From Willie B. to Teddy K.: Double 5 x 5

(For William Butler Yeats on his 158th birthday.)


It’s William-Yeats birthday today &
The Poet meant to bring his Collected Poems down to
The fireside, but forgot it, so
He sought refuge in Charles Simic who’s
A different sort of poet except it’s all La Cazone–

If this Poet could be as relaxed-&-happy as
The cat sleeping on-the-hearth, he’d just Meow
Rather than sounding-out all this poetry—
Rain careened-down through the night as
The mercury plunged & grass, chard & kale celebrated—

This Poet hasn’t gotta cook today ‘cause
We’re dining w/ Patrick & Molly who
Are back from France w/ gifts & a need
To slide-back-into their busy-lives slowly—
Not often does this Poet get to encourage others to slow down—

On-top of the usual complications
We’ve had a missing-weed-situation—
Which the Poet took a long-break to alleviate
By going up to the attic
To strip a jar-of-buds from the last of the 2022 stems—

William said, That is no country for old men
& there wasn’t one then, nor-isn’t one now
So we old Poets gotta make our own by
Gathering in choruses &
Louder singing, Fuck the Lords & Ladies of this toxic Byzantium!


Ted Kaczynski died in prison this week—
His prophetic-writings on our Suicide-Machine
Industrial-Civilization have
To marginalize-him, been pathologized as Schizophrenic
When the Dude was R.D.-Laing right-on-sane— 

If you, ala 50’s TV, could be Una-Bomber for a Day
Whom would you w/ your letter-bombs blow-up?
My fucking-list is endless
But if I blew them all-to-smithereens
It wouldn’t change a thing until

We rediscovered our Indigenous-Hearts—
Ted K was one of a line of prophets
That ran through Thoreau-to-Melville
Who saw that the American-Whale-hunt
Was bound for Davey-Jone’s Locker—

Ted was like a Derrick Jensen
Who actually began to blow-up damns
Ala Vladamir Putin
Who’s no environmental-hero
Nor is Joe Biden who blows up underwater-gas-pipelines

Releasing massive amounts of Methane—
The whole-fucking-lot of ‘em are insane—
Our only hope now, such as it is, is
W/ the Poets who must like Moses lead us
To the Land of Buttermilk-Shortbread drizzled-w/ Raw local-Honey.

Orin Domenico is a poet living in Utica, New York. His latest volume is My Rap Sheet is Long (Black Rabbit Press).