Quasimoto Writes a Personal Ad

Hark!
There in the chapel- a frozen glint
A sunny gleam.

As unimpressive as it would seem...
And yet within the sanctity of the tower belfry
It shines like the sun to me.

Its shape most pleasing to my eye.
And even I on some occasions wonder why,
But in most cases I will simply

Be compelled to haunt these places. As sweet to my ears as
Philosophic rhymes, I do begin my life of chimes.
And I will ring the bells a thousand times

And celebrate my auditory crimes.
And I will ride a handbasket to hell
To come by means to ring my bell.

Yes, I will do it well, by hell!
The villagers will cast their change
Both loose and tight

Both saved and spare.
I can't say that I really care.
I can't say that it's my concern because

I'll suffer, writhe, and burn
To take my turn and ring my bells
To chimes of dimes

In multiples, exponents and in primes.
Tis right! Tis meet! That I should choose this
Aspiration. And further to expound my

Situation, I shall make this proclamation:
Back, back! You heathen crowd,
For I shall ring the bells aloud and make the unwashed masses proud.

As they part to make a path for my disfigured
Autograph, I ascend into the tower in the cloud.
And once perched so near to heaven, I unshroud

The shiny golden object upon which
My god has blessed so well. And I will
Have a holy, pious union with my bell.

1992

Sagittarious

Fear
The black trap and I
Doom's huntress

We will return in a blaze
We will amaze and daze
And tell you it's

A passing phase.
We will destroy
With love and flames

And outrageous curiosty.
And we will be.
And we will make you see.

It is a comedy of errors
Wherefore I bring my constant, raging
Terrors. It is a stage

And I, the fool, cuckolded
And emptied in the drain,
Crippled by the folly of

My over-stimulated brain.
I with my stinging arrows,
I with my astral fame

And the agression of my
Presumtuous star-sign,
When my planets all align.

Release the bow string without
A thought for pain
And take my name.

1992

Fifty Words or Less

In a black and acrid plain
It has been 8 months or more
Since I have seen a single

Drop of rain. The brush fires
of a thousand wants have conquered;
Not all at once, but insidiously.

I have come here with one cup
Who's contents are not enough to crack
The desperate thirst

Of this dark land where only sorrows
Rise each dawn in place of
A despondant sun that was always somewhat

Out of place.
When it left this smoking
Wasteland, I think I heard

One final cry of pain.
And since that day not one
Thing has been the same.

On my back I pack my words my crime
My words and run out under cold stars
And beg forgiveness from no one

In particuluar. It seems that is
My destiny and reason; to carry out my penance
In a place with just one bitter season.

1993