Three-layer Robber Baron
He wants to have his cake. He wants
to have his cake and eat it. Wants
his cake, to eat it, have two-thirds of
your cake, put in a monthly order
(delivered to a secret address) for
personal cake, and to be elected
King of Cake.Oh, and I won't mind if he just
has a tiny bite of mine, will I?
When he's so hungry, so deprived,
and I'm so very generous . . . .
The salpiglosis seems to be
dying, withering up beyond
recall, not just failing
to thrive, but dying, and I,
afraid to ask, to water,
not water, afraid to ask
in case I've already
done it, whatever it is
or was. The salpiglosis
is dying, I don't know
why, what I did or didn't,
the gorgeous, heart-rending
salpiglosis, common name:
Painted Tongue.
The conductor appears,
apparently. Applaud,
although you are seated
too high to see him.The dancers pause:
applaud.The orchestra pauses
briefly: be still.The star makes her first appearance:
clap.They milk the curtain calls:
keep clapping
anyway.Sculpture and painting ask nothing
unless you go with a friend
or, God help you,
the artist.It's not art:
it's other people.Read a book;
don't tell anyone.
Go to a movie
solo. Rejoice
in your VCR.As everyone rises
sit through
the invisible credits.Sit through
the standing ovation.
Alcoholism Is a Progressive Disease
Your life fills with
black holes
lies
broken veins
insults, bruises, bodies
you don't
rememberFall into the fish tank
seduce who comes to hand
dump anger
empty
all the glasses when the guests have goneYou can not be trusted
with the car keys
the phone
the children
you can not count beyond oneThe tank
is not the place we expected
to find the princess
blind crying wet
too shamed
locked up to puke to pissRoom service sends up
a paper
tells you what city what day
you shake gray heaves in
long for deathForget that
while you were out
they ripped off
your toenails
genie
of the bottle
dawn belly up
to the dog that bit you
slave of the ring.
--Susan Rawlins