Poem:  Debris

                                                              the imprint’s still there but it just doesn’t feel like home anymore

                                                                    yeah, tell me about it, but just don’t tell me she was raped by a swan

                  I mean, talk about a half remembered mythic method

                            I can’t even remember where I left it                             near Finnegan’s Lake            riverrun, past Eve’s and Adam’s

                                              sins of the sons are visited upon the fathers                    they had wars but not like these       did they ever ask the question

What we cooking for tea?      We could have Prometheus again.  We had that last Saturday.         I like it.

          But I can’t taste it anymore.

                                              Let’s see, ah yes, here we are:

                                                        three recipes for Prometheus (a lá Kafka)

                                                        first, secure firmly to large rock, add eagle and serve hot liver with vengeance

                                                        second, store in cool place until hardened into rock

                                                        third, freeze for centuries until

                                                                                                crystallized into meaningless

                                                                                                                                      serve cold and forgotten

Ah what do they know?

“The Romans were honest

they thought it was all

girls, grapes and snow.”

                  Why snow?  That seems an odd thing to say, right?  I mean

what about the women come and go and talk                                                                              these days it’s all I Am Legend without a hint of irony

                                                                                                                                                                                      Spin’s more dangerous

                                                                                                                                                                                              Myth more toxic

                                                            groundzeronineelevenwaronterrorbinladenbombingssuicide

          Ah, to dream perchance to sleep …        Brrng!  Brnng!

          No time for that sunshine, get up and go

          you’ve got that in you not like your father.

                Stiff from the night before and still drunk

                I shackle myself to the peddles and roll along quietly

                Only to return to gobbets of          that holds no        for me

                yes