In Memoriam

Ladies and Gentlemen.
For some time now
the bully pulpit of American poetry
has been like a bull in
a Chinese laundry. 
Stifled by limp, wet sheet. 
In the bivouacs of Borders & espresso bars of Barnes,
Our friend is gone for want of
two pills a day for a week.
Go ahead, let’s drop the dime, it’s San Francisco
French revolution time.
Some crimes continue after the sentence.
Some sentences go on longer than
an open reading twenty years ago. 
Our friend is gone, so let it be said…
the Robespierre of American poetry is dead.  
We cannot take this lying down.
Remove depression.  Remove your frowns.
Remove your berets to show
the gnobby horns on your head,
the Robespierre of American poetry is dead.  
No time for uncertainty.
No time for hurtin’ me.
There’s a young beauty back in the last row
who ‘s already showing us everything we need to know.
Remove the horns from atop your head.
Put them where they can do some good instead.
There’s no need to outcall his name.
We’re all here celebrating his fame.
We’re here to sing his songs of the glorious undead.
The Robespierre of American poetry is dead.  
I flatter myself, as I get to the 4th beer, that he would’ve
liked seeing us here.
He’d have been almost as happy as if it was his own band
to hear so many poems written in long hand.
Let’s do what for our bodies were bred.
Let’s cavort with demons.
Let’s bake this town red.
There’s a guy doing some angel back there in the head.
Who gives a shit.
Who’s really been fed.
The Robespierre of American poetry is dead.  
He lived a hard life.
He inspired us with humor and
viciousness that shown bright.
He’s the Berlin cabaret Jews who
finally learned to fight.
He spoke in tongues.  He’ll be forever young.
Be snappy, time to revel & make happy.
His ghost is watching your lovely young bod
with a devilish smile and a cattle prod.
No time to get stuck in the muck of your worldly dread.
the Robespierre of American poetry is dead.  
The Robespierre of American literature….

© Bruce Isaacson

Zeitgeist Press

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