Poem #9

Hermit’s sestina: a reminder…

No one in the home,
no one in the street where I roam,
no one in the car on tar-foam.
I look for a tome,
to teach the couple’s wisdom.
I look into India and Rome.
At each door I say, “Shalom.”
I look behind each home,
I look behind each country where I roam,
I cross the sea shore and flow and ebb with wave foam,
I drown in my paper tome
to teach cathartic wisdom.
Make like poets when in Rome,
At each door I say, “Shalom.”
Will, tonight, your couch be home?
Will, tonight, these sheets where lovers roam,
will, tonight, this pint of stout foam?
Will I find forgotten wisdom
in the ancient rubble of Rome?
I say at each door, “Shalom.”
If you seek after compassion, then you have found the wrong tome.
Where do ancient lovers roam?
Ancient lovers roam as demons of abandoned and forgotten Rome.
Out of their rabid, rotten teeth spills a fountain of foam.
They seek the Vedas of Kama Sutra, and possess pussy wisdom
at which each wet womb the penis says, “Shalom.”
It is in her depths the larvae find home.
The wizard of creation finds a tattered tome.
“Out, O Continent tis of thee,” loneliness in word choices roam,
“give up your green and cardinal sin” and in a dollar’s wisdom
find ye your hypocrisy, in the dollar’s home.
Scientists say, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Rome,
everywhere you may go.” Take a look at the word shalom,
and sound peace out of saliva’s foam.
This is an anarchist’s tome.
Do not find establishment’s comfort, and in the night skies roam,
taking pain in the toe and the heel in sock and shoe of wisdom,
make minstrel swells to the moon and find the shade of street home,
and in this way in this lack of attachment, in this lack of shalom,
may the idea of capital drown in Odyssey-foam,
may lust for life without love fill tome after tome after tome.


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