I Never Get a Wink of Sleep

Are my thoughts false?

I know they’re obsessive—
dancing the Peek-a-Boo Waltz.

Remembering that Rals-
ton commercial—white-cook-hat rendition.
Is that memory false?

And the whole host
of other abusive
images: dancing the Peek-a-Boo

Waltz at the high school prom—I exalt
a stray memory into a new commission
of the Battle of Little Bighorn—a thought

that earned, then lost
its spurs in the making of a legend—
dancing the beautiful Wounded Knee Waltz.

That’s why I writhe and toss
on my bed all night and need a head-physician.
My thoughts aren’t false, but they won’t stop
dancing the Peek-a-Boo Waltz.

The Two Gossips

You may not be the scissors, I may not be the glue,

but we both swing hatchet like Carrie Nation.
You didn’t hear it from me, I didn’t hear it from you.

We want to be like Clara Boo,
working with poor wounded patients
(if Clara’s not the scissors, we say she’s the glue),

while we most resemble Blackbeard and his crew,
sails blown ragged all over deep tarnation.
You didn’t hear it from me, I didn’t hear it from you.

But we're happy that our girl-sleuth Nancy Drew
will be heading up the investigation—
she’ll cut with scissors and paste with glue.

That girl never fails to find the clue;
then she drives her roadster to the police station
to show that clue to me and show it to you.

So are we the guys and/or gals in blue?
We can neither confirm nor deny that allegation.
We’re both the scissors AND the glue.
You heard it from me, I heard it from you.

Journaling as Meditation

In memoriam Willie Murphy

If I try to remember yesterday, will it calm me down?

So many hairs on the fire.         irons
The boys are back in town!

I’m chasing my tail like a rabbit-hound;
there was a dire
weather forecast that calmed me down

not one bit! I’m nowhere-bound,
but I’m roasting an entire           staking my whole
wig. The boys are back in town!                              pig

Lost on the merry-go-round—
how’s that for a quagmire
that if I remember tomorrow won’t calm me down?

And I’ll jape like a home-owner clown
who needs to exterminate those pismire-
boys who are back in town.

They love to hang around
wet spots in your foundation walls. They never tire
of giving you something to remember that won’t calm you down.
The boys are back in town!

Awright

I’m taking refuge to write,

my orange notebook my border fence.
There are plenty of rhymes awright!

Does your parrot bite?
Yes.
I’m taking refuge to write:

though I may look a fright
now, love, and be out of dress,
I’ll be all rhymes tonight!

I faithfully indite
my muse, who tunes like Myra Hess.
I'm playing etudes to write,

and tonight the spright
is scheming to escort me hence.
She has plenty of rhymes awright!

I’m never tired of hearing her recite
rhymes against which there’s no defence
when I take refuge to write.
There are plenty of rhymes awright!

Can Poems Be "Good?"

What’s more preposterous

than a poem?
Are poems without redress?

I must confess,
I wish I’d forego ‘em.
They’re preposterous-

ly less
than useful when I’m far from home.
“Without redress”

is what I call the inces-
sant clamour of their flow-
ing rhymes—"preposterous"

the callus
on the heart that's grown
so hard—too late to redress

such an ugly mess.
I guess I’m on my own,
because my poems are preposterous
and without redress.

Goodbye, My Fancy

Saying goodbye to Wenny, December third,
my El nuevo notebook sin espiral.
Awaiting words.

Words proclaiming I’ll get my just reward
after I’ve painted the town and had a ball,
saying goodbye to Wenny, December third;

words like a steel suit for me to gird
myself in, because I call
myself a knight of the sword.

Awaiting mention in the Rocky Ford
book of Who’s Who-est of Them All.
They’ll put in a good word

for Dada and the Theater of the Absurd,
words flailing in a rhyming free-for-all,
saying goodbye to Wenny, December third.

Well, you’re a rare bird,
Wenny, always gunning for a fall,
writing “Goodbye” in Wenny, December third,
the final word.

Happy

I feel sleepy,

but I got six hours.
I’m fairly happy.

Trying to gauge me—
test my powers—
but I feel sleepy.

And not looking
to paint the flowers—
pretty happy

about me.
I’d take a shower,
but a bath’s more sleepy.

OK, I’ll make it snappy
and start the snow blower.
I’m a happy

homeowner—how trippy
that my life’s nearly over!
I feel sleepy,
but I’ll die happy!

Enlightenment

Heaven: I don’t want to go there unless everyone else can go there too.

If I attained enlightenment,
would I still
suffer enjoyment?

If my long employment,
greasing the till,
gained enlightenment,

would disappointment
linger, supposing I might feel
regret for some enjoyment

I was supposedly done with—
scent I could no longer smell
in my dreamless enlightenment—

impossible fulfillment
of the life dreamt the day I fell
in love with YOUR enbrightenment.

Can enlightenment
turn a mill
of lost enjoyment?

Enjoyment IS suffering,
a grinding-wheel;
but we trade enlightenment

for more sustained enjoyment
(fiddling a reel
of loving endearment),
suffering so that ALL may attain enlightenment.

Only the Dance (Warm Face, Warm Hands, Warm Feet)

I’m stepping out lively

on this ripe occasion.
Aren’t I lovely?

Sin is behovely
(I have to mention
as I step out lively).

But no depravity
or vile intention—
keeping it lovely.

Nor expecting an unduly
harsh evaluation
of my step-so-lively

as I click my ruby
slippers for ascension.
Aren’t they lovely?

You step with me—
my spur to pay attention
to the beat, as we step lively.
Aren’t we lovely?

Jack Sprat's Wife

Thinking of my life as a slice of time,

just a fat or skinny piece of apple pie.—
Compared to the extent of time, it’s almost infinitely skinny!

So, I’m in my lifeboat on the sea of time—
my own nifty lifeboat—but I don’t know why
it was assigned to me, my little slice of time.

But a sea has no sequence, life
a mere strait shoring gulfs on either side,
compared to time's blank extent, almost infinitely skinny!

If I fall out of my lifeboat, I’ll drown in the time
it takes to count to sixty-five
or so—who’ll be assigned my lifeboat then?—

poor lifeboat, built of jetsum
salvaged from an old mother-ship lost in the tide
after it had left its skinny

track, eccentric, on the broad page of time.
The book with my lost page survives.
Thinking of my life as a slice of time
that, compared to time’s extent, IS infinitely skinny!

Strange

OK, so does the Trinity have to change?

What’s the idea of this Spirit stuff?
It’s a strange

unity—the Babe in the man-
ger makes three, enough
to stand apart and never change.

The Babe became the Son, sort of a Stooge
of God the Father (Who’s deaf);
but Jesus performed strange

miracles, even arranged
for the dead to come back in the buff—
in their bodies, that is—exchanged

for eternal souls?—no way! When we plunge
into the river of life-in-death,
strange

vibrations seize our limbs, God rearrang-
ing our molecules until we’re fully stuffed
with love that, like the Trinity, can’t change.
Strange!

Fox in Sox, Sir

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The toys are all out of the box,
but they aren’t all broken yet.
Gotta be smart like a fox!

I’m putting on my carpe diem socks
How corny can I get,
taking all my toys out of the box;

still wanting to identify my rocks
and see if my flip flops can be synchronized. Let’s
try to be smart like a fox

and hide in the hollyhocks,
not letting ourselves be captured and kept as a pet—
just one of the chews in the box

of chocolates, let’s say—ducks
on the millpond when you want to whet
your teeth on something greasy, Mr. Fox!—

tired of kicking against the pricks.
How wet can a pet get wet
when the toys are all out of the box?
Gotta be smart like a fox!

You Know What

So now what am I going to do instead of you know what?

I’ve checked my email, updated my website.
I guess I’d better shit or get off the pot.

All those pictures in my mind are hot—
no reason to feel faint or get uptight,
but what am I going to do now instead of you know what?

Well, I could go and measure my grave plot,
where I’ll be lying when I’ve given up the fight,
after I've shat or gotten off the pot.

But the coffin’s a bad hotel—I’m not
in any damn hurry to have died,
but in the meantime what am I going to do instead of that?

Well, I just might buy a brand new hat,
with glitter, a blue feather on the side,
to wear as I sit upon my porcelain pot.

Knowing folks might think that I’m kind of a bat,
but all these box-car trains are free to ride,
so I’m hopping on board of a steel you know what—
the only way to shit AND get off the pot.

Back Off, Edgar

How much closeness can I stand?

I know you just want to be loving towards me.
Your wish is my command.

Knowing that I never planned
to be difficult and disagree,
but how much closeness can I stand?

I’ll have to remand
myself to the city by the sea,
because your wish is my command.

I mean, I’ll have to hand
you over to the authorities,
because how much closeness can I stand?

That’ll be after supper AND
after my cameo as Annabel Lee,
because your wish is my command.

I just wanted to play in my band,
but you locked me up in this sepulchre—
no matter about this closeness I can’t stand,
your wish my command.

Playing My Ace

OK, I’m going all-in!

Who cares where my chances stood?
If you’re gonna suck, suck good!

May the best one win!
They’ll be adjudged good.
OK, I’m going all-in!

Why not go for a spin?
Because I’m afraid I’ll get lost in the woods?
If you’re gonna suck, suck good!

Balancing on the head of a pin,
but I ain’t no angel, understood,
just a slob going all-in!

It came down to fear of sin—
I’d be hated no matter what I did,
so I took the risk of sucking, sucking good,

scared out of my skin,
getting ready to go down in the flood.
OK, I’m going all-in.
If you’re gonna suck, suck good!

The Burlesque Dancer's Song

Trying to keep things general so they’re relatable.

Nobody else knows that kid I knew,
so the emotion in my act’s debatable.

Here I am in my inflatable
boat cage, do you like the view?
Am I keeping things general enough to be relatable?

Notice, the only potable
drink for sale’s my morning dew,
and the emotion in my act’s x-ratable,

and some things in the show are downright hate-able—
all the bubbles in my shampoo,
hiding skin that could have been more visible.

So you refuse to play Ahab to my Jezebel—
monkey see, monkey do—
because, although I’m pretty, I’m not datable.

But that poor kid is in the hospital,
pregnant, without one true
friend in all this world (is that debatable?)—
grief too nail-sharp NOT to be relatable.

not being the akond of swat

day of not being
seeing
nor seen

I’d forgot
the pure serene
of a day of not

being hot-to-trot
seeing but unseen
or seen

dwelling in a grot
hard nor mean
interval of not

fretting a lot
words I scream
props in the scene

dirty nor clean
cold nor hot
day of not being
seeing nor seen

Boojum Luck

A meditative interval in the day—

then something unexpected breaks our trance,
along with our fibula and tibia.

Thinking of sweet Rhonda Lay
we wanted sing with at the harvest dance
(wool-gathering on our meditative day).

But just as our plans get underway,
that car drives up and smacks us in the pants,
shattering our fibula and tibia.

Or, we hoist our little clay
up a steep slope toward a wire fence,
chainsaw at the ready for a meditative day.

But the buckthorn grabs our leg—what shall we pray
as we tumble and our foot gets stuck in a trench,
left tarsus no longer a seat for its tibia?

There’s a broad array
of attitudes we can adopt about the bon chance,
on a particularly peaceful, meditative day,
of breaking our fibula and tibia.

The Bashful Boy's Song

I’d love to hug someone, but I’m reluctant.
I can’t remember what happened, but it marked me.
My dominant personality trait is fear of abandonment.

Consequently, I get short emolument
for the sea voyages I embark on.
I’d love to hug a whale, but I’m reluctant.

And it feels like a pretty harsh indictment,
this sense of inadequacy that sharks me
and makes me reluctant because I expect abandonment.

But I manage to keep my resentment
at bay. There’s so much in the world that sparks me;
and I don’t expect hugs—I’m reluctant

to risk love because of some dire precedent,
some dark event preceding memory.
Or can I be as trusting as an infant

in arms? Well, it might be wise to be a little hesitant.
If I were really still a baby, the world would love me,
and I could claim the hugs I’m reluctant
to ask for now—fearing abandonment.

To-Do-List Day

It’s a to-do-list day—

second of 2019.
OK.

Gotta work the clay,
excavating for a mine
on this to-do-list day.

There’s hell to pay.
Gotta get my shit in line.
OK.

Can’t put my songs away—
that’s no way to feel fine
on a to-do-list day!

Never what I thought I’d say,
always hijacked by rhyme.
OK.

Get down and pray!
I’ll shine, of course I’ll shine
on this to-do-list day!
OK!