– June 3, 2012
Kalends; August 1
Things are bad now? Trust me: They will be worse.
On the faithful day the arch was finished,
I was asked to speak the rite, make the wish
Of happy hope, but when I read the verse
For Vestus Spes the ambitious transverse
Arch collapsed on Priestess Hope: She was squished
Flat. Well, then my verse of hope was stale fish
And I was blamed for squashing Hope, accursed
By day’s end. I was battered to confess,
And confessed, as who would not. My fault. Oops.
The hopeless part? Itching while restrained. Nope,
Couldn’t scratch and still cannot in this blessed
Wall of Spes’ squeezed in Santa Nicola
Where I am stuck, a spackled scagliola.
An ancient stranger handed me the leaves
And turned away and slipped into the mist.
On the leaves in slanted Latin were twisted
Letters resisting when I tried to read
Them. I persisted and I could believe
That low whispers rose from the wrinkled list
Of prophesies. “Shush!” I said. It insisted,
Whispering nonsense. I was not deceived,
This was the real thing and it was trouble.
Damned stranger, she didn’t want them either.
Wrinkled old Sibyl, floating on the ether;
Ouu, “I want to die. I want to die.” double
Tongued witch. Now I am stuck with this old rot when
I thought the cursed things were burned by Christians.
The Pope in Rome can draft a prayer;
John Russell Pope can draw a dome;
The poet Pope can pen a pun;
I hope to style a smart affair
With Liza of the flaming hair.
That girl whose quick ideas run
Quite naked through a hippodrome
Engraved in pictures fine and rare.
O, I have seen her skipping through
Egyptian temples—clever minx,
I’ve seen her smile back at the sphinx
And wink. Ah…the sphinx winked, too.
Who wouldn’t craft a cunning ayre
To win the girl of flaming hair?
Ides; August 13
Old jackal, he will talk with anyone,
As can be seen in his statue.
You’ll see, he will talk with you.
But beware, he’s a trickster, full of fun
And always changing. The God of seasons,
Growing gardens, cherries too.
You know Pomona? No? Who
Was she? Just a bud that he forced up. Dun
Got her unawares. She was a pretty
Thing, ripe and luscious, sweet rose
Lipped, like you dear. He knows…
I shouldn’t tell. I should tell? You will see
That worn old stone blossom with a kiss. Yes,
The God’s garden grows on a kiss. Like this.
I Nones—IV Ides, April 4-10
Your Great Mom pebble head’s
A cheap Greek trick:
Nasty, slutty maenads;
Limp dick eunuch,
I dare ya, go ahead,
Beg for another obal,
See what ya get.
State funds? Yet,
Girly, ya got no balls.
Go home, Galli. Foreign