Tom Hibbard



                "Well," my father said, "it's not a game.
                It's a fight. Remember that: a fight!"
                      - Philip Roth


oh child of Meisterbrau Showcase
relearning the art of the scroll of irregular landscapes
what dungeons, what torture chambers
bequeathed to you your prosthetic nose
what flurry of super-liminal mistakes
forced the mythological god of u.s. mother's day
to wear a wooden mask
or was it just money problems
that caused you to put on too much pink lipstick
for what votive hurt did you wear only one sequined glove
your soft voice in black smoke
of refineries around Gary Indiana
shamed murder of the straightforward
your songs posing the question
that has no answer remain the favorite
of the Japanese Ministry of Communication
every one of them took me closer to my forest lawn home
am I being arbitrary in saying
your spacious $25,000 gold-and-bronze casket
with plenty of room for cozy overnights
was not too shabby
I wanted to marry you
but somehow the intent got turned around
and we got divorced instead




when they lay me to rest
without a name or any mourners
and the angry winds stir up
insolently with a might that resounds
across the face of the deep
shaking it like kindness indecisive scale
men will be sure to ask "why"
and why did you have nothing
proving conclusively my destruction
snow will come down in deadening flakes
and sobs will fidget with annoyance
but after a while the grey skies
will release a tarnished sunlight
on a calm indulgent landscape
and once again birds will gather
to disappear in the distant gold & silver




genuine men killing animals
look like suspenders apologizing
like a drool vendor for skyscraper dollar-days
if only the sun would come out
and there would be a crowd
the official feast on the staircase
shuns the thistles below
that can't be seen through binoculars
the odor of sewage disappears
as the teacher becomes ordinary
where the coal miners that refuse
the royal harvest of society
work for the very principle of neglect
a little cottage by the sea
where that whimsical special girl
was brought down in a hail of bullets





"Origin in something else counts as an objection, as
casting a doubt on value."    --Nietzsche

numbers float out-of-control
on amorphous patronizing mists
separating nations from themselves
capitulating to meaninglessness
in order to preserve thieves & robbers
soldiers walk the rainy streets
trade harmonica for burlesque
in a mega-storm from the south
that will make siberian winters milder
in order to publicize your triumph
in order to pin you down
expensive water from picky wells
for whichever reason you want to legislate
everyone agrees the only sensible option
is to deny you ever existed
till some klutz comes along
and leaves the door to the waiting room unlocked
once again allowing foulness to triumph


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