Tick-tock

Thinking about time,

each moment a knife-edge.
There’s an obvious rhyme.

We’re on the dime.
We’re a bird new-fledged.
We’re flying through time.

Drawing a lime-
line from porch to hedge;
and we need a rhyme,

so we think we hear the chime
of a clock practicing solfege
to kill time.

There’s a big pine
outside our window—we aledge
a satisfying completing rhyme

awaited still when our prime
green has withered with the sedge.
Adapting to time.
No perfect rhyme.

Remunerative Avocation (Not!)

Poetry is about self-enjoyment—
it’s gratifying to get an eyeful of you—
but it doesn’t lead to gainful employment.

I tried to get an enlargement
of a picture of myself dressed as you,
because I was jonesin’ for self-enjoyment.

And you’re not the private, I’m not the sergeant—
interrupting-cow yelling “moo.”
We both try to evade gainful employment

by getting a medical deferment.
And we refuse to listen to the news,
because how can one’s self be enjoyed

in an environment
where everyone’s dying of the righteousness flu?
Poetry is about self-enjoyment—

lower-brain stuff, mainly—lust and allurement—
you flapping by, dancing your lindy-lou.
Poetry is about self-enjoyment,
and it doesn’t lead to gainful employment.

Don't Disturb My Nap!

Trying to draw attention and be notorious,

gifting our feelings to everyone,
we’re just poets being poets.

Yes, we’re in a boisterous
mood, as we stand in your sun,
trying to draw attention and be notorious

by casting our smarmy shadow on your undressed,
resting body, gentle reader, all sleek and brown.
We’re just poets being poets,

bringing our uproarious
brand of fun,
taking advantage of our notorious

attention-worthiness, flashing our sartorious
splendor all over town—
just poets being poets.

We’ll finally be declared victorious
(the gentle reader will still be lying down),
trying to draw attention and be notorious,
more boring poets.

Amnesia

Casting my gaze back from my bleak September—

why did I turn out the way I did?
Things happened when I was too young to remember.

Memory’s like being lost in the timber
after the deer and rabbits have all fled.
When I cast my gaze back from my bleak September,

my earliest days are dimmed in slumber—
nothing takes shape for me to love or dread
that happened when I was too young to remember.

It’s like when you have to row a tender
out to the main ship hulking in the red
dawn of a bleak September

morning, sun rising in cold splendor;
then you stagger wet and scared onto the beachhead,
armed to fight ghosts you’re too old to remember;

you might catch a glimpse of something lithe and tender,
flashing like some hope you left for dead
a million years before this bleak September
day. You loved somebody once, but now you can’t remember.

Bell Ringing in the Ring

Bob says, you shouldn’t expect too much from any one thing.

What did I expect from poetry, anyway?—
all clinched up waiting for the bell to ring.

I thought my poetry fixation was just an adolescent fling—
when I was supposed to be studying, I was boo-hoo-ing “well-a-day,”
not expecting a hell of a lot from anything

in those days—I had no love to cling
to; I’d lie in bed for days—
days my alarm clock would refuse to ring.

But then I became the victim of a big sting
operation. They caught me red-handed, what could I say?
I’d been trying to get too much out of one thing,

and it was a clinical addiction, I decided, my maundering
after strange gods—instead of a romp in the hay—
waiting for the final bell to ring,

to chime the hope my heart was hazarding,
wake me up gladly to face the day.
Bob says, you shouldn’t expect too much from any one thing.
Isn’t it funny, that a bell rings in a ring?

Little Yoga Poem

I do tree
in the attic.
There’s a tree
outside my window
too.

Stand on one
foot, point toe.
The tree is 
bare, letting sun
through.

Prayer

With things going on now at such a pace, how can I trust, how can I have faith? Not worried about losing face in the face of lust, with things going on now at such a pace; not worried it’ll all go to waste— yet worry I must.— How can I have faith, when what I rest my faith in disappoints? I’ll be hard-pressed, with things going on now at such a pace not to die without a trace black as tar or red as rust. What faith mends my strength and sends me forth, tides me through until the night is spent when everything finally cancels its pace? How can I have faith?

It’ll Drive You Crazy If You Let It

Working nine-to-five,

it’s easy to lose touch
with what it feels like to be alive.

Last to leave the hive
‘cause you can't buzz your wings enough
‘cause you’re working nine-to-five.

You might want to drive
fifty in second and torch your clutch—
how it feels to be alive.

All the juice you thrive
on—pollens, nectars—what a rush,
working nine-to-five!

Like Dolly says, all taking and no giv-
ing, so just GIVE UP and be a lush
to try to feel a little more alive!

You can't but connive
with the big fat man who eats your lunch,
working nine-to-five—
hard pressed to find a way to feel alive.

Writing Versus Submitting

One writes to work out personal problems.
One submits because one wants to share a vision.
What you’re sharing can’t be just hobgoblins.

You wince when you go through old photo albums,
or after you're done waiting for the incision,
but you try to prevent embarrassment problems

in the writing. Not that you're expecting fulsome
praise, as you preen and resist revision—
sharing nothing but smarmy hobgoblins.

But won't you feel so awesome
when your necking becomes petting
and you find you've written a poem whose problems

are are even more personal than your own: your love will blossom
into a singular situation—nuclear fission
on a personal level, blasting your atoms into radioactive hobgoblins.

But the arena crowd is shouting: Foxes or vixens!
and your pen will finally have drawn a right rendition
of your butt, writing to work out personal problems,
knowing you’re sharing some pretty hot hobgoblins!

Two Rummages after Robert Bly

Daylight

Always faced by what’s between my ears.
There’s an insistent whirr—vibrations reaching me
through the air, and I’m trying to think what
it could be. A hummingbird?
Too loud for that—an intoned word?
Maybe the clang of a struck sword
whose note will ring forever, thread
even the daylight can’t sever

Proud Molly
I got a notch on my pistol,
but there was a catch—
I was too deep in dutch
to You-Know-Who. She scotched on me.
OK, I’ll say who when
I’m marching to the scaffold, my old match
Molly there to watch. And I’ll say,
“Molly, aint’ch...?”

For the Benefit of Mr. Kite

I want to change my feet from white to brown.

I’m an erotic poet, that’s all there is to it!
At ten to six I’ll perform such tricks without a sound.

I’m planning to perform them in the round—
you’ll be sitting there watching me, and there won’t be an exit—
I’ll start by changing my feet from white to brown,

and you’ll be plenty glad you’re sitting down
when you see me stabbed in the senate, leaking blood—
at ten to six I’ll perform such tricks without a sound.

And I’m pretty sure you won’t be dedicating a mound
to me, after I’m hurled off the Tarpeian Rock; it's
so sweet to feel my white feet toasted brown

as I lie on this nice Mediterranean isle I’ve found
to dwell on—where Ovid was exiled—my biscuits
baking into the tricks I’ll perform at ten to six without a sound!

I’ll be the randy Sun King removing my gown.
If you’re not with me in the flesh, you ARE in spirit
when I change my old goat feet from white to brown.
At ten to six I’ll perform such tricks without a sound.

Chant to Patanjali

Hari OM

yogena cittasya padena vacham
malam sarırasya ca vaidyakena
yo’pakarottam pravaram munınam
patanjalim pranjaliranato’smi
abahupurusakaram
sankhacakrasidharinam
sahasrasirasam svetam
pranamami patanjalim
Hari OM

Hari OM
He gave yoga for purity of speech,
medicine for bodily soundness.
May I approach this munificence.
To Patanjali let me bow with folded hands.
Head and hands human
holding conch and disc,
thousand-headed.
I bow to Patanjali.
Hari OM

http://santamonicaiyengaryoga.com/gpage2.html

http://www.unz.org/Pub/Reporter-1953mar17-00036

Rondelet

Pan is no longer here.
How cynical and mean!
Pan is no longer here?
How everlastingly dreary!
What do you mean,
Pan is no longer here?
Pan is everywhere!

After Amazing Grace

                                                                                    long
                                                   lighthouse
                               pier

          lift bridge

Army Corps of Engineers Museum
                                                          Duluth Shipping News

                             funny stone
                             loading structure
                             in the lake

sand
                                                                                      big freight ship
                                                            half a mile out
                                Frederick Barbarossa
          from the Black Sea

                                                                                 region

                   a few bathers
                                                                   

          Last winter
                                                                                                   a bear
                                          found her way down here

OK
                   a pretty long
                                                stairway up

                                                          to Fitgers
                                                on Superior

          St.

God

Every single word’s an ontology

of rhymes—some words have very few.
What’s the ontology of “biology?”

Well, ethnology, cosmology, doxology—
garbology, scatology (oh, pew!).
Every single word’s an anthology

of words within words—morphology,
tautology (to speak what’s true).
So what is the ontology of “biology,”

then?—every word its own mythology,
a regular ontology stew—
typology—

eidolons of cytology, necrology, phrenology.
You can list ‘em till the last shoe
drops, when you’re studyin’ on pedology.

But I think the key to “biology”’s “zoology”—
processional life of ram, kid, and ewe.
Every single word’s a mammalogy—
androgyny?—Well, I’m searching for a Trinity!

Love and Death

Eros owns the key to health.

Science helps only when you’ve started to die.
Death holds the richest wealth.

Love is the switch that turns on kith
and kin—gordian knots to tie.
Eros owns the key to health

and builds a godly commonwealth—
tall ships, towers piercing sky—
but death holds the richest wealth,

as you’ll find when all the bells
toll to announce your time to die,
when you're barely in good enough health

to hear those sledges of the bells,
chiming golden to the sky.
Death holds the richest wealth,

when you depart with perfect stealth—
gone to your hoped-for by-and-by.
Eros owns the key to health.
Death holds the richest wealth.

An Ontology

Hooves, tootsies, dogs?—No.
Cadence, cadency, rhyme, lilt,
measure, music, swing, beat,
pattern, structure, nuance, flow:
that’s the ontology of feet.
Pretty maids all in a row.
Hooves, tootsies, dogs?—No.
Ghungroo in the house God built.

Acorns and the Summer Porch

acorns, old oak tree, shingles, porch, melt, foot

This morning it was raining acorns
because of the squirrels in the old oak tree.
The acorns rattled on the shingles,
rolled off, and piled up on the porch—
almost as real hail would, but acorns don’t melt.
They hurt when I crunch them with my foot,

stepping off the porch with my best foot
forward, toward the trunk of the old oak tree—
all the while hearing clattering on the shingles
and lamenting my languid summer porch
where I indolently lounged beneath green acorns—
warm thoughts making my heart melt.

I thought that the whole summer day would melt
into a cauldron with a satyr’s foot.
Everything was in the cauldron, starting with the acorns
falling down from the late-autumn oak tree,
making their constant drumming on the shingles—
nut accumulation on the porch.

How sadly I lament my summer porch
where I lay listening to my soul melt—
in love with you, my dear—brown foot
in the sun, scent of oak leaves and acorns
in my nose! How cloud-high rose the old oak tree
then, branches laden above the shingles,

laden with a weight of fruit the shingles
cannot hold—all rolling down to the porch,
where in another month snow won’t melt—
no un-treacherous step for the foot—
freezing robe of white covering the acorns
beneath shingled roof and bare oak tree!

How pathetically the old oak tree
itself laments, hulking over shingles,
opaque lap-sided walls and storied porch—
on which my tender lover’s heart would melt
of a summer's day, resting at the foot
of a venerable old oak engendering acorns.

I’ll have had enough of acorns when my foot
presses on the earth and feels it melt. But my summer porch
beckons—roof-shingles shaded by the old oak tree.

Losing the Trace

Should I feel bad about losing the trace,

whether my voice trails off or gets louder?
Can the poem itself be the trace?

I walked in Arizona, recording my voice—
.wav file smashed into electron-powder.
Should I feel bad about losing the trace,

clearly recognizing I’m in a race
with time—time wears the trousers?
But can the poem itself beat out the pace,

feet departing in all haste—
as to first-base when you hit a grounder.
Should I feel bad about making a force?

There’s always some reason to feel worse
than I need to feel—when I’ve been too rowdy,
playing my jack on your ace,

finally hearing that there’s too much bass—
I fixed it, so now I can be a shouter,
feeling both good and bad about losing the trace,
hoping the poem itself can carve a trace.

Whatever Love Is, It Isn't Pure

Self-love gifted to another—

how much self can a self endure?
Everyone’s my sister or my brother.

Even though I never had a brother—
I had male friends, but never a male amour—
my self-love gifted to the other.

And, of course, like everyone, I had a father
from whose gifted love I’ve needed cure.
He’s dead, but I still love him like a brother.

But I never loved him as I loved my mother,
and there’ve been other women whose allure
spurred me to gift my self-love to another

and love them like a wife or like a sister—
and that’s where my attempts encountered failure,
mixing up brother-sister, sister-brother.

But I still always get all in a pother,
trying to fiddle Jenny on the Railroad—
Jenny’s self-love gifted to none other.
Everyone’s my sister and my brother!

No More Monkeys

bed, home, years, gone, more, now

1
No more monkeys jumping on the bed!
The monkeys have all grown up and left home,
monkeys growing fewer as our years 
wind down—lonely, because our monkeys are gone.
Monkeys take to the roads—heard from no more?
We love the monkeys, but they’re wandering now.

2
How can we find joy in our lives now
that the monkeys have stopped jumping on the bed?
Our house no longer feels like home
without sweet monkey-chatter, and the years
pummel us thin until we too are gone,
vanished, not remembered any more;

3
wishing it were true that there be many mo’
monkeys, though we live nowhere now—  
waking up cold in a broken bed,
in a place we no longer recognize as home,
contemplating the sheer ending of our years—
that’s how life feels when your monkeys are gone.

4
They say we’ll feel nothing when our life is done—
you’ll never hear our gladsome chirrup more—
removed completely from the time of now,
our days all stored away and put to bed,
days when we heard about a better home—
our honeycomb, reward for all our years.

5
Trying to get back before the beginning of years.
No one had yet been born, so no one could be gone—
no one expecting less, everyone expecting more—
the exact opposite of our situation now.
All souls were a single monkey jumping on the bed
of nothingness, our past and future home.

6
You can take our scissors, Ginger Nut, we're going home,
done clipping the sad alnage of the years—
Long John, like a turkey through the corn, done gone.
You won’t be seeing Long John any more.
Long John’s a bright star in the firmament now
in the constellation, Monkeys Jumping on the Bed.

7
Our song is done—no need to sing it more—
monkeys gone—remembered through the years—
gone and left home—No more jumping on the bed!

Insecurity (Duplex Poem)

Two years and more expecting you to leave,

you always amaze me by sticking around.

          If you did leave, I’d still see you around,
          I guess, but all our good times would be over,

and I’d have a terrible time getting over
you, you surely know. Still, I don’t want

          you to stay if that isn’t what you want.
          Waiting for word from you, I fear the worst,

but why do I always expect the worst,
when there’s nothing you don’t do to earn my trust?

          There’s a demon in the scenery that burns trust
          like brush, gunpowder-dry, before the storm—

a wolf-like, all-devouring worry-storm
from hell—two years expecting you to leave.

Tactful Boy

It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

But aren't all of the bodily organs blessed of God?
Literary strategies are at best compensatory.

All I want to do is tell the sultry
truth. Sure, I could project it into some persona-Nimrod,
because it's not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory.

Nimrod built the Tower of Babel—million-story!
It ascended all the way to heaven, like Jack’s beanstalk, so, of course, God
had to smite it. But that was at best a compensatory

act, because the damage had already been done—the motor lorry
had already crashed through the crepe facade—
all possible allegations of your poems being masturbatory

proved beyond doubt, to their not-small glory!
You’re proud of yourself. You put your skinny or broad
butt in a chair and penned a few compensatory

songs that any Jane, Dick, or Harry
can identify with, and maybe they’ll applaud!
It’s not a compliment when people call your poems masturbatory,
but literary strategies are at best compensatory.

Winter's Weeds (I Danced My Rondeau)

I danced my rondeau at the Y last night

(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).
putting any demons to flight,
rhythm coming out all right
stepping the sprightly 8/8 beat—
dancing on the Polar Shelf—
I danced my rondeau at the Y last night night
(had Flex Room A, with mirrors, to myself).

I'm Ready

What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets,

like Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti?
Can’t say we would never know it
without Leo and Fyodor to show it—
bloody red spaghetti-
sauce on the tracks; scorned woman stabbed through the heart.
What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets?
I do love Dickinson and Rossetti!

Anxiety

This situation may be no-win,

but everyone I meet here is my friend.
Why do I feel so jerked out of my skin?

Always riding the edge of a hairpin
curve, I have no end
of anxiety, fearing this situation may be no-win.

Always wearing a fake grin
on my face, habit that lets me blend
into the scenery—beige tinge on my skin.

But whoever thinks I have a soul of tin
should know I’m hiding woes that‘d rend
cast-iron gates; says I’ll never win

know I couldn’t possibly begin
to list the million times I’ve tried to mend
this treed-fox heart beneath my skin.

It’s because I have no choice but go all-in
and I’ve borrowed every cent you had to lend,
and because this situation may be no-win,
that there’s no way I don’t feel jerked out of my skin!

I'm So Glad I'm Up in Heaven at Last

When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

If I don’t, I’ll have a dangerous spill.
My feet’ll be in the air. The birds will tweet.

Walking through all of this most amazing day’s sweet
opportunities—opportunities to get killed!
When I walk, I keep my chin forward of my feet.

My chin is made of steel, you know. When the street
slugs me in the middle of my vaudeville
act, my feet ain’t in the air, at least. The birds don’t tweet.

Could be I’ll break my wrists, though, complet-
ly wrecking my nice mandolin quadrille. Still,
when I walk, I'll keep my chin forward of my feet.

Don’t know when, but soon, the white sheet
will cover up my face. What’s left of me will fill
a tight space bereft of air, where no birds tweet;

but that’ll be the day when our souls meet,
before we tumbled down the hill, says Jack, says Jill.
When I walk I keep my chin forward of my feet.
My feet will be in the sky. The birds will tweet.

My Pet Ontology

George, my mother’s big Persian,

older than me. By the time I became a teenager,
boy, was that cat smelly!

Sylvia, beautiful black short-hair.
When she died, my dad
buried her in a towel.

Winifred, another black.
She hated other cats
and lived in the incinerator.

Agnes, the only dog.
Couldn’t be potty-trained,
so my dad drowned her.

Henry, a vacant-eyed black-and-white.
I kicked him off my bed one night,
and I think he went and got locked in a panel truck.

Harriet, an ornery tortoiseshell.
Had her litter on
an old stump under the bushes.

One of Harriet’s kittens—Rodney. The people who came
and took him brought him back emaciated, scared. 
You could drape Rodney over chairs like a slinky.

Henrietta,
my sister’s favorite,
eviscerated by dogs.

Walter, Henrietta’s kitten,
black and white like her mother.
We mistook two little tufts of fur for testicles.

Flora, sveldt tabby my dad called Rugga-Carpeta.
Those free-ranging Denver canines ripped her tail off,
and she died in convulsions on the kitchen floor.

Julius—Orange Julius, my mother called him.
One day when she was dying, I realized my mother was afraid
Julius would lie on her chest and suffocate her.

I believe she was relieved
when I had Julius 
removed from the house.

Love Is a Hum

I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

I had to trade my guitar for a bed.
Love is a hum.

Ready to swill rum,
I’m in such a state of dread—
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!

It’s a big thrill, but it’s kind of a bum
rap too, me with my feet of lead,
feeling the hum

of love in my veins,
recalling times I pled
for deliverance from this merciless fun—

all my thoughts focussed on the one
I love, my precious newlywed,
hearing the hum

of their voice, their soft kiss burning
my lips—NOT like a beast unfed.
I’m real nervous, but it sure is fun!
Love is a hum.

The Rondeau Is a Thing of Five

The woodspurge hath a cup of three (Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.
The haiku is of three.

          Chaucer’s rondeau's about staying alive
          through winter, whose weeds will be

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.

          o'ershaken by bright Phoebus on high,
          St. Valentine. The small birds find their joy,
          become the two becomes three.

The rondeau is a thing of five,
but also of two and three.
The haiku is of three.

Rondeau

What to you seems reason for uncertainty

to me may seem a firmly grasped handshake.—
Goodbye, goodbye. We our departure take.

          Look, you sad skeptic, you can plainly see,
          it ain’t exactly easy shake-and-bake.

What to you seems reason for certainty
to me may seem a well-executed head-fake.

          I’m simply appealing to your charity
          in a playful spirit of give-and-take—
          when we ourselves might our quietus make...

What to others may seem reason for uncertainty
to you and me seems a dearly clasped handshake.—
Goodbye, goodbye. We our departure take.

Drugging the Pateroller

I don’t identify as a white man.

Yes, I’m among the privileged.
Try to pin me if you can—

my identity slick as a corn can—
I tried to run, but I got bridged.
But I can always pass for a white man.

I've tried the grits, give me the ham!
The powder on my nose is smudged.
Feed me! I know you can!

Hiding here behind my fan
(other improprieties have been alleged,
such as pretending not to be a man).

My forebears from a northern land,
but the boundaries have become all fudged,
so try to catch me if you can!

Going right from the frying pan
into the fire with the plans I’ve fledged,
but the police always know I’m a white man.
They don’t try to shoot me, but they can.

The Shard of Wood

One of a box of objects. Reddish, striated. Size of a very small bird. Thought it was a piece of petrified wood, but when I picked it up it had no weight. And brittle—broke into three pieces the moment I touched it, pulverized at the cleavages. Seems to be the dried-up pulp of an insect-damaged tree—there ARE tiny holes in it. But it mainly reminds me of a plump lizard or a tiny toy papoose—but only by sight, because now I’m afraid to touch it, afraid I’ll break it even worse. Like the clovers pressed in my late friend Ellen’s copy of Woody Guthrie, a Life—broken just by looking.

Can I speak to the object, let the object speak? How can I address you, disintegrating, crumbling wood chip, not really knowing what you are, less where you’re from? What will you say in return? You speak. You say: I am a piece of the vasculature that pumped a million gallons up a hundred-foot conifer. A shard of redwood, I am. It doesn’t matter how the life I was part of ended—which it hasn’t. Don’t grieve if you destroy my tiny trace!

Terra d'Ombra

To gain heaven, you can’t renounce umber—

umber, red-poop color of mud,
color of heartaches without number.

For Hieronymus Bosch, debauchery was umber,
salvation some blessedness cleansed of blood.
To gain heaven, he renounced umber.

And think of poor Jeanne Hébuterne,
mistress of Modigliani—that clod—
suiciding to be rid of her heartaches without number,

eyes blank midst hair of auburn—
both she and her lover now under the sod.
Has she gained heaven by renouncing umber?

Yes, we will all slumber
with our mothers in the world before the flood,
beyond the pale of heartaches without number;

but from somewhere outside the painting the light of an invisible candle
glimmers on us like a light of God—
reflected through the power of umber,
the blessed power of heartaches without number.

you

The poem is about the present moment.

Hmm... I don’t mind if I do.
But to place my stuff, I’ll need an agent.

I experienced a particularly radiant
moment yesterday, thinking of you—
a moment

of tenderness, glimpsing a yarn bracelet
in the grass, wet with dew.
But I was supposed to call my agent

to arrange submissions and readings I’m too ardent
to pay adequate attention to.
The poem is about the present moment,

the eternal now—remembered only as a recent
event. The bird flew.
That was what I needed to tell my agent.

A deer walked by my stand, but I was too impatient
to wait, and now I've got no clue
what tune to hum about the present moment.
All I know is: got to fire my agent!

Yarn Bracelets

Two yarn bracelets by
the sidewalk. Unicorn-mane
colors, white and blue.
Spun with a drop spindle?  Each 
wound with a pink thread.

______

First draft

two yarn bracelets beside the sidewalk

abandoned by some child
wispy unicorn-mane colors
each with one purple and one white strand
spun with a pink thread

All Hallows (One for Peter, Two for Paul)

I sometimes think my life’s just a mistake.

What a botch God made of me!
That takes the soul-cake!

Feeling like a cop on the take—
last time I checked, my will was free—
so tell me whose mistake

it was I’m nothing but a tiny flake
of flint dropped in the boundless sea.
That takes the soul-cake!

And do I ever have amends to make!—
accused of death—so what’s my plea?
Sometimes I think my life’s just a mistake,

so with new programs to reform the snake
you know I always say that I agree.
That takes the soul-cake!

Hey, I’m working for the Lady of the Lake!
I’ll never grok my job, but it suits me!
How could I think my life’s just a mistake?
That takes the soul-cake!

Witty Shop of Holsteins

Do we disagree when you say God will judge my soul and I say no?

I so wish we would just agree to get along!
We’re the same people who were here ages ago.

You can step up to the line but it’ll cost you a dollar per throw,
and you can take as many tries as you want to clang the gong:
you’ll say God will judge my soul, and I’ll say no,

and we’ll go on like that till we’re both ready to blow;
then we’ll sail away for a year and a day and settle among
the Jumblies, who also are the same people who were here ages ago,

except they’re even crazier, drunk all the time on ring-bo-
ree, fat on no end of stilton cheese—owl, cart—on our far-flung
ventures to the hills of the Chankly Bore, souls judged or no:

until finally we behold the finest, most variegated rainbow
ever seen by mortal eyes. Dressed only in thongs day-long,
we're the same people who were here ages ago—

for example, by the sleepy flowing waters of the River Po
in Northern Italy, from which the world’s largest catfish was wrung.
Do we disagree when I say the catch weighed two-eighty and God says no?
The same catfish was caught somewhere else ages ago.

Steppenwolf

Steppenwolf Prose Poem

The windows will be lighted not the rooms. (Wallace Stevens, “Auroras of Autumn”)

The house sits well back. The doors are open. At least, the front door is open, not sure about the back. The windows are all lighted, but I can’t be sure about the rooms themselves—whether they’re lighted, that is.

The house sits well back. The back door is open, but only by walking all the way around the house could I make sure of that. The open back door sheds light from a kitchen stove. Children run in and out.

The house sits well back. The windows are lighted, and because there’s a kitchen stove and children, I’m sure the rooms are lighted too—lighted with a soft warm light.

The house sits well back. The doors are open. But how rude it would be of me to walk in!
_________

Steppenwolf Sonnet

The windows will be lighted not the rooms. (Wallace Stevens, “Auroras of Autumn”)

The house sits well back; the doors are open.
At least, the front door is open, not sure about the back.
The windows are all lighted, but I can’t be sure about the rooms
themselves—whether they’re lighted, that is.

The house sits well back; the back door is open,
but only by walking all the way around the house
could I make sure of that. The open back door sheds light
from a kitchen stove. Children run in and out.

The house sits well back; the windows are lighted,
and, because there’s a kitchen stove and children, I’m sure
the rooms are lighted too, lighted with a soft warm light.

The house sits well back; the doors are open.
But how rude it would be of me
to walk in!


On a line from Jean Follain

Paranoia Triolet

I sometimes think everyone thinks I’m an asshole,

but I don’t think that’s really true exactly.
A whole train of brainy thinks in tow,
thinking that everyone thinks I’m an asshole.
A whole wallet-roll
of thinks rolled up compactly—
thinking that everyone hates my jellyroll—
but I don’t think they really do exactly.

What the Kid's Big Orange Squirt Gun Had No Freakin'

accuracy, man!
standing on the jungle jim,
spraying water jets.

I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On

     It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees,

     They’re putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace. Joni Mitchell

Walking miles in the rain to get a rhyme.
Life is not easy for the carefree.
Everyone relates to being sad at Christmas time.

Feeling kind of nervous all the time
about possible ambushes I can’t see,
walking miles in the rain to get a rhyme—

mostly avoiding traffic signs—
feeling sweet and lovely, but also lonely,
relating to being sad at Christmas time

and not needing to be put in mind
of all the grief in the world, the pain and misery
you have to go through in the rain to get a rhyme.

So ask me how I feel.—I feel just fine.
I’m really relating, on this fun journey,
with all the folks who feel sad at Christmas time—

with my friend who’s OK and living in Michigan,
home, but not quite where they longed to be,
walking miles in the rain to get a rhyme.
Everyone relates to being sad at Christmas time.

I Dig Villanelle Music

The villanelle is 

so ample! It really lets
you say something, if

Rondel: Donkeys/Pirates

Donkeys are in love with carrots.
Carrots aren’t in love at all.
Hee-haw, hee-haw.
Listen to that loving call.

Donkeys are in love with carrots.
Carrots give you orange skin.
I wish that you would once begin
to judge things purely on their merits.

What animal smells worst?—Well, ferrets.
Behavior earns you hell?—Well, sin.
Donkeys seed the world with carrots,
their apples tracking where they’ve been—

donkeys with a share in Barrett's
Privateers. They’d fire no guns,
pile up Copenhagen tins,
and guard their hold of stolen clarets.
Pirates count their loot in carets.

ants and spiders

ants in the kitchen

find ‘em in the cat food a
hundred per kibble

in the bathroom too
but there are spiders in the
radiator sus

pending themselves on
webs and pouncing on the ants
picked off 

one 
by 
one

Ode to My Chipmunks

I can’t think
what to write
my ode about,
but my chipmunks
are an obvious
possibility.
How many
are they, and now 
late October is come,
where do they
sleep? Under
my back porch?
Will they
hibernate
under there?
I fear
the wind
will strafe them
through the slats.
There was that
time last Fall
I tried
with my phone
for days
to get a picture
of the chipmunk
(there was only
one chipmunk
then, or so
I thought)—
futile—chipmunk 
darting away 
again and again.
But then
one day I got 
several good shots—
chipmunk on porch,
chipmunk in bird bath, 
chipmunk sitting on 
the bird-feeder tray,
filling its cheeks—
too light
to pull down
the seed-saving
cylinder.

Sort-of Horatian Poem in Sort-of Sapphic stanzas

Didn’t I meet a lovely girl one evening?—
sweeter than sweet, neat little feet? Didn’t she
want to take me to her room that very night,
kiss me in secret?

Why couldn’t I respond to such an offer,
when she caught my arms and sweetly did me kiss?
Something interposed between us, cold, I guess,
froze my desire.

We Are Glad!

We can’t be glad, why do we even try?
They’ve stolen all my precious joy, mama!
Our lives are over, but we’re not ready to die.

We’ve certainly admired the circuitry—
the train ride to Montgomery, Alabama,
and back—we wanted to help, but we couldn’t really try.

And now we’re sure we’re being asked to comply
with a program to obliterate Obama.
Our lives would be over. Would we be ready to die

for beliefs we hold in firmest surety,
unswayed by all the glitz and glamor,
but wanting to always try to be glad,

find non-insistent patterns in the tapestry,
hints of pale blue eyes, amorous
trysts in the corn before we die?

Gladness beaming its golden filigree?—
Must be Jesus, must be Dhama.
We can’t be glad? Why do we even try?—
We have eternal life, and we’re ready to die.

Skeleton, Answer Me This (re. Echo and Narcissus)

1
What’s the skeleton of
a word?
An echo.

2
Is a mirror-image a skeleton?
Nope, 
a ghost.

Generosity

Generosity is of birth, 

generation, and gendering.
No matter what your life is worth,
generosity is of birth—
the greenest thing on this brown earth.
Whatever you’re surrendering,
generosity is of birth,
generation, and gendering.

Gods Be Thanked!

If you know you’re pretty, you know

you have eternal life.
Gods would not have given you a soul
if they hadn’t thought you were pretty, you know.
You love, your love will grow,
loving your trouble and strife.
You’re both pretty, so you know
you have eternal life.

Dinner Invitation

My life is a rubble-barge

with a gigantic blow-up panda on it.
My eyes dazzle at the sight
of Beatrice Portinari—
Florence, Via Del Corso.
Or don’t my ear drums shatter!—
not a panda,
but an entire rock-and-roll band-a!
OK, let’s see—you said you saw the most beautiful dance-a,
because your friend never practices his flamenco.
But, yes, we both saw the writing on the wall:
BUMB, was the word—I couldn’t really grok it—
a 500-pound walrus-of-fate kind of thing,
or a tush-bomb, better yet!
So I DID take a leak in the snow,
and I’d do it in real life, too!—
Wenny, the walking toilet (as I’m called)
will trudge on till they reach the inn,
where all the blesséd sinners sit together on the same bench—
which finally makes no sense;
but the statue will sing:
Don Giovanni, a cenar teco m’invitasti,
e son venuto. Here I am!
Grasp a stone hand,
taste a stone tongue,
smell the brimstone!
My heart is steady,
I am not afraid.
I will come!