Kenny Likis
Everything's Going My Way
Old men should be tap dancers. Rage, page, against the burgeoning blight.
The afternoons grow shorter, in a moment they’ll be gone. Summer
sang rosier songs back when summer carried a tune. Walking on seashells
up the sidewalk talking to yourself. Keep your pants up. Sleazy does it.
You wonder at the words wandering out the spout around the clock.
Who reads this stuff anymore. Or bites it. We go forward like sleep
to daughters, like flocks of geese muscling north, home just over the
mountain. Why wait, sweet cakes. The elocution will not be
ostracized. Put another pickle in, in the pandemonium. Send flowers,
bowers of glowers, free for the taking. So long, story line. Howdy,
Hieronymus Bosch. Fake a blue wake for William Blake. What you said
broke the bed we mine diamonds in. Hunker down, dear ones. The
afternoons grow shorter. Stack the wood to the windows. The evening
eyes your tea and pies. Excuse me while I bliss the sky. Oh, what a
beautiful mourning. Oh, what a beautiful stay.
The afternoons grow shorter, in a moment they’ll be gone. Summer
sang rosier songs back when summer carried a tune. Walking on seashells
up the sidewalk talking to yourself. Keep your pants up. Sleazy does it.
You wonder at the words wandering out the spout around the clock.
Who reads this stuff anymore. Or bites it. We go forward like sleep
to daughters, like flocks of geese muscling north, home just over the
mountain. Why wait, sweet cakes. The elocution will not be
ostracized. Put another pickle in, in the pandemonium. Send flowers,
bowers of glowers, free for the taking. So long, story line. Howdy,
Hieronymus Bosch. Fake a blue wake for William Blake. What you said
broke the bed we mine diamonds in. Hunker down, dear ones. The
afternoons grow shorter. Stack the wood to the windows. The evening
eyes your tea and pies. Excuse me while I bliss the sky. Oh, what a
beautiful mourning. Oh, what a beautiful stay.
Biography
|
Kenny Likis (he, his, him) long ago wrote his master’s thesis at Auburn University on Robert Creeley. He’s read contemporary poets obsessively since, but focused on reading, not writing. Early in the pandemic, he got the urge to write poems and has been hard at it since. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Caustic Frolic, Riddled With Arrows, The Twin Bill, and Birmingham Poetry Review. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
|
