There’s no procrastination like feral procrastination, according to the Feral Poet, who should know.  He barely slipped this to us before Happy Hour Sunday.

Arational

It is in this light
that things suppose
to fall apart
and thereby make quiet
arational sense; images
that once competed
in the casual slanting beam
elude, arthritic and exhausted.
Less said the better,
a lesson come full circle.
The window glass splayed
with anything but random gold;
a single leaf of the bay tree
glowing Chartreuse amid olive.

Following the Funeral

Following the funeral
of one who left
too early,
three survivors
with Sgt. Pepper mustaches
reminisced.

Alcoholic Pornographer

You see the logic;
the absolute
inevitability:
having exposed
every belief
to the withering light
of reason, there’s really
nothing left.

A Poem About Substance, Sustenance, Spaniels

Once, just for the fun of it,
moved by the infinite promise
of a cold fall afternoon,
we walked through a mansion
for sale on the Hudson,
high on a grand bluff.
There were parquet floors
and wainscot panelling
throughout; the land surround tiered
like Chinese steppes;
a barely grassed tennis court
on the last level before
a hundred foot drop to the river,
the wishful world.

“I grew up here,” I said,
as honey sunlight poured
through leaded glass.

“It’s been in my family for years,”
my wife said, pointing
to a small quadrangle of light.
“The dog used to sleep over there.”

* * *