Poems by Ian Ganassi

FROM THE ROOF

It was a story about
Two contrary motions: like rubbing
Your belly and patting your head,

Or being relevant and irrelevant
At the same time.

Then there were various
Two-steps.

He learned one of them
And did it whenever he faced
A dance floor, no matter
What time the music was in.

But when you’re young,

As long as you keep your wits about you,

A kept man.

A long time ago. Once upon a long time ago.

Scrambled eggs and ketchup.

And as for words,
Just don’t use too many of them
Or you’ll run out.

The view from
The 20th floor is “awesome,”
But it gives me vertigo.

And I already had vertigo.

BELATED EPITAPH 

He heard what I was saying but could not admire it.

They do not deserve wealth, because they do not desire it.

Either way, the remains of the day

Are directing traffic in the shipping lanes.

They are the assault of thoughts on the unthinking.

Take a shower, you’re seriously stinking.

Don’t look now but the boat is sinking.

A blind man groping in the dark for meaning.

There’s only one key, and he knows it well—

He plays it on his flugelhorn from the bottom of the well.

Either you’re busy being born or busy dying.

But sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Real men don’t grow flowers.”

“My brand of intoxication is superior to yours.”

But not for ours.

With such friends, who needs headstones?

The worst of it is that they’re long dead.