Pinky's TPLO Physical Therapy Song

She's my sweet little girl.

She's my Pinky baby Sue,

I love that little doggy,

tell you what I'm gonna do,

gonna kiss her on the snout,

gonna toss her ears about,

gonna tell her that I love her,

and there's no doubt.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,

 little doggy rescue,

you'll never wear a ribbon,

but don't be blue.

You'll never make the cut,

you little mixed breed mutt,

but if the prize was precious, girl,

you'd kick their doggy butts.

She's my sweet little girl.

Oh, Pinky baby Sue,
I know you love me, too,
because you roll in human poo...

(Continue adding absurd words to  

the rhythm of pets and slow scratches.)

View from the Philosopher's Cot

Get up!  Get up, Xanthippe!
Off your knees, girl.
Take that crying child away,
that mewling half-cat of a creature
cradled in your arms,
that unfeathered little bird.
Why, look,
these men record my words!
Noses long to be led by this finger!
The gold I have, I leave to you:
follow Pythagoras: abstain from beans:
women should not pass gas.
That's all you really need to know.
Now, take your puking child and go.


(Poems by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, 1986; Sou'wester, Southern Illinois Univ, Fall, 1988) 

A Walk through Notre Dame

I feel the weight of these stones,
God in this half-light.
I walk a groove smoothed by footsteps
of popes and kings,
Joan of Arc,
Bonaparte.
There is only the sound of slow feet
below hush-mumbles of foreign voice,
and yet, I hear music,
a dirge as weighty as the one
warping from Dickinson's slant of light,
the same slant that now stares
through stained glass
like laser eyes of Our Lady.
I suffer hope in candles
and the roots of candles gone.
The scent of burning wax
struggles to bless me,
bless mankind,
and all the cardinals lying
face up beneath their images,
bone below stone,
awaiting that first crack of rapture.
I climb the Colitre side of the double helix,
steps dished out by the feet of ancients,
German soldiers, and travelers like myself,
who squeezed up the stair,
black hole,
throat of time,
blind and a step behind each other,
to empty out among the stars,
above the clamor of the square,
the flesh of Paris,
sirens on St. Michel,
and newspapers fluttering
a failure at Reykjavik.
I slip my arm around a bony waisted gargoyle,
rest my head on his hard shoulder:
even these stones will awaken to cry out.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, March 8, 1987)

If Wishes were Porsches

If bankers were philanthropists
and poor men wore their chains;
if doctors took the bus to work
and lawyers made no claims;
if politicos weren't paid so much
and teachers were paid more,
perhaps this ship we're sinking in
would ground on Palaian shore.

Our corpulent mate, the corporate state,
is in the crow's nest now,
and he may see the mango tree,
but I see HERE AND NOW, BOYS.
I see HERE AND NOW.



(Poet's Corner, Arkansas Democrat, August 28, 1983; Pen Name: Ezra Katz)

East 9th Street

It's no longer there,
a street where
dark and light converged
to exchange intensities
beneath the warm grey fringe
of street lights
and greetings,
honey,
sugar,
baby,
were breathed
through full red lips,
the window halfway down,
ensuing discussions
of money and worth,
promises to delight,
or the quality of
certain brain foods,
a guaranty to kick your
mind free of its manacles,
stolen goods,
the dark alley of commerce,
street corner stock exchange,
must move from time to time.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, December 8, 1985)

Decision Trees

Loves are not to be harried
out and hung on decision trees,
romantic manifestos not withstanding.
Neither is truth limbed out there,
hanging like some vast fat apple of odds
to be twisted off and eaten by ungods,
epistemology and metaphysics
dripping down their chins,
and beauty can no more hang there
than hangs the perfect nose.
Odds on art will not play,
but, nevertheless, are played,
stretched out toward the recto side
and even off that page.
Rainbows don't, and willows won't,
but, wait, look at the stars!


(Kaleidoscope, The Sentinel-Record, January 19, 1985) 

Dead Matter

I am dwarfed by this
dead matter,
arc my eyes down a running
rainbow curving off her fingertip,
a pot of gold there, through
her hair now, quickly,
a flip,
and I continue:
Robinson is either lying about
Central America,
or he is stupid.
She shrugs, looks
over her shoulder at
a man walking, tall man,
toward the bathrooms.
There is a poem, I say,
by Alex Comfort concerning
freedom...
What? she frowns.
I like your nails, I say.
Thanks, she smiles, I cried
when I broke
this one.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, April 26, 1987)