in Purgatory
devils stir
ragout
I stew with my
poet friends in the alphabet soup
we share no inkling for heaven
eat our slop
where our table is set
let brain
brine bubble up
let our heads boil
with our heart muscles
in the heat of passion
we gnaw at each other's meat
siphon out the blood
suck out the marrow
lick smooth every bone
in our sweet agony
we leap from the
bubbling cauldron
toss a few classical feet
on the fire
snatch up and take with us
every word-hungry gawker
two-beat monosyllables
hawk their lines
toward the stairs
painting nonsense
scarlet symbols on green bills
I got into this soup
under the old boys system
as a spice of sorts
at the bottom of the great underworld pot
among stir-fried cosmic goulash
you'll find a fresh thought or two
best served when not too hot