Two Poems by Arthur Gottlieb


Y Generation

continually questions
elders
who stand their ground,
shake jowls No
to juvenile pleading.

The bravest
pick themselves up
by the roots
to find a family tease
elsewhere.

Others wait in the rain
for the ruined parade,
with its brass and half
flown flags to pass.

Some guns go off on
their own, masked, rob
banks, hand the teller
a demand note, to fork
over the dough for dinner.

Back of every teenís
recollection is the pig
who made good, brought
home the bacon, binged
on a bet, and left
with his X still standing
	at the altar.
Auto Da Fe In the Star Chamber we showed him the light, but pain screwed his eyes shut and he failed to see how the sun circles the earth. He knew what was at stake before the rack broke him. Yet, with thorns of sweat trembling his smile, he forgave us our innocence. Palms pressed in prayer we sang for his heretic soul as we fed his flesh to the fire. But suddenly his spirit, excommunicated from everything we ever held holy, rose in the wreath of smoke. Demons leaped from the flames and pitch forked me into his inferno. Under my monkís robes blisters bubbled, as if we were brothers and his bad blood bloomed in us both. When his bones crumbled to soot, I hopped and howled like St. Vitus dancing on a bed of live coals. My anguish was mistakenly taken for cries of joy witnessing evil gutted upon a stick. Now I must confess we two are one, roasting that day in the selfsame flame, only I am alive, fuming in my furnace of righteous rage, while he, senseless, takes delight in the devilís eye. Somersaulting somehow, we go round and round, body and soul embraced forever in a hoop of hellish revel. Arthur Gottlieb