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!

Triolets

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 murdered.
What if Anna Karenina and Nastasya Filippovna had been poets?
I do love Dickinson and Rossetti.

Retirement
I may give up on the world liking me,

but I like myself just fine—
on my Lake Isle of Innisfree,
tending my hive of wild honey bees,
I brew hogsheads of dandelion wine.
No one writes or visits me.
I may give up on the world liking me,
but I like myself just fine.

Paranoia

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.

Gladness
Registering how glad I am,
walked onto my sunny cold back porch
barefoot with my bathrobe on,
registering how glad I am.
I’ll shine, of course I’ll shine
brightly like a prayer in church.
Registering how glad I am,
walked onto my sunny cold back porch.

Can I Say?
Can I say
how much my life
delights me, say
it in a triolet—
this illegal day
sowing purple loosestrife,
say
it in a triolet?

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.
God 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.

Leaf Turning
The oak leaves are yellow and green,
maple leaves dull orange.
Autumn’s first frost is seen
in the oak leaves, yellow and green.
The basswood’s leaves are still ALL green,
like the rowan tree’s by the garage.
The oak leaves are yellow and green.
Clusters of rowan-berry orange!

Mockingbird

That mild September day
the mockingbird was singing far and wide
fool's gold love of that day,
that mild September day
before you went away
when we gathered in the cotton side by side,
that mild September day
the mockingbird was singing far and wide.




************
TRIGGER WARNING!!! 
EROTIC TRIOLETS - 
************

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 lined up in a row?
Hooves, tootsies, dogs?—No.
Ghungroo in the house God built.

The Awful Dreadful Snake
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
If it’s a girl, I even love their feet and penis.
Knowing that the morning star was hurled
down from on high for wanting to be a girl.
In heaven, there is no-more-heinous
a sin than to lounge with you toes curled
around the fell snake that comes between us.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
If it’s a girl, I even love their feet and penis.
     Big-ups, Iggy Pop

Blessed Relief
It’s nice to write about my horniness

poems that are just plain masturbatory—
always on the side of blessedness,
nothing but the bony resonance
of engendered maleness and femaleness.
So I’ve decided to turn state’s evidence.—
It’s nice to write about my horniness
poems that are just plain masturbatory.

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).

Naked Yoga
Doing naked yoga, I serenade the street!

Is that more of a performance than you wanted?
I’m practicing ballet moves, my cute feet
raised in turn, face pale as a beet,
loving belting my own cant-
icle, doing naked yoga: I moon the street!
Is that more of a performance than you wanted?

Feet Selfies
It's cold as the proverbial witch's tit;
but I took photos of my feet in the sunny window,
trying to make the best of it.
Nope, it doesn't sting a bit—
the cold, I mean. But there's a crescendo
of panic when I realize the gist of it:
It's cold as the proverbial witch's tit,
but I took photos of my feet in the sunny window.

Back Porch
Late October, almost naked.
Will this be my last day on the porch?
(I do so like going naked!)
Late October, almost naked,
waiting for someone to say, “Hey kid,
it’s cold enough—windy!—that the sun won’t scorch
you!” Late October, almost naked.
Will this be my last day on the porch?


Triolet Triplet: Going Into the Sex Business at Sixty-Six
1
Could I go into the sex business
as a sixty-six-year-old trans guy?
Would my cava get more fizz-ness
if I worked in the sex business?
You might say I’m vicious,
and how I ain’t, I can’t see why
if I go into the sex business
as a sixty-six-year-old trans guy.

2
First of all, will I have to take hormones?
Gonna keep my penis, but do I need to get tits?
Well, probably, yes, but let me try it once
without any estrogen.
Mainly, I’ll just need my camera phone
to take videos of myself while I masturbate.
So, no, I might not need to take hormones
(But tits’d be a benefit, I admit!).

3
OK, I tried it, and I like what I see!
My gray-haired face is pleasant.
Mainly, my feet are pretty!
Yeah, I tried it, and I like what I see.
It might be neat to go online with me.
People will say, “There’s a cute pheasant!”
Yup, I tried it, and I like what I see!
My gray-haired face is fetching and pleasant.

Mockingbird

These days I will always remember—
their sweet sympathy,
lived in the mild September.

Don't I want to keep the timbre
the same with care and empathy
through days I will always remember

for their warm, soft elixir—
thinking of my sweet Halle,
gone in the mild September?

Dismembering memories, firm fixtures
fading in the mind: a radiant balcony,
your flowing tresses, I will always remember:

a burst of rapture
in our hearts, a celestial symphony
in the mild September.

Deep in love forever!
Don’t know what will happen, wait and see!
These days I will always remember,
lived in the mild September.

Sonnet

We really liked each other,

so it seemed quite natural
to take our clothes off and be naked together,
so that we could make love to each other
with our eyes, just letting our feet touch
a little on the couch as we talked or read
or did our homework together.
Sometimes our caresses would become intense—
we’d stroke each other’s limbs,
lip each other’s nipples,
entwine our legs and kiss—
but when our genitals got into the act,
it would be over too fast,
and we’d have to get dressed.

Six-Senryu Haibun

I took off late today, after a morning of poetry and music, walking east to Whole Foods. While I ate my sushi, I sang to myself:

   Salmon strips curled over rice cake,
   your thousand-island-like dressing is fat and tart,
   but I have to throw out your plastic packaging!

I did throw out the packaging, and while I used a paper napkin to wipe my sticky fingers, I sang:

   Why don’t I just walk right up Selby Avenue
   to Lexington now,
   and then over to Grand and home?

Yes. But I had to stand for a long time before Lexington, waiting for the traffic to pass. You see, my pedestrian rule is, never walk in front of cars; if a car stops for me, I just wave it on by, singing:

   Driver, driver, you think you’re being polite,
   stopping to let me walk in front of you,
   but you’re trying to get me killed!

Soon enough, all the cars were gone. I surprised myself by walking almost all the way to Dale, but then I did go south and made it to Grand all right. When I saw Starbucks Coffee, I thought of going in, but instead I sang this song:

   Starbucks Coffee,
   you seek my custom,
   but your pastries are wasted calories!

and kept on walking—a jog north across Lexington to Summit Parkway, then west up the path through the bushes, where I warbled:

   Sweet Summit path,
   I walked on you barefoot and saw a bluebird
   less than a month ago!

I wanted to get home in time to make coffee and rest before driving to my poetry class. But I thought of an interesting refrain line for a so-called “villanelle,” and I sang this song:

   Sometimes I think my life’s just a mistake.
   What a botch God made of me!
   That takes the soul-cake!

Grasshopper Riot 2

We might be having a grasshopper riot.

—Is that like a Appalachian fire drill?—
OK, I just want YOU to be quiet!

If you see a pair of lederhosen, buy it!
And then I want you to take a silence pill,
because we might be having a grasshopper riot—

with fire-eating—and you might think you want to try it,
but you won’t be able to keep your jaw still
for long enough, so better YOU be quiet!

And you’ll hate the colors, so you’ll have to dye it—
pink, maybe, or blue, according as your will
sees fit to dye a float in a grasshopper riot;

and, of course, you’ll have to put it in a pan and fry it,
but rancid bacon can make a body ill,
so I’ll ask you one more time to just be quiet!

OK, buster, you're going on a diet—
grasshopper will be your only meal
till you've conjured a devastating locust riot—

'cause ain't you the charming boy now, don't deny it!
Du, Papageno, schweige still!
In other words (English, that is), be quiet!

Sure, you’re eight miles higher than the sky! It
‘ll amaze you plenty when you get the bill—
how much you’ll have to pay for this grasshopper riot!
But please just be quiet about it, OK!—BE QUIET!!!

Sailor Come Home

Will the day ever come

when me, myself, and I ceases to please?
It’ll be time to go home.

Like that woman in the W.C. Williams poem
who says she’s tired of the trees.
Will the day ever come

when I’m weary of all the tunes I hum,
like a dog sick of its fleas?
It’ll be time to go home,

return back from wherever I did roam,
choose my seat and take my ease.
Will the day ever come

when I spit out the pone,
like Byron before the Battle of Missolonghi?
It’ll be time to go home

to my new cell in God’s honeycomb,
like Stevenson home from the sea.
When that day comes,
I’ll be glad to go home.

Remember the Alamo

Took a long long walk; so where did I go?

Did I sally forth to get some lunch?
I’m trying to take things kind of slow.

You don’t want a blow-by-blow
account of my day—when, following a hunch,
I took a long long walk; so where did I go?

I was just trying to get in between Curly and Moe—
those fingers to the eye-balls hurt a bunch!—
Curly’ll need to take things kind of slow

(bird’ll be tweeting, frogs croaking low)
after Moe socks him with a bucket punch,
Curly’s consciousness taking a walk; so where did it go?

It walked right into the Battle of the Alamo
where human bullets hum and bones crunch—
still trying to take things kind of slow—

Hey, Santa Anna, they’re killing your soldiers below.
You need to take a walk just to escape the stench,
a long long walk; so where will you go?—
never forgetting to take things kind of slow.

Always More

If not for you, my sky would fall

Rain would gather, too (Bob Dylan, New Morning)

“Less is more” is often true—
we don’t want to over-burden our friends—
but more is more when it comes to you!

You are the one whom the glass shoe
really fits, when we come to the end
of all roads where “more is less” is true—

because, babe, if I’m the scissors, you’re the glue—
I’ve felt how far your loving care extends:
more is more when it comes to you—

not less than enough to get me through
all my life’s daily twists and bends,
where “less is lessening” seems true.

I came to you, love, through the foggy dew,
I moved so softly, my feet made no din,
I needed more and more of you!

When it comes to you, rain gathers too,
but we know how to make amends.
“Less is more” is often true,
but more is always more when it comes to you!

Formal Set: Quatrains, Cinquains

Mind Your Own Business, Dad

Kids left to go dumpster-diving
to get road food for the Bread-and-Puppet troop,
so I walked to the Y and worked out.
When I got back, they were home—cooking.

Cinquain: Where the Kids Went Today
2, 4, 6, 8, 2

Dumpster
diving to get
food for the puppet troop.
I didn’t try to talk them out
of it.

White Door

White door we all must open
stands in the white fog without a house attached,
swings in the wind without a creaking sound.
How do you tell if it’s open?

Cinquain: White Door
2, 4, 6, 8, 2

White door
all must open
sways in white fog with no
house attached, swings quietly in
the light.

uncollectable

1

house finch
cheeping as it hops
by the red clay carp

or maybe that’s
a chipmunk chirping
in the basswood tree

2

two gray squirrels
on the lawn
three gray squirrels

ok two gray squirrels
with their bushy
peacock tails

3

stone birdbath
under the maple
full to the brim a drop 

from a leaf roils

now wobbling in the wind
now still

Grasshopper Riot

A grasshopper riot is required

so that we won’t have to give up on God’s love.
If you’re gonna get fired, get good’n fired!

Especially because you’re so dead tired
from trying to perform the will of heaven above,
a grasshopper riot is required.

And because you know you’re divinely inspired,
bringing down on yourself the very toughest love,
if you’re gonna get fired, get good’n fired!

Everything your fool heart desired:
an insect convention in the olive grove—
a grasshopper riot!—is required.

And even if you’re just an old retired
guy without much left to prove,
go back to work so you can get fired, get good’n fired!

Because there's a faery in the alcove,
and because God’s wrath is no different from Christ’s love,
a grasshopper riot is required!
Get yourself fired right now! Get good’n fired!

Just Remember He's Some Mother's Precious Darling

If I was a homeless guy on a mat,

empty bottle in a bag,
sleeping on the street—

grizzled face under a stocking cap
battered, as from a stag-
fight, poor homeless guy on a mat:

imagine someone would kindly invite
me into their home, wrap me in their flag
of pity, the bleeding mercy of the street;

imagine they would give me grub to eat,
tie a nice nosebag
of barley for this horseless guy on a mat—

as if it totally didn’t matter that
my mittened fingers peep, my shirt’s a foul rag,
my closed eyes bear the fist marks of the street:

someone is truly worried that my feet
might freeze off, and I’ll lie with wooden pegs—
a homeless guy on a mat,
sleeping on the street.

Remembering Robin Williams

So I could write a poem about Lady and the Tramp

without ever mentioning a dog.
How about Aladdin and the Lamp?

Robin Williams sure put his stamp
on that one! No reason why that Genie won’t turn into a frog!
Lady and the Tramp

was from an earlier era, when dogs were champ,
cats villainized—before a sick fog
fell over everything, including Aladdin’s yellow Lamp.

You could climb a golden magic carpet ramp
if you were not a brutal rogue,
and those cute doggies in Lady and the Tramp

found love together, out of that damp
basement in Dogcatcher's burlap sack.
But how about Aladdin and the Lamp?

That big blue Genie’s now encamped
in the wilderness somewhere, where tails can no more wag.
I could write a poem about Lady and the Tramp.
So how about Aladdin and the Lamp?

We Are Siamese If You Please

Can a modern poet be shaman,

even without wearing a bardic tunic?
There are no better cats than I am.

Well, when you anoint yourself with balsam,
it can feel extremely therapeutic
to intone your strong convictions like a shaman.

You’ll be in the neighborhood when the daemon
leaps, when everyone receives the rubric:
There are no better cats than I am.

And you get to hold a shining flamen
and be oracular like a Druid—
that’s the entitlement of a shaman.

So much is necessarily unclear to the layman,
whose job is to sit still and hold a tulip—
There are no better cats than I am.

Well, Holy Rumi and Shams, Batman!
Put on your rouge, put on your lipstick!
Can a modern poet be a shaman?
There are no better cats than I am.

Fitbit Villanelle

Everyday, I list my eats,
estimating the calories very roughly.
I also count my sleep.

Each morning, I read my Fitbit app,
which gives me steps and miles correctly
(but I don’t type in my eats).

It even plots my movements on a map
shows me when my heart thumps toughly,
and evaluates my sleep—

light, deep, and REM bo peep.
And it registers when I’m abruptly
wakened—maybe by my eats,

unsettled, so I’m tossing on my sheets
because I’m feeling achy in my tummy.
And sometimes I can’t sleep

for thinking of the stuff still on my plate:
Oh, Little Bo Peep, where are your sheep?
So everyday, I list my eats.
I also count my sleep.

Hippogriff?

Whatever it is, it isn’t what I thought.
It has too many feathers, for one thing—
feathers, not scales, a bird and not a fish.
It might look like a lizard, but it’s not.
It doesn’t have feet, though clearly it can walk.
I think I saw it eat a little bit,
and then I watched it hunker down and sit
stock still for a minute, before it ambled off

and I lost sight of it completely. I can’t
say what it might be doing now. It’s some kind
of animal, of that I’m fairly sure,
smaller than an elephant, larger than an ant.
I don’t think its intentions are quite pure,
but what they are exactly, I can’t find.

If I Ever Lose My Mouth

This cold is piercing me and it’s raining.

OK, I’ll go in soon.
Is the moon waxing or waning?

The moon is shining like a gold doubloon,
and we know the stock market's gaining.
OK, I’ll go in soon.

Never sure if we’re honest or feigning:
You’ll be spending some time on the beach soon.
This cold is piercing me, it’s raining.

Can’t tell if the moon’s waning
or waxing, while I'm fiddling this dancing tune,
not sure if the hounds are flagging or gaining.

I’m scratching my head like a dumb baboon
or an accountant in training,
daring to attempt feats of ledger-demain—

waxing moon-glow in my brain—
Besame Mucho, all I croon.
This cold is piercing me and it’s raining.
OK, I’ll go in soon.