Premiere Generation Ink.


The Joker In The Pack

"he's the joker in the pack."
 -Richard Howard

Desperate desperation
rudderless in the dark between houses
old boots and leggings torn away
revealing no eternity, what we need is
a good spanking upstairs, what we have is nothing
suppose your best lady let you down
suppose she was from the poorer side of town
disasterously weaker than others yet prone
to "dating" modern America, I say
the irony of this nihilistic world is that
we may not pay the piper, who owns
Brooklyn Bridge or even gives a damn, out on
the edge of life surreal other mundane matters
seem to have us in their grasp
writing home to Mama there is no answer
how is the baby this year, moss
grows in my living room, algae in my attic
I am seeking lower lights and deeper meaning
strumming a big blue guitar from the 50's
these strange floppy times, too aroused for me
pushing and shoving, over at Little Chicago
all the old maidens are hiding under their wings
slapping pink pancake makeup on the moon
in the baroque glow of Saturday night downtown
I sense a sense of place among rambunctious natives
and yet, this world makes sense
in the symbolic fleshy music
of one to another, why we live
and what we live for: to buy more groceries
and get a modest little piece of tail
to screw up less and less and progress
to a grey palace of diffused smoky light, I am
confident my generation has learned a lot
drinking and smoking, financed to the hilt, they
are damnright defeated at times, longing
for miracles or more money, in
the palsied hands of the Booray Tenants
the future dwells, their fabulous shadows
on the road at night, hunched over
like Cinderella's last lover, examining
the lanterns on the levee, punched tickets
and a particularly beautiful map
of Paradise on their drawing-boards.


Errol Miller

This poem is appearing in the Poetry Journal
Premiere Generation Ink. Volume 1 Number 1


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