BIO

Here's the deal.
Your mother holds your toes,
tush, etcetera,
bellywarm,,
until, fishwiggly,
you are expressed.

Where you were circle,
you now exist in squares;
repeat old oxygen;
labor old,
dying  of days.

Mid overkapping
atonalities
of manic car alarms,
the urban furies hurtle you
to choice of morgues.

Ending is expensive:
conveyor carpentry,
thickness of lilies,
going away music.
Candles are chosen.
Ministers earn.

Overcoats huddle under
a blooming of umbrellas.
A momentary
disturbance of earth.
Clods on the coffin.
Omega to mother.

 

 

 

 

 

HYMN  (HIM) TO PRINCESS DIANA

Your Thyness,
public blond sister,
royal neurotic of

smile tabloidal
and coif sustained
by old colonies:

channeled by Charon
in mangled Mercedes
to beauty salon

of endless chairs:
while printed millions
mourn your slim beak
in frontpage dolor.