It’s a mood. Tends to
drop down dark, fanged and furry,
like a savage umbrella-bat
in winter.
A mood agile as an ape, shrewd as a court jester.
It sits and spins meaningless honeycomb webs
and just when you think you’ve found the key to Camelot
your fingers no numb. It’s a mood
like burned toast topped with
headless excommunicated sardines.
It’s a twisted lip, a SoHo overdose,
a relentless facial tic,
the big white barren softness of an imitation Madonna,
an actual lisp in lieu of an intended whistle.
I have a friend -- I know he understands.
I have a co-conspirator -- there’s mercy in her hands.
It’s a mood
that this world’s over-fortified victors
should taste from time to time:
Black Blah Blah, godfather
of the Heavy Stare
and distant cousin to Whatever.