“Baby Go Boom” (1986)

Keith Haring, you, as one of Warhol’s final disciples,
Blew translucent amorphous bubbles with a tiny plastic wand, spreading warm fuzzy pop art,   
And muscle car caricatures fluffed into marshmallows.
D.j. scratching, beat box NYC 
Your pulse, your kingdom, your harem.
Latin boys lined up wanting to model for you-
are not that kind of artist.  Graffiti, urban art form of the dispossessed, denied,
disenfranchised.  Bareback alleyways, gritty sideways glances and groping,       always the groping
Never enough, never too much, just like your art.  Broadly drawn monochromatic shapes, with fists pumping, “Power to the People!”  Or, faceless pastel colored, bodies like cooked rigatoni whose appendages and torsos flow one into the other
Probing and prodding every exposed surface or orifice or contour. 
You didn’t just devour!
Tempera and acrylic cartoons conveyed your vision of
Comedy, tragedy and all was love, Madonna and
Silence did equal death.

Wish Box

Believe me
I will not lie to you, even as the tickers, titles and tits dazzle
Your eyes are fused open to reflect and absorb the ever-changing, pixelated kaleidoscope.
Do not blink and please don’t change that channel, you will miss something,
Even if it’s nothing.  It could mean something
To you. I am a friend and confidant warm and fuzzy with the glow of invitation.
RGB hue baptize your familiar face, alien and you become a couch chameleon.
Admit it, you are awestruck!  Worshiping me, vilifying me in the same breath-do you know why?  I am the all pervasive juggernaut of your imagination. 
Some call me an idiot box.  Ah, but you know me by my real name
wish box.
Listen, I can’t get you drunk, do your laundry or walk the dog but
I can if you believe in me.

Humanity

Reaching outward, the slightest caress
The faintest whisper, the slyest glance,
I sense, I intuit
From you, all this and more.

The infinitesimal, quantum world is ours.
Subatomic embers, nano-particle sparks
send mana, chi, Kundalini energy down my spine, Love.
Neutrino fire storms, glow worms all around, through you, me.
All of us fireflies dancing, mortal,
and surely, everyone can see 
Just how spectacular this cosmos.

Love, Not God. God, Not Love.

Is it wrong to want to write you a poem?
And is it wrong to want the secrets of the universe revealed,
To understand the true nature of humanity's existence.

I think about all this and more when I think of you.
I think about secrets that lead to subterranean kingdoms,
chthonian labyrinth snaking itself into the human psyche like
mythos.

My pathos is circular, radiant and enigmatic.
My imagination blisters a beam of timeless sunshine
And all this because of the invocation
of your name.