Posted in Rituals

Modern Day

For more than 20 years identity and gender were secret
an obvious pseudonym
located prominently at the front of the magazine
savaging BPs, almost BPs, and wannabe BPs
scattering sins and gossip like dog and excrement.
Close – very close to home
and the margins of libel –
or would be if truth was slander,
most shut up, rather than ask him, or her,
to put up.

Most reading the magazine turned directly to these pages
even if some did not admit
titillation could always be found
even when sounding tame or passé
          .  .  . 
“ heard it all before, right
ageing graying film director shacked up with
hot young starlet
abandoned the marital nest and moved in with the
pouting, steamy one
yawn yawn –
not a penis between them.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.