I’ve met a pastor named Shandy
And vicar named Brandy
And a sister named Whiskey, it’s true
But for my tribulations
Across this creation
There’s but one thing that can get me through
For when I’m gone
And it’s rough
It’s that licorice stuff
That leads me to my life again
He’s a Greek
Never weak
He’s a cloudy-white freak…
Father Ouzo, forgive me my sins. Continue reading
Steve Translates a Hayren from the German Book that Mike Gave Him
I envy him, who with love
Escaping with his lover in arms
Barely over the broken bridge
They leave but none of their charms
Rime and snow carries their steps
Their trail, to blur and harm
He finds his way to gardens
And love was new and warm
There are nineteen poems that never existed
Nor will they ever exist
They are locked between pages
In a library of never were
Shelved with forgotten thoughts
You can shout silently all you like
But you’ll never read them
Of course, you know this
And you ache anyway.
“I have come from the River,” he said.
“The road you follow, you wayward, you vincible
Beasts of the market, creatures of principle
Your derivative ideas and stale-word play
Are fed with stark sentences staged on layaway
Your deluge is paragraph, drowning in monograph
The richest of soil seeded with chaff
Is desert; what is grown soon deserted
Not concerted but lonely reworded
Water is muddled for want of better letter
Undrinkable vinegar thirsting for weather
To wash clean obscene dreams
With waves are not of the hurt in me!
Let your lungs fill with the perfectly
Wrought liquid of harmony
From your throat, the words for your aching
Song of salvation written for waking
Anointed anon to bear new dawn…”
“Absalom, Kevork,” he whispered. “Absalom.”
Master Librarian 