three drumbeats from an amateur hand

the west sent a message on the wind tonight
four drumbeats -- just an amateur hand
flickered like a jazz on the quickening breeze
rousing from a stupor in the late spring haze
three more beats, take one, then a rest
coding then unwinding with an urgent flare
nothing, then sirens from a fire out there
I waited for a message from the west tonight
sensitive and yearning like a nervous virgin
quick to alarm and ready to respond
to the amateur beat of a hand out there
promising some love, or some money somewhere
hand on the trigger and ready to go
down in the hollow where the night winds roll
five drumbeats, just an amateur hand
gimme some loving from a late night band
decoding my fate from a drummer's lame beat
help me I'm aquiver in my solitary cell
straining for the cable from the heavenly host
writhing in delusion like a solitary ghost
straining my ears from a lonely hell
the west sent a message on the wind tonight
four drumbeats -- just an amateur hand
frequencies from a late night band

there's something immoral about beauty

there's something immoral about beauty
detached from ethical concern
synapse explosions of pure
unprincipled pleasure

the hips of Shakira and Ishtar
robed gait of Gradiva
my sweet pitiable dream and delusion
the little death in Venice

there's something hopeless about beauty
it arrives and is gone
leaving not a trace in its wake
like a boat rowed away in the fog

desolation in its wake
decadent pleasures
consumed, burnt up in their expenditure
in their decay the smoke rises
like incense to blasphemous gods

the anxiety of the rural bus stop

it's not so much the nervous strain
of waiting for a bus that never comes
this bus comes alright
right on schedule
well -- fifteen or twenty minutes late
this being America --
but it passes you by
rolls right on through blowing out fumes

o the heartstopping horror!

and this bus is not a pretty bus
gaily painted, tinkling jolly Caribbean
tunes, shoulder to comfortable shoulder
with patient, congenial riders

this bus is ugly, a grey behemoth
snorting noxious fumes

it runs right through the squalid
little town, where you and your wretched family
are huddled, immigrants, on the corner

miles from the nearest subway stop
miles from the nearest train
miles from anywhere
for that matter

an evil dead place, nobody around
a place of ugly death, where flightless
giant birds eat mud for breakfast
the hell of Ereshkigal

the bus passes you by
and there are no taxis
no telephones, no hotels
(this was in the time before cellphones)

and you're stuck
a million miles from the metropolis
stranded in rural America
amid unsympathetic police