POETRY

Gold is so soft.
As soft and as cold
as your unblemished skin,
as thin as your hair.

Gold is heavy.
Surprised you
when you tossed it in the air
then rushed to follow.

Gold is the season
drunken slow,
Alchemy's blind,
blinding glow.

The imaginary stone
of our philosopher.
The reason for his war,
the purpose of his slaves.

It is the glint
in the eyes of knaves,
and of every dirty soldier
ever sent to Iran.

The sweetest dream
in your own pocket,
Welcome sir, over here.
What a handsome man!

A martini or two.
Boeuf Bourguignon.
A room with a view
to you on a yacht.

Never mind the blood,
a continent's blood,
hoarding in vain
the same melted lot.

Naively,
You curl the corners
of your sparkling lips
as you order up.

I look down
at my dirty hands, at my guilt
flowing in the canals
of burning gold.

jam09