Artisan by Dan Joyce
The King Flower
I am the king flower, the dandelion waiting, the orchid the poppy pollinating. I am the wolf poppy I cry in the night desperate for sleep. I walk unknown hours in the late summer sleep, the lunar eclipse, the blood moon. Where is she forever? When does the madness go back to dream? To surrealist whisper to stream of conscious orgasm? Who is she my love and where does he cry virtue? How loud? How unheard forgotten? I met her on a Sunday I met her in the afternoon, I met her slowly dancing in a fantasy, in reality, she stroked my beard. Do not love as Christ does, only protect yourself, but call it government! I am the gentle gypsy impoverished artistic poetic. And who Is she my love? And what is companionship without ego? Without hatred? Without love? I am the King Flower, sniff my perfume, adore my beauty!
Oh to the rhythm to the rhyme
Who shall we call her? The one that was love, the love that Jesus spoke that the poets wrote that the Beatles sang that is vicodin and rum and disaster. To whom shall I sing now? To whom shall I write? To whom are the rhythm and the rhyme, she is Amy, she is Amber, he is Brian, he is Michael, he Is Joe. They are my muse my forgotten passion of the poem. O’ to the rhythm and the rhyme, to Emerson and Thereau, to the Buddha, to Rumi, to Plato. From the darkest depths of drunkenness to the wine that was his blood. I am the apostle sacrifice my body is my bread. O’ to virtue and justice and America and all that other bullshit raised by the Pledge of Allegiance the Our Father the spare the rod and damn take the beating. O’ to the master thief the false prophet the robber baron the Tea Party the Cicinelli the pot smoke protestors still damning the mentally ill. O’ to prozac and Hitchcock to meaningful movies, to I love taffy and taffy loves my ass. O’ to Vogue to Cosmopoliton to woman looking at photos of woman wondering why? O’ to the death and destruction to the foreign capital interest, to the puppet government, to the Shaw, to Noriega, to Pinochet. O’ to the dissident to private meetings in random houses closed down and disappeared by the FBI to why are you a communist? An anarchist? A terrorist? Why don’t you watch football? Why don’t you shoot guns? Why don’t you like war? O’ to my God, have you failed me? You have failed me before. O’ to the rhythm of thousands of years from the Cuneiform to the bathroom wall. O’ to the rhyme.