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Sonnet

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The vernal equinox erupts with an illusion
of plenty, but no gray bag of shit is a contender.
Our eyes awaken before their skin’s resurrection.
Confronting such life, we old dry men surrender
our ambition. The sleekness of them leaves
our sagging abdomens quaking and obese
and helplessly wasted. So our balding sheaves
of voyeurism, praying for that timid release
in darkness, the prime hour of existence, sunset,
when girls wrap themselves in shreds of cotton
and clouds of smoke, prancing down streets beset
with eyes, are worn down by waves of temptation—
eyes so empty and distant, eyes below the water,
eyes rising back to the surface, lacerated by laughter.

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swampmessiah Saint Paul, Minnesota

I was born in Duluth, Minnesota in 1957. I've been drawing all my life and painting since about 1975; I started writing poetry and rants in, maybe, 1976; since 1996 I've been recording those poems and rants, usually with a "musical" backing.
I live in Saint Paul, Minnesota. My partner and I have two children. I have a day job that is in no way artistic.
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