Modern Translation of Alastor by Shelley     
For Kent Johnson
www.blazevox.org/gatza.htm

On Air, Land, and Sea; Yo Joe, G.I. Joe!
If knowing is half the battle, my strength
Carrying only normal authenticity intuit
Your love, and repay the loan with my own;
Through slick morning traffic, and opaque offices,
To 5 PM and good evening Ms. Bossmadam,
And sincere quiet kiss after sports-center's end;
If October's pumpkins sigh suburban simulacra,
And December's Santa don's a crown of credit;
Of sparkling ice pales the driveway and parking lot;

If spring breathes heavy like young internet porn
Her sweet camera kisses, have been dear to me;
If no big purple bird, spider, or gentle creature
I knowingly have hurt, but still in my heart loved
And appreciated these as family; then excuse
This jockish bragging, dear friends, and leave
Don't go away mad, just away; talk to the hand

Mother of this expanding universe!
Validate my parking, for I have paid
For the month, in advance; I have a receipt .
Your shadow casts black infinity on your shoe,
And my indifference opens and I can see girl
You have issues. I have made my bed
In morgues and half way houses, where AIDS
Keeps count of numbers taken from you,
Eager to quite their pigheaded curiosity
Of what lies beyond, by compelling some phantom,
Your FedEx guy, to provide some vision
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes that bizarre noise of its own stillness,

Like a cell phone right before it rings
Knowing that life is on the other end,
Have I said something to offend you
Because you know you are my honey bunny,
Bringing together hot bodies, making

Such love that could make the ugly old moon
Rise at our command:...and, although you tease
Pretty good you haven't given up the ass,
My wet dreams too wonderful for words,
And those happy hours, and warm afternoon highs,
Has brightened me right up, so much so that now
I'm lifeless, as a dusty guitar
Left at an old girlfriends house
Who you left on bad terms after selling her TV for drugs,
I sit here waiting to be played, My Muse, that my tensions

Can work with the sirens of the street song,
And move with the SUV's and the jetsam,
And voice of real people, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.

Geoffrey Gatza