i just wanna write a single poem without all the hoopla
people think i have a real love-on for Death
this is not quite true what i do have is an equal
love-on for Life even in these Y2K post-apocalyptic
times (think 911 Covid AI +orange summer skies)
this section of Summer is hard it’s the position of
the stars identical constellations of her preparatio
circa 2022 but mostly it is Venus winking+calling
my name ape-eeeeal ape-eeeeal her nickname for me at 3
i was her witness every morn for 29 days as old mother
lay dying i woke at 5:30 am +raced to the reservoir of aged
involuntaries where they shoved a lonnng Q-tip up my snout
nurses quipped oh the model yes! the fucking model
now hurry up! you’re wasting some of my final minutes
with her the hawks the other inmates clutching my arms
in the shabbas elevator which stops at EVERY fucking floor
Ape where is everyone? her dead ancestors hid when i
arrived (lest i ask what the fuck they did to her way back when)
so why do i have a love-on for Life: (in spite of it all)
brilliant suicided poets (hbd 🎉 Frankie Stanford 1948-1978)
Pink Floyd
chickenballs+pineapple sauce
(pre-pescatarian hell..i miss those balls more than life itself)
giant poodles
horses
oreos
my body so far un-slaughtered
my freedom (only just another word..to the free)
Nina
the Fridas
the Chucks
and a cafe named Envie down in New Orleans where the spirit
of Frank Stanford Delta Poet Extraordinaire mingled so deeply
with my juices a returning brother gone to buy music at LMF (AO)
did not realize i was now +would forever be Apenfrank
my voice deepens ditto my southern twang a nubbin grows i am
the sister with hair of a cajun whore now i glide down the Mississippi
in The Great Preparatio for over yonder
__
Summer 2026 ..l’chaim
RIP Frank Stanford Subiaco Cemetery
August 1/1948- June 3/1978
songanddancegirl 