The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

The smoking popes took hold of the rope
they eat curds whey and a bit of spinach
born to be bad they forgot to be good
wondering, they lost their fatherhood
beat to the pulp, lost in space
they wondered if money would win the race
they lost their appointment, oh they were sad
they lost their dipping privileges at moms
dad ate the nachos tender and sweet
mom ate her spinach alone at the table
We kids wondered about our parents
how they could sit there so all alone together
we wondered if they would ever kiss and make up
we wondered if they ever loved each other at all
chances are they didn’t unless we saw it wrong
we grew up and looked at that girl askance
parents to love each other so how can their kids?
We thought and thought and thought and thought.
Until we couldn’t think anymore and night was falling.
We wondered about aspects of ourselves
those things that didn’t matter to anybody but us
while we walked naked under the boardwalk in June
asking of the shells why hide the pearl so well?

A seaside manner is most understood by the sea.
To walk with hands crossed behind is the only way.
We wonder if our obsolescence makes any difference to the sea.
We don’t know if it will acknowledge us anyway.
Its crashing songs spontaneously dipping down then away.
Like waves lost in crevices within crevices.
Reverberating forever under time’s hollow definition.
We consume our love like it is pie.
We ask no more of what it is that makes us know
that we are going to die.
We see the world in all it’s graces wondering of our sign.
We see the sign in all it’s graces wondering of the world.
Where then is the portal to tomorrow?
Where can we feel our lays again without sin?
Where, when we sing a lost song, will we, the singer, be?
Why should I sing that I think I am dead?