Elegiac Yokel collects the Yokel Songs written between 2018 and the present End Times and marked indigo for death. The Yokel casts their Third Eye back to the past and forward to the future’s past.
2018
Villanelle: Hunter With Dog
Stars shining brightly in Orion’s belt,
but clouds are covering the sky for me—
breath of innocence no longer felt.
Watching from this Mississippi height,
I know lights shine for me that I can't see,
sister-stars whose very names mean belt—
Alnitak, Minetka—who spells them right?—
but both spell belt, the instruments agree,
And Alnilam—pearly innocence—faintly felt.
Or not innocent at all—fate dealt,
so pretty, doomed, and woke are we,
we hang suspended from the sky’s wide belt.
And stellar winds convey to fated bight
our life-boat foundering in the dire sea—
odor of innocence no longer smelt.
Dark mother whispering, Good night! Good night!
in our new-found eternity, joining me.
Stars burning ashen in Orion’s belt. Innocence no sooner lost than felt!
Good Boy Villanelle
Writing myself into a corner.
I’m showing my true colors now.
What a good boy am I, Jack Horner!
Knowing I ain’t no foreigner
to love—I’ve got notches on my brow
from poaching pigeons in my corner.
You, Love, are the glorious ripener—
I want to marry you right now!
Will you marry Little Jack Horner?
Don’t tread on me! said your flag—a warner,
and there’s a black snake on it, lying low,
hissing me back into my corner.
Now I’m all shaven and shorn, or
else I’m the boy who went out to mow
and pulled out a plum—Jack Horner!
and finally sank into the verdure,
black snake dealing their death blow.
Writing myself into a corner.
What a good boy am I, Jack Horner!
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 and it’s raining.
Can’t tell if the moon’s waning
or waxing, while I'm fiddling this old dance 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.
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 croak like a frog!
Lady and the Tramp
was from an earlier era, when dogs were champ,
cats villein-ized—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 and 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?
Amnesia
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Casting my gaze back from this
bleak December
of my life. 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 this
bleak December,
my childhood days seem veiled 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 December
morning, sun rising in grim splendor.
Or, you stagger wet and scared onto
the beachhead,
armed to fight ghosts you’re too young
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 December
day. You loved somebody once, but now
you can’t remember.
2019
Serenity Now!!!
ॐ ÖM
Minutes of ÖM and I still haven’t achieved
serenity.
I guess it was unrealistic
to think I could ever escape my fantasies.
Lying on the floor in a happy
dream about tripping the light fantastic.
Minutes of ÖM and I still haven’t achieved
serenity.
Does one achieve serenity by submitting
to gravity?
It doesn’t help to be naturally athletic,
leaping above the ground on feet of fantasy.
No, best to relax and accept the Mystery,
your best Bible your biometric.
If after minutes of ÖM you still haven’t achieved
serenity,
you really should consider the possibility
that the problem’s with the electrical
circuitry of your heart. Your fantasy-
production won’t end while your blood’s
at liberty—
not till you receive the black spot and
go apoplectic.
Then will you achieve the desired serenity?
Movie projector shut down. No more phantasy.
Lyke Wake
Sha-LIE-a LIE-a
Um-UM-um Ahh…
Bones where they lie-a
Where else to put ‘em?
Um-UM-um Ahh…
Cherished dreams die-a
No pot to piss in
Sha-LIE-a LIE-a
I cried my eyes dry-a
No tear a-wastin’
Um-UM-um Ahh…
Little birds fly-a
Meet whom they're missin’
Sha-LIE-a LIE-a
Pass through the fi-a
Win what I’m riskin’
Um-UM-um Ahh…
Heart’s desi-a
Honey we're tastin’
Sha-LIE-a LIE-a
Um-UM-um Ahh…
Aolian: 55443, 7111
Bone Song
A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind. Yeats.
The spur of life is sweet—
battling blood lines.
What a bless’d relief
the state
of death will be, when in my remains
remaining life grows sweet
to oversweet,
turning noisome!
What a bless’d relief
when the transformation is complete,
as foretold in the Satipatthāna
Sutra, from flush and sleek
to whitened and dried
in the wind.
What a bless’d relief
to be served my chalk treat!
Got dust for feet, but it sure is fun!
Ready to transmigrate!
What a bless’d relief!
Again, Monks, as though he were to see a corpse thrown aside in a charnel ground ... a skeleton without flesh and blood, held together with sinews ... disconnected bones scattered in all directions ... bones bleached white, the colour of shells ... bones heaped up, more than a year old ... bones rotten and crumbling to dust: ‘this body too is of the same nature, it will be like that, it is not exempt from that fate.’ Analayo, Satipatthāna, the Direct Path to Realization
Lost Poem About a Mouse
I wrote a poem about a mouse
and burned it.
Out in the snow
far from any house mouse
tracks ran lickety-split
around some cactus
and a cholla bush,
stopping at
a tiny mouse-y
mound. Filmy snow
covered it,
but it glowed out gray
and was as dead as any mouse
could be, sunlight
dwelling softly on its tiny house
of snow. Dear little mouse!
Broad sky
a pillow for your rest.
Lost poem about a mouse.
Sitting at Another's Table
Do I infest my life like a parasite
hatched from eggs laid by a moth
that flies in the night?
I try to be a do-right
queer staying true to their troth.
Then why do I feel like such a parasite?
I’m wound as tight
as a mechanical worm on a tablecloth—
a fly-by-night
arriving one fine evening on your street,
always the foundering fly in your broth,
trichinella in your joints.
I want to say that I don’t bite,
but if that’s true how did I get my berth
on this vampire-train setting fire to the night—
just a pampered bug? My food is life
itself, but I’ll soon be buried in the earth.
I infested my life like a parasite.
Then I vanished in the night.
Old Bony-Legs Bailey
Grazie, Terrence Folz and Joe Green.
Remember old Bony-Legs Bailey?
Whatever happened to that guy
who used to step so gaily
and flash their socks demurely?
Don’t tell me the sky
has received old Bony-Legs Bailey!
Remember ‘em on Friday
doffin’ they sox and lettin’ them toes fly
(steppin’ gaily, no lie!)?
And wasn't it amazin’
how gamely they’d reply
when you asked old Bony-Legs Bailey
for their read on our daily
plight? But we should probably say,
old Bony-Legs Bailey'd pronounce palely
whether you asked ‘em to or not.
But don’t forget how bashful and shy
old Bony-Legs Bailey
was, though they stepped so gaily!
Death on the Rubber
A gravestone can look a lot like
a pitching rubber
(only, the roses might impede the stride),
especially when the hole’s just covered over.
Dying’s like going to sea as a landlubber.
On a ship at sea you have no place to hide.
And a gravestone can look a lot like
a portal cover
through which Death bounces you like the
Son of Flubber.
And where you lie is not where you reside,
especially when the hole’s long covered over.
Yes, you’ll crawl in and join your lost true lover,
the one to whom you gave your youthful pride!
But your gravestone feels so much like
a pitching rubber
that you find you can quite well remember
the fundamentals of keeping it wide or just
off the inside
corner (grip well covered).
But I want to see if Death can get it over
from there—I’ll give it a deep ride!—
dealing from that marble rubber.
Death, show me your knock-over!
Bowing to You
Namaste.
I’m done with my Yoga practice.
Easy for me to say!
My friend Dave
is done with his living practice.
Peace be
with you, said
the priest as Dave's remains
were lowered away.
Dave rests with the dead.
What an athlete he was!
Dave’s learned the sure way
whether there’s golf in heaven—
along with life’s other sweet comforts.
Namaste.
Dave, with your Robin Williams face—
done with your person practice.
In my heart comes your reply
2020
God Exists Through Our Sufferance
Not by my sufferance! Colonel John Chivington on the Plains Indian presence by Sand Creek in 1864. Grazie, John Prine.
Shall we trust in God’s Providence?
Jesus was a good guy. He didn’t need this shit.
God exists through our sufferance.
Maybe it seems to violate common sense
to ignore God’s Word and say The hell with it!—
expecting no Providence.
But if God’s not helping we can get rid of Him.
He cast the Light Bearer into the fiery pit—
same “sufferance”
afforded the Arapaho and Cheyenne
by Colonel Chivington—
a thousand scarcely-repatriated scalps
in that sacred ground within the providence
of Sand Creek and its shady line
of cottonwood trees. Let us rest
here on this ground by whatever sufferance
remains to us for the bliss
of living in this world!
Shall we trust in God’s Providence?
Only our own abiding kindness!
7-Hz (in Memoriam Stephen Phelps)
7 Hz is the resonant frequency of a chicken's skull cavity. This was determined empirically in Australia, where a new factory generating 7-Hz tones was located too close to a chicken ranch: When the factory started up, all the chickens died.
Where shall I walk this morning to
heal my soul?
Alleys are good in spite of the garbage and |
recycling cans,
but all of my organic matter is in
my compost hole.
Where my spiritual matter resides is a whole
‘n other question. I guess the pineal gland’s
right here to house my soul—
above my nose, I’m told.
I played rhythm guitar in a band
of chickens trooping to the compost hole.
The 7-Hertz signals knocked us cold—
brains spasmed, ear holes choked with sand.
So, to heal my soul
I’m taking alleys west to the old
Mississippi river. Too much sticky mud
today to walk these trails and not get sucked
down a ravine-hole,
just as the Book of Life foretold,
into the land
of the dead where our bones
will safely rest in the comfort of a wet,
warm compost hole.
Poor Boy, All He Had, Started Down the Road
Grazie, Clint Maxwell and Robert Wilkins.
Did I set out in life to be a maniac?
What might have placed me on this path?
That’s no way to get along.
The best was when I took off in a truck
of freaks and headed for the pass—
a stoned maniac
walking down that slope with not even a light
daypack. It was a jabberwock
experience, sliding on my ass
(only way I could get down),
then huddling in the cold in my friend’s grasp.
Early April, do the math!
Only a maniac
would camp in the Rockies overnight without
a coat. That
it didn’t snow was
providential luck,
a happy stanza in my Karma song.
Breathing miraculous rebirth—
that fateful night confirmed a maniac!
That’ll be the way I’ll get along.
Fluffer Death
Is death like an orgasm?
If so, I can’t wait.
Just disappointed when it's over
and I’m done with the edgy anticipation
of entering the pearly gates
and greeting death with a big orgasm.
It’s all just inclusion or exclusion
of what’s to be declared as fate—
disappointing when it’s over,
granted, when I've slipped into the crevasse
of nothingness like a hot date,
having an orgasm
first thing when the gray phantom
wraps me in their arms of clay!
Now ain’t I disappointed that it’s over
and I’m drained of every ounce of protoplasm!
I found love, just a spasm late.
Death’s like an orgasm.
I’m already jonesing for another!
Elegy for Steve
If you can't eat you got to
smoke and we ain't got
nothing to smoke: come on kid. E.E. Cummings
Should I write even though I don’t have
anything to say?
Well, did I ever have?
If you’ve got something to smoke,
smoke it, they say.
Should I stay even though I don’t have anything to stay
for? You thought I’d never leave—
off writing, that is—even though I had
nothing to say.
But I’ll keep on scribbling in the good-old way.
I’ve got nothing to prove
so I’ll prove it! I’ve got nothing to doubt so
I’ll doubt it!
Should I pray even though I’ve got no
one to pray
for or to? Jesus tried, but even They
couldn’t save
me from the sin of writing with nada to say.
But I won’t forget the day
my friend Steve’s heart blew up in Tennessee.
He had something to smoke and he
smoked it plenty!
So I know that, even though I’ve got nothing
to love, I’ll love it anyway.
But I wish I’d been with him further
towards the grave.
Should I write even though I don’t have
anything to say?
I’ve got something to sing, so I’ll sing it!
Tales of Brave Ulysses
Reviewing my storied gigging career.
The time someone dropped a brick on me
while I was loading the car. It missed.
I had nothing to fear,
even though I’d just ridden down
a long stairway
on top of the Fender Bandmaster amp
I was trundling.
Black eye just part of my storied
gigging career.
Or earlier when big kids took over our guitars.
Pretty humiliating, I’ll say.
But I had nothing to fear
going forward except the matter
of all the gear
I had to schlep around. The time I left
Houser’s waa-waa
behind in my storied gigging career.
Stage-sick before shows started,
I always felt fine when we started playing.
I have no fear
when I’m in the moment. I play with heart—
I can at least say that much for me
when I review my storied gigging career.
There was always never nothing to fear.
To Nobodaddy
Always astounded by my body.
My body is an astral flare.
I loved that book, Walking With Nobby!
Why wouldn’t anybody love me?
Amn’t I worth a stare—
my always-astounding body?
Nobby taunted Dale Pendell: You’ll never
see the Goddess
naked. Nobby was Dale’s UC Santa Cruz
professor,
and later they took walks together
while Nobby
served up his wild peyote toddy
of talk. He said he’d never managed to
let his hair
down and dance so as to feel
polymorphous perversity
in his own feet—a grief that made all his
fine Arabian horses
tired and hoof-sore.
At the end of Dale’s loving book, Nobby
loses his feet and tongue to dementia
and dies in a memory-care
facility. Dark, silent Nobodaddy.
I’d rather be than read Love’s Body.
Hoarded Manna (Keeping My Bright Sword Up)
Writing late into the night
in my room, back in my college days,
I always hated what I wrote.
I was trying to take life by the throat
(but not in an abusive way),
writing late into the night—
usually after smoking pot.
Well, I wrote some stuff, but what can I say?
I was always disappointed with what I wrote
because it was tight-
assed and lacked stamina.
Stoned late into the night
I wrote, and then I’d put on my brown
suede coat
and walk to the International House
of Pancakes—
open all night.
I’d take my pen and notebook
along with me. Those were my hay days
and I did my harvesting at night.
But the dew rusted everything I wrote.
Stupid-Making by Hand
Masturbation is kind of an ugly word.
I first heard my friend Victor say it.
Victor was a rare bird—
the smartest person I’ve ever heard
speak (now I wonder why I always
assumed that).
He taught me the masturbation word.
Victor gave a solo magic presentation
in second grade,
such a rare bird
was he! I loved and admired
him from my classroom rolltop desk seat,
the masturbation word
as yet unspoken and unheard. Though
his initiation
into those rites
preceded mine, I was soon enough stroking
my own bird
full time. Yet Victor and I never touched
one another. We gazed together at
Playboy porn. We ogled cute birds.
The bird was the word.
How Can There Ever Be a Last Yokel Song?
I want to write another poem.
I’m alone in the house.
And I’m stoned.
An entire language is on loan
to me. I’ll be quiet as a mouse,
but I mean to write at least one more poem
before the Spirit of Words calls in
their chips. I’m Faust
getting stoned
and having sex with Helen
of Troy. How remiss
it would be not to write another poem—
the poem that will be my last gun—
or worst, don’t yet know which.
I’m too stoned
to tell if this poem’s the one
that can be the caboose
on the Yokel train. Another poem,
anyhow! I wrote it good ‘n stoned.
Death and the Maiden
I don’t know if I can write today.
I have COVID again,
and I may have to to give myself away
as bride to the Queen of Heaven—but
that’s OK.
Still, it’s a terrible pain
to have to start my new quarantine from 8:00
AM today—
that’s Tuesday, March 7,
2023, since we’re counting.
I hope my COVID goes away
some day—
tomorrow (Friday) wouldn’t be too soon.
Sure, I’ll write today
and say,
The further west we go, we go nearer
to the rain!
It’s hard to keep playing keep-away
with Death. I’ll be
this pretty fairy elf, their dead corpse,
their skeleton,
then only their sifting dust. Yup, I did
write today
(whatever day it was). But then I had
to give myself away!
Yokel Skeleton
Having COVID helps the Yokel
identify with their body even more.
Death brings their body into focus.
After death there might be an awful
stench. That’s why you’ll have to lower
this stinky yokel
into their final resting hole.
So, yeah, here I am! says the departed
Yokel. I can’t blow grass, fuck ass,
or try to climb the Tower of Babel
anymore, now I’ve reached the other shore,
floating on the Dharma Body, Bodhi Yokel
that I’ve become thanks to my viral
deliverance. Vaguely remembering the old four
compass points, but focussed
habitation in the world’s heart’s core!
Yup, COVID sure does help the silly Yokel
collect their pretty bones into a brand new focus!
