The War Against the All-Terrain Vehicles

Ingenuous prettiness against the John Deere Gators!
No question about who will win!
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Not wanting to be one of the afraid-ers,
who shrink away from showing skin.
Ingenuous prettiness against the John Deere Gators!

Knowing I’ll get what’s coming to me in spad-ers.
The gators make an awful din!
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Don’t make me have to deal with the bribed-and-paid-ers!
I’ll never bow to HIM HIM HIM!—
my ingenuous prettiness to the John Deere Gators!

Remembering that game between Philly and the Raiders,
played down in New Orleans. Old Jim
Plunkett never had to take off his waders.

Let’s face it! I’m among the made-in-the-shad-ers,
but I want to be lean and thin—
ingenuously pretty against the John Deere Gators.
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Cajun Breakfast

at the Neighborhood.

Hollandaise on the side.
Two eggs starting up

at me atop the hashbrowns,
easy-cooked,
sprinkled with smoked paprika.

Cajun Sunshine.
Cholula.
Catsup.

OK, the whole left side of my plate
devoured already.
One egg, staring

up at me. Put
more pepper on it.
Whole wheat with marmalade.

OK, no eggs staring up at me,
just some hashbrowns,
sausage and cheese.

Maybe slow down,
give the brain a chance
to turn off the hunger signal!

Below 160 for the first time
in years this morning. This Cajun
should take care of that!

Almost an Imitation of Spenser

Where I my true love see—where was that place?—

the leafy bed where we were wont to lie.
Nor ever needed any chase,
and a bright sparkling coulie ran nearby
in which we two did bathe refreshingly.
The arrow we released from our drawn bow
climbed higher than the tops of tallest trees.
We slept. Our breaths were coming soft and slow!
We thought, “We have discovered nature’s flaw,
the wondrous animal that we can’t see—
a lion with a wounded paw,
a lovely deer bound to a tree.”
Something first made me stop and notice you.—
It was the sunlight feasting on the dew.

Three Sonnets

1. Stella Maris

OK, I’m ready to write a sonnet now,
but I want to do it on my own sole power,
not put the shovel backwards on the plow,
nor flood the choke and kill the lawn mower.

Asian beetle hordes, since we last checked!—
we pick ‘em off and drown ‘em in detergent—
remembering when you went and wrecked
the motor boat—when June bugs were emergent,

their exoskeletons cracking underfoot.
You learn, in singing, you must skip a beat—
how your heart throbs when you’re thrilled to the root
and you have that special hop in your feet.

It’s now you’re most thankful for your mother’s love,
bright star looking down on you from heaven above.

2. Love and Light

Peace, the only way we can persist these days—
some of us remaining in absentia—those
who have found so many, many ways
to save ourselves. While Jesus rose

from the dead, where duties
deterred him for two bits.
He decided not to go hard on the tutsi-fruitsies,
but never failed to give a yard of shit.

Jesus did not abandon himself to death,
instead, he harrowed hell, is what I heard.
And he could play the guitar like the ringin’ a bell,
so we all now just accept him at His Word.

We’ll take our places on that other shore
where we’ll live in love and light forevermore.

3. Whatever

Whatever seems final will one day be reset.
Give up your moanin’—in that great tomorrow,
we’ll finally know that we’ve seen nothing yet
and we’ll forget our bellyaches and sorrows.

Whatever looks big will be shrunk down
to the size of a cleaned, frozen, packaged shrimp,
a mincing melancholy midget clown—
so if you’re wearing shackles try not to limp,

but march courageously into the fray
(think about how strong iron makes your thighs)—
You have far more to crow about than cry,
if you can trust your tired muscles’s lies.

Damn the blue algae! Full speed ahead!
You might be crazy, but you’re sure not dead!

Nude Descending the Staircase

I won’t write today.
I need to drain the swamp.
What’s that you say?

I can’t be a good lay
if I don’t delay my hump,
so I won't write today.

I found out the wild way
how hard my feet can stomp.
What's that you say?

There's too much hell to pay
for such a fun romp.
I won’t write today.

There'll be ruin and decay
if I don't refuse the prompt,
but what's that you say

about descending the staircase
while you're waiting for Duchamp?
I won’t write today.
What’s that you say?

Old Stauncher

Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my blood, rag of my tears.
Time to twist and shout!

What it’s all about!—
numbering numies, counting beers.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my groping doubt,
rag of my wasted years.
Time to twist and shout

in my last grim redoubt,
parrying meat hooks up to my ears.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

the drenching bloody clout
of songs sung to weary ears.
Time to twist and shout—

I’ve got to just release this trout!
Have a good morning! See ya! Cheers!
I think it’s all wrung out.
Time to twist and shout!

Come and go, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

O come and go. You, almost still a child, complete
for the blink of an eye the dancing figure
toward the pure star-picture of such a dance,
in which we dull nature

transiently surpass. Because she reached
full hearing only as Orpheus sang.
Nevertheless, you were from then on still the one excited
and slightly surprised when a tree took its time

remembering to go by ear with you.
You still knew the place where the lyre
raised itself in ringing; that unheard middle earth.

For her you tried the beautiful steps
and you hoped, once to the holy celebration
your friend's feet and face to turn back down.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 28
o komm und geh. Du, fast noch Kind, ergänze
für einen Augenblick die Tanzfigur
zum reinen Sternbild eines jener Tänze,
darin wir die dumpf ordnende Natur

vergänglich übertreffen. Denn sie regte
sich völlig hörend nur, da Orpheus sang.
Du warst noch die von damals her Bewegte
und leicht befremdet, wenn ein Baum sich lang

besann, mit dir nach dem Gehör zu gehn.
Du wüsstest noch die Stelle, wo die Leier
sich tönend hob—; die unerhörte Mitte.

Fur sie versuchtest du die schönen Schritte
und hofftest, einmal zu der heilen Feier
des Freundes Gang und Antlitz hinzudrehn.