Passions that Build up Our Human Soul
Passions that Build up Our Human Soul
Henri born of woman son of man
fisher of men catch as catch can
Sister Mercy brews a tea
as we’ve come ta party for a fee
happy to be here yet sore
from the ride let’s get a hammer
& nail your hide
O so sorry O so mad don’t
call the glee club they’ll pee
on your dad spritz the sun
spare the moon c’mon baby
juke to the tune
make some fun call the doctor
pour a rum now mercy
Sister run
He Heard the South Make Subterraneous Music
Henri wrote a poem about leaves
weeping willy those trees drooped
down caught the coons up
threw them squirrels around
plenty of action not so much tears
livin’ in Verginny gets old in a year
plectrum with the geetar clawin’
at the banjo bangin’ on a snare
ain’t no birds around here
“Tha’s okay my nuts are wound tite
better off y’all go look for a fight”
no jays on the ground so we hobble
a coot no trouble Sir Squirrel
we are gone up his snoot
In Earth and Heaven, in Glade and Bower
God has a plan it seems
up is down & thru is out
God has a plan for dreams
autopilot helmed to astral pout
lift up ur loins & case the joint
Henri has sensed the point
effortless & open like a mum
blossom then fall upon the lawn
In One of Those Sweet Dreams I Slept
dreams can be sad or dreams bad
whatever we wish sometimes have
beastly games get played on lawns
where absent friends move as pawns
Henri has congress then stays
on party garden alert
Mexican dreamers sate senators too
while reefer with the gaucho flirts
Bagpipers on Distant Highland Hills
goats’ hooves clak on st peter’s roof
beria is a misunder pissant
steinbeck loves the cards a little much
music stills the bathtub hooch
garland has a thing for wool
over the eyes pulled like a stole
goats’ hooves clak on st peter’s roof
topol is a misunderstood mensch
big eddie chews the pencil’s lead
st peter cards the poseurs too
By His Fire the Hermit Sits Alone
now we decide which is worse
to be burnt at the stake
while friends haggle in the bourse
and ignore our pain or to be baked
in brick ovens with our friends
–kind kindling coals and sparks spitting
while the world spins nettled yet silent
Flowers Laugh before Thee on Their Beds
some poets avoid the tribal chief
know that his whip will score
higher and harder than any lines
they can write to shame him
only Sarding Nuofu denies
Lord Mang and says these hands
will never touch the sky as long
as Mang’s flower stands
Yi Sha’s poetry would work
as well in Brooklyn and his cock
would attend Lincoln Center
and rise when Brünnhilde entered
beneath the sand mastabas hold
Hell at bay with doors that neither open
nor close unless you have the sesame
to oil their hinges then they swing
wide to let another music enter
from that world where Helen
& Faust play draughts for your soul
