Second Pilgrim's Progress in NY

Angel adust in the Atlanta airport

Went for a break from Piero's massive show

Taking my bus to get a connection to New York,

Where my second Pilgrim's, unpaid Progress

Is about to start. One more time, over and over

Until Vanity Fair sends me home

To finish up with my bones in a mortuary table

Artsy Catwalk

Gallant slouching  boorish courtiers

Fopping around in bassa danza steps

Taking a stroll on gentrified streets;

Informed boisterous, mute in Starbucks halls

Waiting for the King for a word to be uttered.

But no one is enough worth it to be treated like a king.

Flip-flops Wake

The maidens at the wake are born in soccer shorts and flip-flop shoes.

They have grown up seeing their mothers in constant war 

With dresses, with shoes, with crafty haircuts.

They parade between the funeral parlor and the street

And there's no solemn point for them on earth

Immune to their incisive statement about taste.

Only the flowers, the magnolia scent

-       Of bloodless death in formaldehyde, running fast to the brain -

Confront  this dowdy army in athletic suits, prevailing.