Give Me Your

(c) The New Yorker, 1999.

Not like the Mother of Exiles,
Lifting her lamp beside the golden door;
Here at his walled-off, insular gate stands
A converted Walmart, whose wretched refuse
Is the vivisected child, and its name:
De facto criminal. From his braggart maw
Glowers world-wide warning; his white-rimmed eyes command
The windswept border that malicious ignorance surveils.
“Save, needy lands, your free breath!” growls he
Through spray-tanned lips: “Keep your pained parents, your raping hordes,
Your huddled hostages yearning to serve (and infest),
The suffering subjects of our wealthy stores,
Keep these: your tortured, tested, terrible tenants,
Or I’ll keep your children in my dungeon holds.”

Daphne, 1929-2015

Another year. Loving still.

Procrastinaction

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Do not look for me in the curve
or colour of the rainbow,
or in the pleasing shape
of a passing cloud.

Though I loved them,
I am still not in the small
petal of the lilac, or
the sweet spring scent of
the lily of the valley.

And you will not
find me anywhere
near the chiseled dates
and letters on those
gleaming plaques.

Do not worry.
When you need me,
you will find no search
is necessary.

I am already behind your eyes
and closer than your own skin.

Cry for us both now,
if you need to,
but know that,
still and always,

I will find you when
you’ve fallen
and help you again to stand.

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Frying Eggs

“He has what he claims

is a good track record.

All I can infer is that he

has learned to buy and sell.

And it is harder to

fry an egg than buy and sell.”

~Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Fooled By Randomness: The Role of Chance in Life and in the Markets.

Entertainment

“These must be, not chivalry, but poetry….these do not deserve to be burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do the mischief the books of chivalry have done, being books of entertainment that can hurt no one.”
~Don Quixote.

Three Times

“My theme is alwey oon, and evere was—Radix malorum est Cupiditas.”
~The Pardoner’s Tale.

And we together, wrought
by a thunderbolt of azure
eyes and snow white boots;
tales taught by a pompous
ass; and a love as giving as
a striking moon.

And I, hypocrite, solely
taking at every promise
to give only, proferring
failure to each eager hope,
loving desperately in
atonement for every
poisoned bottle and stab
at Death.

After three times a decade
in receipt of more than
just desert; still guarding
rotten relics like a cankered
banker; grasping like an aged
beggar for another day,
another hour in your company;
and never bearing to think
it profligate to assume.

Beloved, you are my full
compass. My sustenance,
my respite, and my cure.
The branch to my root,
the vein to my pooling blood,
the opening to my every door.

And greed–if my resilient,
teeming yen for you be such–
must coat my every evil organ
like the finest mist.

[for Julie]

Vegetarian Stew

Midnight yawned
over the leftover pork chop
and snifter
of crystal grappa.

Chewing reminded him:
the thick of one thigh
had resembled a full meal

until she told him
she was a vegetarian —

He could never love
a woman
with no taste
for meat.