Neck. Tie.

I tie my neck to my shoulders
with silk and cloth,
argyle and tartan,
an inexplicable knot
of Gordian proportions.

I wear a lapelled jacket
to frame my tie,
accentuate it.
Black or blue,
because I have to.

And buy my pants
to match my jacket,
to tuck my shirt,
to frame my tie,
hide my penis,
and cover my ass.

I buy black socks
for no real reason.
Maybe I'm just compelled to,

but my shiny shoes
are designed to attract women,
protect my red painted toenails,
hide my practical socks,
and protect my ankles
when dogs nip at my heels.

My cuff links
link my cuffs.

My tie pin
pins my tie.

And all are designed
to attract your eye
to my wonderful tie,
which I can't live without.

I must tie my neck down,
to keep my head on straight .

-BH

Manhattan Project

Old Romans
Big brown Chariots
Gorgeous for the Moonlight
it lights me,
shines down on my eyes
Dead kings dance in back streets
the foul stench burns
feels like I've been crying
Maybe somethings vanished
Who'll dance up there?
We all avoid that square.
This city sleeps
Never did before,
now it never wakes
So let's shake it.
Blind poets free,
should never write of what they see...
Is this why?
Who was the first to tell that lie?
Someone said,
"We are better"
and someone believed.
They all heard
gave themselves names,
grew beards,
and learned bigger words
And then we all died.
Don't feel ashamed,
Manhattan islands all the same.
New Amsterdam,
has gone missing.

-BH