Tall strips of carrion moonlight.
Sparing only stars.
Giant bees gliding along the sidewalks,
Lonely insects, stinrging each other.
Unknowing victims, mounting feathery scaffolds.
Lines of tired aprons dancing mobile-like
Across lit stages of air.
Minutepieces of death, flinging themselves
Across crowded intersections.
Muted sobbing of a hidden child,
Filters over the sill
Of a secret window, hidden
In the dark corner
Of evening.

* * *


Believe in this. Young apple seeds,
In blue skies, radiating young breast,
Not in blue-suited insects,
Infesting society's garments.

Believe in the swinging sounds of jazz,
Tearing the night into intricate shreds,
Putting it back together again,
In cool logical patterns,
Not in the sick controllers,
Who created only the Bomb.

Let the voices of dead poets
Ring louder in your ears
Than the screechings mouthed
In mildewed editorials.
Listen to the music of centuries,
Rising above the mushroom time.

Bob Kaufman, Cranial Guitar ('Golden Sardine'), publisher: Coffe House Press

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