cicada prayer

late August sun washes the people

out of the city

flotsam of human detritus on the avenue

bent old man, sweating, swearing,

obsessively scraping weeds from the sidewalk

and the bearded lady dwarf ranting at

nothing in the air

and me, some kind of wounded derelict

wandering the streets in the midday sun

but the cicadas song is more persistent now

righteous hum, autumnal voice of prayer

a petition and harbinger

of that great good time, and place

when the leaves and cicadas die

and the chilly winds breathe life again

into the city, into the streets

old stone

dig out an old stone with peculiar markings
fashion an archaic language, runic, before speech,
to recount the primordial hurt

hollow a log, or make a coracle or kayak
across the ancient starry river
do not count the suns or moons

a dark goddess will shield you from
sun's harsh light, in her cave sing to you
on the far side of the moon

you sing too, and write in the rock
while on the further island impotent demons
buzz and flash, fires in the sun

tattoo this poem

tattoo this poem on the back of your neck
and forget about it

years hence, when you're starving in your garret
or in the gutter
people will suddenly take note

"it's art!" "I'll buy it!"
and you'll be rich beyond your wildest dreams

you'll collect all the royalties -- unbeknownst to you,
scholars have been quoting it for decades
and rap artists remixing it

at 7 cents per citation
you can retire in style, buy a cottage on Bimini,
purchase a king-sized bed
and fill it with Chinese beauties

sure it's nice to be famous when you're young
how much better when you're old and jaded
having seen the world
no ambitions, or scruples, left to torment you

you Sirens

you sirens, yes
sudden on a Sunday afternoon

I decode sirens -- fire, police, ambulance,
homeland security
but you, siren, unique!
you ejaculate slowly, and wind, wind up!

this rural urban landscape
we have the cicadas, the locusts sing
presaging the gentle autumn

the golden autumn comes
and the slow sirens presage
the invisible transition

sirens get the listeners high
(although prose brings us down)
"like a field of sunflowers
a poem should not have to be explained"*

but you, Beats, liberate me
this Sunday afternoon, this primordial naptime
oh Sirens, sing me your endless songs of desire
on the islands, down in the streets

*Ferlinghetti