride and joy
slightly damaged and missing an engine
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Elvis gave a Cadillac
to each of his bodyguards
No walking in Memphis
for King Presley’s entourage
My Chevy ’57
now lies in pieces
at that Tennessee garage
where the mechanic
he’s always busy
fixing other people’s cars
I leave angry messages
saying what parts to scavenge
from the chop shops
of Placebo Town
and that I’m in a hurry
… but deep down
I know he really cares
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absorption into a generalized Placebo Town
smoking and the layer of semi-trance
shadows outside
insubstantial beings
watchful
any clue of anything
other than lifeless life
(+) standing on ladders under heaven
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is that the ladder
where you step
on some mother’s back
but that’s alright
he’s some kind of snake
so stomp it hard
for heaven’s sake
Placebo Town is impatient
and the Sheriff can’t wait
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trauma with scabs
from a childhood
gifts of darkness
enough fingers
to make a fist
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Walking around
feeling like I’d just
got out of prison
My clothes don’t fit right
and I suspect they’re
ten years out of fashion
I can’t shake the feeling
a truck load of shit
is about to go down
But then …
they don’t want you
getting too comfortable
in Placebo Town
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at the Placebo Honeymoon Hotel
the bride may request a room
with a cot in the closet
and a hardcore lock
a space to be safe
(+) at what price ?
downstairs in the lobby
strangers eyed one another
perhaps measuring desperation
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Who needs
a Yoga class?
PLACEBO TOWN
way down south
in the Great State
of Nothingness
is the first choice
and last resort
for the busy desperado
on the go.
Always remember
. . . Cleanliness
is next to Nothingness.
So clean compulsively
as you drink responsibly
or we’ll be forced to turn
that smile upside down.
Placebo Town
is often mistaken
for a state of existence
where the trains always
run on time.
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Noah on his majestic Ark (+) like a ghost daddy
floating over the bones (+) like a ghost daddy
of a zillion creatures
love washed clean
new DNA
past history free
and yet, trespassers were soon to arrive
at first only coming out at night
cigarettes and negro music
big bottom baby machines
(+) got no sleep for the sounds of birth
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A lucky few
Neanderthals
were spared
the great deluge
Behind the gates
of Placebo Town
is where they
found refuge
As the rain began
falling down
they all climbed up
the Tower of Babel
Without a care
they’re been
squatting there
ever since
amongst the rubble
Every now and then
they’ll go
on an outing
to do some shopping
The Placebians
they meet
think hippies
with big hairy feet
Yetis busking
or something?
In Placebo Town
there’s always
plenty furry freaks
out on the street
just hanging around
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I asked Noah
“how many ways are you going to put me down ?”
he’s reduced me till I got no substance
Placebo Christians promise Heaven
but I see them stuck on stakes
the Holy Ones on ladders
reaching up
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Vlad the Impaler
is the Patron Saint
of Placebo Town
Whenever you say
a little prayer to him
try not to faint
as a shiny spike rises up
from the stony ground
and pins you to the sky
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the mechanical rhythms of the Honeymoon Hotel
sexual abstinence
thought of as northbound in the southbound lane
reproduction, the weak and lesser warping
fallen nature hidden away
sin growing on it like a second skin
the Michael splits apart
I am him and I am others
I am a multiple
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I am the Solo Man
drinking lemon fizzy
out of an aluminium can
Mister Marlboro
the high sheriff
of Placebo Town
tried many a time to kill me
with nothing but
a cigarette in his hand
He said it was a crying shame
that I shot up his deputy
Since when is it a crime
to drink the wine
of an exotic poppy?
To then fly like an eagle
to the realm of cold turkey
Toxic it may be
but a Solo Man
needs to fly free
be he a turkey or an eagle
Next they’ll be trying
to ban stupidity!
In a land where nothing is real
you can gamble your life away
at the Honeymoon Hotel
In Placebo Town
it is perfectly legal
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the enemy addicted to tricks and jokes
but upon close examination
nothing of that nature
was discovered
indiscriminate good and evil, yes
stable for wild creatures locked in cages
circumstantial evidence, twice sniffed turds
Alice Cooper sings about the dead baby
me Pops called it a Thanksgiving turkey
just the taste of meat, it made us violent
the ugly face, the unclean soul
conditions that encouraged
Noah to struggle
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The collateral damage
Once mighty players
now pitiful war veterans
following a mirage
to the edge of reality
God damn the torpedoes
and their computer games
That Battle of Crazy Ouija
has caused many to flee
the Citadel of Singularly
for the Temple of Polyanomaly
where Sister Superior
makes them a nice cup of tea
and tucks them in tight
after kissing them goodnight
Since Super Mario
the Psychedelic
and the Neo-Multiplicity
burnt old Nirvana Down
and made Placebo Town
the new Cosmic Capital
things just haven’t been
the same under the reign
of President Neanderthal
Sometimes I wonder
just who is and isn’t sane
I guess only time will tell?
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no-goods and bums
relatives that dine
with the poison
on the table
relatives with tongues
that ooze and crawl about
wine and dine, pay them no mind
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out at night with no mirror to reflect
the proud creature
that needs not a dictionary
to define instincts
predators in the shadows
waiting for the strong
to sacrifice the lesser
or the odd
(+) unity with others is forbidden
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to hell with words
as the ultimate vehicle
of artistic communication
laboriously squeezed out turds
were passed around at the poetry workshop
(+) receptive poets were surprisingly fascinated
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http://videos.sapo.pt/EZNZizOUtzpQctOD4U1U
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“It is the poet’s job:
to name the nameless, point out the
frauds, take sides, arouse discussions,
shape the world and prevent him from
falling asleep.”
~ Salman Rushdie
“Stories are among the most intimate
and personal things we have. Stories
touch the imagination and are deeply
implanted in one’s psyche and
consciousness. Without stories there
can be no culture. Without stories there
can be no imagination. Without an
imagination there is no vitality to human
existence. Without that vitality humans
are mere robots to be programmed,
pacified, and subjugated into parasitic
consumers.”
~ Paul Krause
“That is the mystery about writing:
it comes out of afflictions, out of
the gouged times, when the heart
is cut open.”
~ Edna O’Brien
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vertical uplifts at the truck stop
preoccupations
what makes a man a man
and all the rest
just inhabitants
the attention of man
is forced inward
to escape with vividness
and intensity
(+) I have argued my whole life
that Placebo Town
is NOT geographically misplaced
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Bob Dylan was asked to be the new inspector
of a pedagogical seminary
in the blondes of Placebo
he could wear the skins
of Swedenborg
he could make Rosicrucian valentines
for American presidents
the world was his
if only he would help
return society
to Christianity
Bob Dylan was offered the Light of Adam
an exit from all the base, earthly perishable matter
———————-and what did he answer this man, Bob Dylan ?
———————-and what did he answer this mighty young one ?
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I’ve stumbled on the side
of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled
on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle
of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front
of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles
in the mouth of a graveyard
I heard the sound of a thunder
that roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave
that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers
whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’
and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve
I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet
who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown
who cried in the alley
I’m a-goin’ back out
‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths
of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many
and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison
are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley
meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face
is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly,
where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color,
where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it
and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain
so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean
until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well
before I start singin’
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
And that ain’t all, according to Bob
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in hell one suffers most
the constrictions of space
and temperature
and a constant menu of
horse hair spaghetti
in a constant crawl
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To the great pleasure
of the night manager
Montero Lamar Hill
is the star cabaret performer
at the Honeymoon Hotel.
Lil Nas X will sign autographs
for anyone who asks,
with a promise to do an encore
of his latest number one hit,
‘Mocking at the Devil’s Door’.
Montero owes it all,
his fame, fortune, and more,
to growing up dirt poor
in a town called Placebo.
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hired to knock on doors
and ask for names
of suspect killers
serial killers
every door
I knock on
they say the same thing
“try to take my guns
and you can add
my name”
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a pocket of horse hair spaghetti
reality reduced to a constant crawl
knocking on doors in the dark
asking one simple question
die today or die tomorrow
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hell is labor-intensive
millions of people to employ the spinning wheels
that cover the surface of earth with negative vibes
belching smokestacks
children picked up from barter
rickets (stained skeletal deformations)
older kids had to lay down to swallow
————the battlefield apprenticeship
soldiers dead having never tasted chocolate
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The Catoptromancer of Mass Media
at the Placebo Town Hall of Mirrors
is the overseer of modern culture
Astral stimulants have colonised
the conciousness
of the Black Order Mutants
who stand upon the shoulders
of psychotic giants
Life coaches with machine guns
Warrior Priests and Suicide Sisters
hang about the tattoo parlours
where drowning sailors go
Saint Germain’s journalist without borders being unceremoniously
cut to pieces by the Lords of Pseudo
Social media in a cocktail shaker
suspended in pornographic jello
Plastic shamans on synthetic peyote
In Placebo Town
life itself is a viral pandemic
Pablo Picasso dreaming Don Quixote
We are all in this picture together
Self portraits seeking a portal
to a landscape immortal
Norman Rockwell forever
painting the Girl at the Mirror
The catoptromancy of humanity
… a full length fantasy
cut short with terminal velocity
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I was excited
to finally taste chocolate
having served
my apprenticeship
at the Factory of Civil Unrest
where I was incited
to self medicate
and violently protest
for universal peace
The world
doesn’t fully appreciate
the taste of chocolate
as it dishes up
yet another confected mess
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a valentine from Lorena Bobbitt
things that disappear
I have nothing to fear
time and time again
the scab grows
a head
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Happy wife🌹Happy life
At the Honeymoon Hotel
Lorena is going to need
a much bigger knife ⚔️
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as a small child in hell
I was constantly reminded
to not visit the root cellar
(root cellar in hell)
galvanized milk jugs
full of spit
church people traded them
for kisser balm
the religious lips were busy
talking up the Lord
and everything up above
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Jesus spent some time
in the root cellar
apparently for the crime
of being fully human
But he got out early
since he’s totally divine
When it comes down
to the enigma of desire
everyone in Placebo Town
is secretly guilty
and curious as hell
ever since Salvador Dali
set their giraffes on fire
at the Honeymoon Hotel
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naked Italian girls riding scooters
on the sidewalks of hell
their buttocks
rubbing the
concrete
deep in the recesses
sepia and cherry tinted browns
upside down you could see their pee holes
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just think of the lucky grooms
who were popping a nut
as Dali set the giraffes
on fire
(+) the smell was so strong that it warped
the flavors in the wine cellar
================================
employees at the Honeymoon Hotel
live in their head
live in the flesh
daydream about shedding their skin
a cancellation of the old self
things that are not what they seem
confrontations with mathematics
new and unfamiliar uses
the loneliness of mathematics
often judged and evaluated
inside a looney bin
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You may catch a glimpse
of the virgin bride
at the wedding feast
but one thing you can count on
… you must never touch.
Not even at the Honeymoon Hotel.
The dichotomy
would be just too much.
It has ever been such,
the beauty of geometry
versus the tyranny
of mathematics.
Enlightenment
or the Accountant,
with no taste for chaos.
Plato seeking perfection
amongst the good, the bad,
and the boring.
The artist, the poet,
the musician, the dreamer,
all under a geometric spell.
But the night manager
has something special
brewing in the root cellar
at the Honeymoon Hotel.
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funny how the butt cheeks get tight
at the mention of a lab high
blue ice, blue crack, root cellar meth
Daddy holds up the towel
underwear down
however blue the sky
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pseudonyms
rubbing ecstatically
becoming autobiographical
barely fictionalized
vulgar hygiene
shit stick
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out there on the road
still on the bottle
people ask
why I write my name
wrong
three years old
with wings
and a heart of gold
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Camilla lifting a lifetime
holding it above her shoulders
a strong woman
Diana dropping eggs
steer clear of Elton John
he will think less of you
once you are dead
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Easter Sunday at the hospital
asking for volunteers
to dig graves
“so sorry gents, I’m too short”
sleeping in a bed
underneath
all rhythm of movement
communication in the grave
pure suggestion
nothing chiseled
nothing finished
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I saw an old man
at the shopping mall food court
with his head bowed down
praying over his jelly donut.
He had survived another passover
in this God forsaken Placebo Town.
Amazing grace, or just dumb luck?
The waitress just shook her head
as passersby stared on in shock.
A security guard soon approached
brandishing a gun, a baton,
and a killer frown.
Like a vulture, cancel culture
had come to town.
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Easter Sunday in the hospital
holding my hands tight
to ease the loneliness
I wrote a letter to Leonard Cohen
like children write Santa Claus
the transit after death
travel but never arrive
the glow of paradise
so bright
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colors undercut by health
repeated references
holy men standing on ladders
a thousand keys
and no luck
descriptions of loneliness
a Multiple holding himself
watching men with strong limbs
dig graves in the field down below
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when Leonard Cohen walked by
the immediate world
became silent
HE WAS THE MAN
people talk about needing a man
no matter who their man
he cries but he don’t sing
all alone
a Multiple
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