The Bride Of Frankenstein
after Ted Berrigan
It is night. You are asleep. And beautiful stars
are shining in a lowered veil. The bride of
Frankenstein is dead. On my internal muzak
zipper-neck is singing ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’
Somebody calls looking for ‘Barney.’ Ah,
sweet mystery of life! And sweeter still since
Transylvania Station is so near. Cue up
the pie in history’s kisser, Vlad Putin
fixing Dubya with his soulful, Stasi stare.
Come let’s mix where Rockefellers walk
with sticks or um-ber-ellas in their mitts . . . .
Are you so sleepy, shaineh maidel? Soft light
is singing to itself behind a falling veil, behind
the line, ‘The bride of Frankenstein is dead.’
My Angels, Their Pink Wings
Who, if I pitched a hissy fit, would even
blink a powdered eyelid
among the angelic orders? The night sky
is indifferent and glittery with facts.
A third millennium giddily
boots up and Lenin, firm and pliant
from his glycerine bath, waits for kisses
in the glass sarcophagus. But I too
wish to call a meeting of the Committee
for the Deathless Beauty
of the Tsar, the standing Congress for
the Recarnation of the President. I too
wish to lie in state inside the Hall
of Pillars, in the echoes of the Capitol
Rotunda, cooing to my tricky
one, crooning to my trembling Republic.