Yokel Comedian collects the Yokel songs written between 2018 and the present End Times and marked sky blue for philosophy and comedy. The Yokel gets belly chortles from their own snarky wit.
Villanelle: My Carbon Vibration
I blew my teenage mind all to tarnation
when I dropped that acid way back in the day.
But I don’t know if it changed
my carbon vibration.
If it did, how would I know? Did my playstation
change from green to purple? Did awesome
power come my way
when I blew my conceited mind all
to tarnation?
Well, I didn’t notice anything. Except, the world
became a claymation
movie. Gumby was there with a big
gamma-ray
gun, teleporting my molecules, and maybe
resetting my carbon vibration,
to boot, from earthly to extra-terrestrial.
Violent oscillations
in the nodules of my brain lacerated me
for days
after I blew my fucking mind all
to tarnation.
And there was a slurpy, gooey mastication
sound, as cosmic mashers mashed my
pay-as-you-play
psyche to a pulp. Nevertheless, a hopeful
new connection
sprang up between my gut and head.
Jubilation
T. Cornpone themselves walked on, sniffing
a pink nosegay,
when I blew my ever-loving mind all
to tarnation.
And I'm pretty sure it did change
my carbon vibration!
Villanelle: Chopped Liver to a Python
Am I nothing but chopped liver to a python?
I have to say, I feel a little dissed.
If you don’t want to guess a riddle,
better ask one!
I once worked with a funny guy named Myron.
I was ahead of him on the employee list,
but he outlasted me when the
corporate python
came and strangled us to death. I got
a hard-on
and left for greener pastures. And I wasn’t
missed!
But you didn’t want to guess a riddle,
so I asked one
about when your life whooshed out
in one big yawn,
with the stars exploding rose and amethyst—
the answers to all riddles far beyond
this still eternity-pond shore you’re
standing on.
The python never loved you and you’re
pissed—
your grade of meat proved nauseous
to pythons.
You'll have to make a go of it alone,
with no nice python for a hug-and-kiss.
Am I nothing but chopped liver to a python?
I didn’t want to guess a riddle,
so you asked one.
Villanelle: Microwaved Plantain
Grazie, Shirley Ellis.
How can I get the heat out of a banana,
sitting waiting for my plantain to cool?
Banana-bana fo-fana.
How can I taste it when it’s on fi-ya
and I’m not sure I have the proper tool
for extracting heat from a banana?
The ocean sands are sweating manna,
and all you do is stand and drool,
Tony-Bony-Mo-Man-A.
The joint is swingin’ like a hamma,
and you pitch forward like an inspired mule,
roaring, I’ve burned my tongue on my banana!
But I’m your sweet cabana
girl, baby. Please don’t be cruel,
Anna Anna Bo Banna!
And what a fine display of glamma!
I’m the exception to every rule
for how to get the heat out of a banana!
Banana-bana fo-fana!
Villanelle for Iggy Pop
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
Is the world stocked with bicycle-needing
fish?
And when I say fish, I mean girls.
Sure, the world is overrun with churls,
but even a churl can take hormones and
be a dish.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
Remembering when the morning star
was hurled
from heaven (bait for fish).
And when I say Lucifer, I mean girls.
The girls crocheted, they tatted,
and they purled,
and made every one of those creepy
losers wish
he could take for his own a girl
in this world—
remembering when her brown hair curled
around her head, and her eyes glowed, and
not a stitch
of clothing did she wear. By witch I mean girls!
That’s why the muskrat's lordly jack unfurls
over their copyrighted horde of musk so rich.
I love girls, they’re all over this world.
And when I say muskrat, I mean girls.
Resist the Dumpling Diddle!
As much as possible,
my son John,
resist the dumpling diddle!
Do the Australian crawl
without shorts on,
as much as possible!
Go into free-fall
like a 500-lb bomb,
but hold your dumpling diddle!
Resist it at the mall!
Resist it in your home!
As much as possible!
You’ll receive the call
to be Queen of the Prom
if you curb your dumpling diddle.
OK, you dropped the ball
when your greedy thumb
pulled out a dumpling diddle
as big as possible!
Fitbit Villanelle
Everyday I list my eats
in my notebook, estimating my calories
roughly.
I also write down my sleep.
Each morning I read my Fitbit app—
steps and miles somewhat exactly—
but I don’t type in my eats.
It even plots my movements on a map,
shows me when my heart thumps quickly,
and evaluates my sleep—
light, deep, and R-E-M bo peep.
And it registers when I’m abruptly
wakened—maybe by my eats,
unsettled, so I’m tossing in 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.
My Fitbit counts my sleep.
Grasshopper Riot 1
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!
Particularly 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 upon 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
queer without much left to prove,
go back to work so you can get fired, get
good’n fired!
Because there's a fairy in the alcove,
and because God’s wrath’s no different
from Christ’s love,
a grasshopper riot is required!
Get yourself fired right now! Get good’n fired!
Grasshopper Riot 2
We might be having a grasshopper riot.
—Is that like an Appalachian fire drill?
OK, I want YOU to be quiet!
If you see a box of tongue suppressors, 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 it’ll be misgendered, so you’ll have
to dye it—
pink, blue, or rainbow—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 rhymes can make a body ill,
so I’ll ask you one more time to
please be quiet!
OK, buster, you're going on a diet!
Locusts will be your only meal,
till you've conjured up a devastating
grasshopper riot—
'cause ain't you the magic flutist, babe,
don't you deny it!
Du, Papageno, schweige still!
In other words (English, that is) be quiet!
Though you’re eight miles higher than a kite
can fly, it
will amaze you plenty when you get the bill—
what you’ll have to pay for this
grasshopper riot!
But please just be quiet about it, OK?—
BE QUIET!!!
Witty Shop of Holsteins
Grazie, Ludwig and Arnold.
Do we disagree when you say God will judge
my soul and I say no?
I 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 a 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 blue
in the face. 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 day long
on ring-bo-
ree, fat on no end of Stilton cheese—owl,
cart—on our far-flung
voyage to the hills of the Chankly Bore,
souls judged or no—
until finally we behold the finest, most
variegated rainbow
ever beheld 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 That fish weighed
two-eighty and God says No?
The same catfish was caught somewhere
else ages ago.
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.
We’re drawing a lime-
line from porch to hedge.
When we need a rhyme,
we’ll pretend we hear the chime
of a clock practicing solfege
to kill time.
There’s a big pine
outside our window—we allege
a satisfying completing rhyme,
awaited still when our prime
green is withered as the sedge.
Adapting to time.
No perfect rhyme.
2019
Don't You, Mr. Jones?
Can you assume I wanna?
I’ll always volunteer for
a canna manna.
Yup, Copenhagen
snuff! Started on the short cut, but when
my jaw got wired
shut, the long stayed under my lip better.
It’s manna
from heaven is what it is, my brotha!
You thought I’d chuck the habit, but no fear—
I ain’t gonna quit my dip ‘cause I don’t wanna,
‘cause to throw this monkey’d take
some gorilla
(when the evening shadows lengthen and
the stars appear—
sleepy-eye manna—
the loving friend you lost and can’t remember,
the beautiful form that hides behind
your mirror)—
you wanna
believe we’re designed to fall for just
such glamma,
hiccupping us back to our wonder years.
Damn right I wanna
nice canna manna!
Clogging with Heisenberg
There must be perspectivation.
The universe must be from someone’s
point of view.
That’s where you come in.
What a bastardization,
(barbarization too)
the word perspectivation
is! But we need fresh ideation—
something a bit if not altogether new.
That’s where you come in.
You uniquely register the din
of all the racket ringing out around you,
dance its tintinnabulation
in a style all your own. But not for long.
You’ll make way for some new you
who’ll keep the perspectivation
hatchets in the air. OK, you taught
a nifty motion
to your feet to make them stomp on cue—
unsure of the steps in this big perspectivation
hop. But the team is counting on you!!!
Silly Rabbit-Cat
When you’re a black cat in the grass,
big furry body humped to the sky,
licking your white paws
you won't be able to evade the laws
of physics (especially gravity),
heavy cat in the grass,
bound in a stiff harness
and leashed by a rope to a tree.
You’re chewing your own paws
because you can’t leap as you’d please
to where the birds fly,
poor cat in the grass
growling plaintively when a blue jay
dive-bombs you where you lie.
And you’re biting nothing but your paws!
For this performance, my applause,
Oh my darling Puddy-Pie!
Sweet black cat in the grass,
licking your white paws!
Mapping Our Fuzzy Cat-Mice
Morning so nice!
Should I write a poem
or map our fuzzy cat-mice?
Our stove went on the fritz
(and our charcoal grill’s on loan),
so one morning so nice
a guy came to fix
it, and he moved the whole range
out from under our nice
tile splash. We had to blink twice,
when what should we behold but a shitload
of fuzzy cat-mice,
which the cats are now carrying around
the house—
wobble-eyed mice with tiny
rattles in their heads? If I had the right device,
I could map the journey of each cat-mouse,
over time, from room to room,
to back under the stove again.
I think that that would be a pretty nifty
artifact, though not exactly a poem.
Some morning so nice
I’ll start mapping our fuzzy cat-mice.
Being a Guy Who Fell Off Everest
Ori, literally meaning “head,” refers to one’s spiritual intuition and destiny. A Yoruba metaphysical concept. Grazie, Wikipedia
Put your mettle to the test. No guts, no Ori. Be a guy who fell off Everest!
You’ve gone to your eternal rest,
but you aren’t sorry
you finally put your mettle to the test.
Though you wear no medal on your chest,
the last time you took inventory
you were a guy who fell off Everest!
Well, you may shine among the blest
now, but you sure were a gory
sight after you put your mettle to the test
and slipped down that crevasse—
brains and entrails splattered
all over the rocks of Everest.
I guess you figured best.
You always knew what finally mattered,
so you put your mettle to the test
and became a guy who fell off Everest.
Prometheus Off-Ground
A man has to try everything once,
looking for things that are fun and funner.
What could be funner than peeing
on an electric fence?
Most men don’t have an ounce of sense.
Senseless men are without number.
They have to try everything once.
They’ve tried the spooge and they’ve
tried the hunch
cream. But now here’s the stunner:
They've tried peeing on an electric fence!
There can be a jolting consequence
if your prick touches a live wire.
But you’ve got to try everything once,
so you whistle It’s a Man’s
World and short out the generator
with a strong stream of wee-wee
on the electric fence.
You haven’t had such fun in months,
but now you can’t put out the fire.
You may try everything once.
But the last thing you may try is peeing
on an electric fence.
Asteroid Collision
My world was rocked
when I lost that game of marbles
back in the day. My shooter was
a brown agate.
Rich times in the playground dirt!
I’d go home with my pockets full.
My world was rocked
when I learned to shoot
from the edge of the circle,
my brown agate
piercing the curve.
And I had the skill
when I knocked out a rock
of making my dead-eye stop and spin
inside the ring, and then I could
keep on shooting.
But I had to make sure my precious
shooter and the last marble left the ring
at the same time or my mib was game.
My world was rocked!
My shooter was a brown agate.
2020
The Person Who Wasn't There
I doubt, therefore I am.
Most philosophers doubt even that—
I guess I’m just a doubting ham.
First cousin of Sam I Am.
Jack Sprat was lean, not fat—
I fast, therefore I am.
Far less quiet than a clam,
I have to tell you of my doubt—
I guess I’m just a mumbling ham.
I want to say, Lorazepam!
My doubting makes me flee from crowds—
I fret, therefore I am.
But I’ll keep calm and carry on,
stand up and shout it right out loud—
I’m a doubt-proclaiming ham!
if you doubt hard
enough, you’ll have nine lives like a cat—
You’ll be the death-defying ham!
Watch me now with my blue shoes on
insubstantiating for the crowd!
I vanish, therefore I am—
Sam the Cartesian Sham!
Test Lab
I just throw stuff at the refrigerator—
the pasta may stick even if it’s al dente.
See you later, alligator!
You were always quite the masticator,
grinding everything to a paste with your dainty
nippers white as a refrigerator
door. When I celebrated my Sader,
the only thing nobody ate was
the potato gnocchi.
See you later, ball-o’-tater!
I can’t be a lactator—
my chest’s no ripening gourd of plenty—
but there’s milk in the refrigerator.
You threw a piece of English cheddar
at the refrigerator, and it bounced
into the pantry.
See you later, cheese abuser!
A cook should have a stick-o-meter,
something that tells them when
the dish is ready.
But I just throw stuff at the refrigerator.
See you later, hasenpfeffer!
Who's Gonna Make Me?
I don’t have to either shit
(even though I’ve been sitting here
for quite a while)
or get off the pot.
I’ll wait a bit.
There’s a pile
of magazines here, so I’ll be OK whether I shit
or not. Well, I’m looking at a sunlit
photo of a palace on the Nile.
Everyone is smoking pot
under the palm trees, or wading out
where crocodiles
lurk like blobs of shit
floating in a blue toilet.
If it’ll be a minute, it’ll be a mile
between now and when I’ll smoke more pot
as I swim in plasma like a sunspot,
azimuth between my bulging bum
nd the Polestar—
my limit of having to finally shit
and get off a reeking pot.
Cogito Ergo Cooked
Speaking from the point of view of
the Cogito—
certainly a dubious enterprise.
My mother-in-law’s friend had a turkey
named Even So.
A plain blow-by-blow
account, never cracking wise,
straight from the point of view of
the Cogito—
whose perspective’s occasionally rather dim,
if we may say so,
but usually brings stars to the eyes
of my mother-in-law’s friend’s turkey Even So.
My, how logical
we’ve become, now that we’ve been disguised
in the true-blue garb of the Cogito!
Even So’s pulling a rope-a-dope,
while the Cogito’s distracted by the sunrise.
Look at that gobble-gobble Even So
stalking around the iron clothesline pole,
always presenting with an alternative
point of view from that of the Cogito!
May I introduce my mother-in-law’s
friend’s turkey Even So?
The Villein-ous Dr. Yokel
Why would anyone be interested in an old
white guy with a PhD?
Are people supposed to be impressed?
But if you have some kind of a degree,
isn’t it dishonest not
to mention it on your resume? Even in my
buttoned-down days
as a technical writer, I knew people thought
my PhD
just meant I was
an arrogant prick. It was tough to confess
to the degree,
actually. I had a job on a loading dock
quite a few years before I had amassed
the credits for my PhD,
but I had to leave
when a workmate sussed
out I had a college degree.
Beauty is as beauty does
if you’re an old white guy with or without a PhD
degree.
