Beggar’s Joys

In a bandaged world that wears the same old emaciated crown,
And as Darwin’s caterpillar waiting for flight, flop,
Or some kind of Nike swoosh,
The poet of crutches lifts his wooden wings
Which are bound to his arms
Then blunders up the skull of a cracked egg mound.

Like Darwin’s Caterpillar or maggot
The poet of crutches falls off
And rolls all the way down
To be caught playing ‘ostrich,’
‘honey badger,’ or ‘stork.’

My head’s stuck in one of Philip Guston’s underground portraits,
The canvas has intentionally lost even the nosebleed of its focus,
So that the reader’s eye resembles a pinball with sunspots
After attempting to make out even this mouthful,
This mouthful which might only be implied by a lit cigarette
Trembling next to a leaning pile of burnt books, one which pops up

For this very image, that of a light bulb saying goodbye
As it dangles above four hooded men of the horse.
That they’ve piled themselves inside
A rusted black-white jalopy, which resembles a Zebra

Leaves us on the tight rope
Without a single hint or baldie
As to where they’re even trucking off
Or going into the apocryphal sunset

Of my future works.