What's found
underground: maggots,
maybe, but mullets
for sure: four guys for every
girl, a serious sausage
fest: a jousting over whose
hunger is most voracious.
Up there on the boardwalk,
buff shirtless guy keeps wailing
on the sax. My shangrila,
sang nobody ever, but still
there is time to pull back the
tapestries and ogle the
gypsy's shawl.
So many years later,
as they all begin to sag
& fail in their little vans, in
their long-faded finery, I stayed
spry & pale, full sail on
into the time of lag
& lack: the new low hair--exciting,
the tight pants tigther
& so much more, somehow,
to talk about.
All hail Lord Pan, Lord
Vlad, my lovely Lady Fay:
not so much a curse
as an eternal lifestyle, like
giving up gluten
or barbiturates except
it's the sunlight & the hope
of nighted oblivion, but thirty years
in I still don't miss my soul at all.
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