And why did I think

His words would betray me?

Here and now. A perfect Sunday

Gray and rainy – yet warm

And soft with muted T.V.

Football – opiate of the middle class

Perfumed wreck – some soup,

Bread and candles with red table wine -

By the film maker, Francis Ford Copolla …

My life as a movie with knife like

Connections drawn by birthstones …

Red ruby – a perfect Tuesday


Bitten by lame, fame ridden

Storm of sung by drunken want-to-be poets.

For if tomorrow never knows,

Then I surely have hope

Like ghosts in the house

Where she sleeps alone

At home with a kitchen table

Where fables are sown –

Rich tapestry as a gift

Something not edible.

However, she has good intentions!

It’s trying to be organic

Instead of synthetic dreams

Crushed by fears and ignorance.

The smell of dirty diapers.

“I know allot about shit –

And, I am not the shit”.


Hands clutch Wallace Fowlie’s Rimbaud

-(The one where Picasso drew the lithograph for the cover)-

Over the fires of my solar plexus …

A baby who is strong and silent

Brave in the sullen, silky night

Where mother’s milk is laced with lies

And spies who sputter destruction …

“When war is declared,

Truth is the first casualty”.

Mata Hari was lucky.

Francis Farmer was not.

She was bitten, raped and robbed

Like a Nixon campaign opponent

Or someone who has “it”

Blasted by words of latent say

And bullets over Broadway

Ricocheted. Bloody glasses of

John Lennon killed for fame

Where insecurity is the gun

Of the ancient devil

Called “little man,”

Lying bitch, “witchy” truth teller.

The truth is crazy

That’s why we’re all lazy

-Robotic like consumers-

Lizards in the hot sun,

Snowbirds in Florida.

Needles in D.C.


Nov. ‘03

J. Conte