January, A Poet Too

if even the snow a tear
and the years the wind
behind me
the plow left a bank as tall as
my son and the mountain
still there- huge and dusted with sobs.

i can't imagine
having two days
off in a row
anymore, but if i did
i would be more studious. Who then, was Ted Berigan?

the woods could use a chopping or two
the flowers could use some sun
the brooks bedapple as the birds loft by
am i the only one
looking at mountain still?
the morning, as most mornings like this,
brings chorus of becoming the great hero immortal,
tells Calypso to clean her thighs and then spread them,
sings the sound of silence in calm measured breaths,
yells that my daughter singing prooves she knows eternity.
Asking this and only this
and kissing useless by now
how is the poet ever to sin? And who then, is Ted Berigan?

beyond you, me
these words too scattered
but hopeless as a poem
written in the morn, written
for hope that scent is not shit
or far worse than the future may be.
for i recall a friend once
entirely like this, like this moment
by Ted Berigan,
A Mongolian Sausage
By definition: a long stocking: you fill it full of shit,and then you punch holes in it. Then you swing it over your head in circles until everybody goes home.

and that i tell you was a friend you could trust.
anytime.