The Ghost of Lady K

A Christmas Tale (Setting the record straight)

You've succeeded,
destroying most of everything that has crossed your path
though you turn it into a success story--the poet, the artist, the tunesmith
fighting all that challenge your king of the hill stand.

You recruit (with a weak eye) those that would suit your agenda,
bring them aboard your leaking ship, help man your voyage
until most abandon ship with your Captain Queeg lunacy.

The ghost of Lady K floats through your nights, she ran as well
from the hold you force fed her and we know the story,
for you told us every detail of her stumbling into, you the madman
and eventual run, leaving children behind (quite a sacrifice) telling all
the desperation in such a decision.

So now, that marriage memory is right here in a group trying their best
to offer some words under the guise of 'poetry' and you doing your best to destroy it, no matter who runs from your ego driven nothing.

Your first mate, has nowhere else to go, so he stays, a good solider
in your ragged army, as you recruit Mensa Man, your go to guy
when things should be explained through your eyes
as only he can tell it, more spaghetti logic than clarity
as you lived with a brother who needed public assistance, your meal ticket
as you walked, never ran to the streets of your own making.

We fight here, trying some kind of logic to keep a poetry group
dedicated to poetry, a Sunday Sample arrives, it becomes an enemy
to your stand, AYoS arrives, and it becomes something to ignore
as you send all to a blog where only you can remain king as you beg
to complete the reading of a few short words, convinced your teaser
will bring the read numbers up where that becomes a focus of bragging rights.

She remains, this ghost of Lady K, as you lie awake nights studying the words aimed at you, for they can offer fuel for the next day, the next page turner but in the end, you remain small in the meaning of what should be
success.

Do you not think Lady K eventually entered a mental health facility because of you having her ingest LSD, moving her from place to place, kids in toe,
having her accept the insult of different woman servicing you, while you remained a job-less bum with a narcissistic grab at the brass ring?

All groups you have been involved with can be still read and all the nonsense
that is here, is right there, decades later. Your impression to most
remains a man to be avoided.

You fail as you have failed and will continue to fail, as your sixties reach into seventies, and all you can do is look back, tell us 'Poetically' how you have weathered the storm, a hero while leaving behind those that will continue to wonder how you became what you are, your attempt at the brass ring, failing time after time.

Stay as you are, you have no choice at this late stage, to change, flood us with your Google searches, tell us how ego has nothing to do with your fight against us foes.

The Ghost of Lady K hovers over your everyday, her breakdown was your doing, here we can just hit a switch and you're gone.

As far as your third leg, Sulzbach, a stranger I tried to help because of your weepy story of eviction -- he now sleeps in the dirt listening to the soul-full sound of another bum strumming his old banjo which brings us to your fourth leg, a failed politician from Canada, one who ran but never won a race he entered -- now your editor-in-chief, telling us of his pants down childhood wait for a good belting.

How sad and odd your life is -- a piece of rotted fruit attracting hungry flies gulping at your excrement.

J. Senetto