6084. NOW THAT YOU'VE GONE AND DONE IT

NOW THAT YOU'VE GONE 

AND DONE IT

(little man's bio)

I can't type worth a shit, yet I've been doing it for years;

not the right way, mind you, just my own way : while

looking down, eyes on the keys, typing away but not

seeing the screen. I'm blind, but not that so yet.

-

It's a little mystery to me how all those mummies have

learned  -  they're running fingers a mile a minute and just

staring at the screen, the words of which they've typed. 

Seeing it instantly must be a gas. For me, no, alas, it's

a task. I have a horrible notebook, and a blackened

finger's horrid grasp.

-

So, instead, I just relax and try to figure out some other

open meaning for some other open world : asphyxiated

on oxygen as a human as on grass or any one of those 

wonder weeds they're always talking about. And  -  before

this gets any further out of hand  -  it's not me; I don't

smoke, weed either, and only drink to chase down food.

-

This little stupid bio has put me in the mood : you've got

me off now and saying too many things. I'm out  -  now 

that you've gone and done it.

6083. FENDING THE ARMS

FENDING THE ARMS

Albert Coalesce, that's what he said his name was.

Or maybe it was Albert, more or less. How do I know

what a name means, or how to be fending it off?

No manuscript like this was ever  before produced,

and I have nothing that's even the same as the things 

which there already. One mighty nightmare, this is.

-

Please find me the channel to pass through all of this,

steer me through the shallows, beat my head upon

the stones  -  and then let me see your Gibralter before

we take it all home. I'm here, standing on the corner,

by, what is this, Bleecker and 10th?

-

Nathan Hale and Thom Paine too, you know they

both hung around here, but now the settlement's as dry

as bone and Minetta Brook is in the loam, drained and

sent through pipes instead, and no one knows a thing.

-

When was it, someone asked, that I really 

entered the mainstream? All I could do was

shake my head and laugh. And I was, already,

a nervous wreck. I could feel it in my bones,

but all I could do was laugh.

6082. SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION

SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION

The cigar smoke lingers like a whiskey taste,

fouling the eyes and the face. Here, between some

other dawn and some other place, I sit about

watching both light and dark  -  I feel fortunate,

actually, to be in such a place :  where that distinction

can still be made, where the difference is obvious.

These can be my Boy Scout moments, I suppose.

-

Another rendition of the same old song : like those

Campfire Girls of old with their 'Wo-Hilo means light.'

-

Sweetheart, honey-dew-melon-face, who cares?

Are you the only one?

6081. IN A LOW-GRADE STUPOR (luncheonette)

IN A LOW-GRADE STUPOR

(luncheonette)

Outside of Hank's New Luncheonette, everyone was

just standing around - no one really knew that word,

well, none of the young kids anyway. Those who were

twenty-five, if they weren't staring at their phone like

in-place morons at Hellespont Gate, were laughing

over the word, calling it quaint to know what it meant.

I didn't care, I don't eat such gruel anyway, but this

Hank guy, he had some balls to do what he did.

-

Opening a fifty-year old eating place as if it's been

there forever, like the lunch counter at an old

Woolworth's or Kresge's. Standing solid with the

grilled cheese and boiled eggs, the slab of nasty

meatloaf with a creamsauce from the dregs. A

wilted lettuce with some sick tomatoes. Yeah,

this will work, this is how money grows.

-

Nobody really said a word, they just panted

and bellied up to the faux linoleum counter,

in a low-grade stupor worth something. In a

real low-grade stupor worth something.

6080. TO ERASE THE PAST

TO ERASE THE PAST

To erase the past, wouldn't you just make

a future? Some new Code of Hammurabi

where the nickel isn't worth a dime, all bets

are off, and the circumstantial evidence doesn't

prove a goddamn thing? That's the way I'd want

it  :  armchair memories and sitting like a King.

-

Here instead I have a listless feeling that

someone's about to break my jaw, that my friend

Aleck really races his fearsome boats, that the new 

kid on the block really does have a...nine inch cock?

See what I mean, and how'd that get in there anyway  -

or is that a line for a girl to speak?

-

One day I just took it all out  -  grab my own gun and

put it to my forehead. I'd already drawn some dotted

lines to guide my hand across the image in the mirror.

Pow! Bang! There, now it's over.

6079. THIS IS A CIRCUMSTANCE

THIS IS A CIRCUMSTANCE

Here where they hide away the dwarfs  -

those little guys on lawns with lanterns 

pointed hats  -  like lawn-jockeys yet 

somehow not an offense, things are 

more easy to take. I lit a brushfire 

fuse with the tip of my furtive nose.

6078. HOW DID THIS EVER HAPPEN?

HOW DID THIS EVER HAPPEN?

Both my hands are broken, my hunched 

back is an ache. My eyes are dead to any 

sound. I can't go on much longer.

-

When I swam with Captain Ahab  -  or was it

Captain Queeq  -  I did feel something pulling 

me down but never could get relieved. From 

that end, I reached the bottom of the open sea.

-

Funny thing of all of this is now : I can smell

a fake a mile away, a poser just doing time; the

somnolence of insipid background music, the

staccato of gunfire in a really bad play.

6077. NUNCHUCKS

NUNCHUCKS

On this crazy desert island I don't even know what

they are  -  those throwing sticks of a dynamite craze,

chain sticks, martial arts fighting sticks. Where do the

hands go on this contraption? I've only worked with

my mind before. Now I stand entrapped.

But why would you take me down?

6076. I MAY HAVE

I MAY HAVE

How I may have mayhem'd the bottom I do not

know : my sleeves were driving to Towanda, just

entering the Endless Mountains in some Pennsylvania

daydream when I thought of you. I was struggling  - 

this most certainly pulled me back to a fresh attention.

-

Like a medieval portrait of some sniveling princeling

looking back in disdain at what then passed for a mirror :

a boy so like a girl, no real distinction between them.

My own eyes stayed, shiftless, on the road; a few weird

settlements, places where people lived with their cows.

-

I guessed that I was tired enough to bleed right from my

eyes. Isn't that why they get red? Alongside the roadway,

at her RFD mailbox, some farmgirl had stretched. I was

stolen again  -  she had the fulsome body of something

I just had to touch. Yet, singularly, and alone, I moved

along. These are some sorts of Currier and Ives scenes

that even the barber shops never witness.

-

Here then instead, I sit me down at some awful place

named 'Theo's Alaskaway Eats'. Route 6, westbound for

sure. Way out nowhere. What this fellow must have

been thinking when he named his dumpy joint, I'll

never understand. I order jackrabbit stew? You

say that's my only choice.

6075. FOR FRAGONARD AND FOR JOHN DUNNE

FOR FRAGONARD AND 

FOR JOHN DUNNE

All these prettified things  -  lovely to see and the

touch, outlawed. Look with thine eyes, sweet thing,

and only that. We are somehow part of an obscure

caravan  :  gypsies and minstrels, dark-eyed girls

dancing in the grass. Oh Mr. Painter, don't forget

about me; I bend and I swagger, for all to see.

-

And then the bell tolls, the bell tolls for me.

6074. MY SHARE IS PERPETUAL

MY SHARE IS PERPETUAL

So sings the church on the corner, so sings the

knave in the loft : choirspeak and every stupid

thing alike. In the evenings, a painted-purple

dove of night descends, something like a

darkness, with amends, and runs the sainted

street straight on. People stop to see what

goes, cock their ears to hear the sounds.

'My share is perpetual', they think they

hear it said. Later, at dawn when all the

new cars come by, no one can recognize

where they had been : seen dropping off 

people, seen picking up workers, builders,

mechanics, angels and serfs. What strange

world and land is this, where God is

still addressed as 'Lord', as if it were

800 A.D.? If the share is perpetual,

then we should just let it be.

6073. PIPPA PASSES

PIPPA PASSES

Bells and pomegranates together alike.

Ottima knows too. Love and lust, together,

are equals  -  to the headstrong sky, to the

winsome moon, to the distant travelers, to

the monkeys reflected in the vast sun's eye.

6072. OF ALL, MY NEW DIABLO

OF ALL, MY NEW DIABLO

It is a shimmering visage, this, now  -  glaring

eyes and raging nostrils, detectable flames 

where ears should be. Devil. Devil. Devil. 

-

I've never harped on things like this before, 

yet I believe that Evil exists, exists and works

its furied ways into the hearts of Man. Why 

else would everything else appear 

in this so-fallen world?

6071. IT HURTS

IT HURTS

It hurts if it's all the same  - 

I landed on a comet, I rode on

a train. I closed my eyes, it was 

all the same; hurtling through

space, with no end in site.

6070. A CHAIR YOU CANNOT MOVE

A CHAIR YOU 
CANNOT MOVE

Sit here, then, thou reliant quibble-master, the

one who will not stop, 'midst all your glooms of

gold and gilt - for I have heard you too, as well,

and for what reason even I am not so sure.

-

Oh frigate on the choppy sea, how unlike you all

this be : stepping-stone fast forward, recollected.

windswept, or broken, this ship of mind floats on.

-

These waters which can drown us, are they not all  -

as Whitman said  -  the seas of God? Passage to

you! Mastership to you! Then, celebrate, yes!

-

'Lo, Soul, Seest thou not God's purpose from the

first?' The Earth to be spanned, men to become

brothers and sisters to be sisters? I wish't all to

handle the selfsame love of goal and purpose

together, riding these human waves still.

6069. SPLIT-HAIR HORSECAP

SPLIT-HAIR HORSECAP

No, no. I will not be the angel of mercy

to all the good words of the universe blended :

instead I will find my ways to speak the truth,

by the ways of Man untended. Lies there are

enough to bury us all, and the way men speak

is all a superfluous deceit while they know their

own ends. The businessman, the flyer, the senator

and the scientist  too  -  working hard to shape

their words to fit their own foul world. It is

no different within, and they shall all go to

own poor Hells. If the material is the 

highway to the immaterial, their

own toll-gates are already shut.

6068. EVERMORE

EVERMORE

It wasn't just the orange juice and the swagger,

the wreath which was hanging from the ceiling

to call forth a seasonal cluster of already-early 

wishes; it was me. This is, after all, the porter

said, 'The Americana Lunch Room' and I don't

even eat. It's not some temporary thing, mind

you, I've always been quite partial to starvation,

especially here in a place like this : ten-ton bagels

the size of rams, and three-deck sandwiches which

are larger than the land. What is all this?

-

I remember being a boy, and sitting in the yard,

just gazing and  -  most probably  -  doing my

most stupid cowboy dreams. Suddenly, above 

my head, a racket  -  30 or so geese, swarmingly

noisy, in a V-formation, swimming the air on

their own way to another land. God, how I

wished that I could fly right then.

6067. EMPTY HANDS

EMPTY HANDS

Birds call a chickadee backwards, a few stragglers

flit about  -  some morning workers are strolling

in, holding coffee and plastic drinks. Everything

seems still nonetheless. This is an early morning

arrival, another pestering day across the board.

-

I've got nothing to hold on to; empty hands all

about. Stretching the taut fabric of the day, I think

about Hart Crane and his bridge, those apples, and

my old seat at Chumley's with Bobby Beddia.

All of that's over now, and he's dead. I am

suffering, and still such a fool.

-

If there was an ever-present God, would I turn

to it in praise, or wonder? I myself, still unsure.

6066. HARPSICHORD

HARPSICHORD

In with the regions of Bach, where the 

dark-slide scrapings are turned into 

sounds, there's where I try to fit. 

Learning that ledge, and standing

straight. What I find myself 

distorted by is noise.

6065. CORNDOG FOR HIRE

CORNDOG FOR HIRE

I was once a farmer, riding cows and milking

pigs  -  the barnyard was filled with idle hens.

There I stayed, for a while, with a hay-straw

in my teeth and a corn-cob pipe smoking my

ear  -  like corn, like stubble, like all that

fancy-plowed ground. I had my tractor

always set - Massey-Ferguson on the go.

As soon as it got chilly, small-game season

called, the rifles came off the wall. There are

men who hunt, and there are men who 'hunt'.

Somehow I was neither. Then I upped and

ran away  -  my heart took its season to all the

things of another land  -  like a Willa Cather

runabout, escaping Indiana, I met my mark

and I set my lance  -  and never looked back.

How was it later said : 'Bright lights, big city?'

6064. TROUBLE IN A GREEN LINING

TROUBLE IN 

A GREEN LINING

14th Street was so grim  -  still is, but back 

then it was ten thousand times worse. 'Want 

this dagger up your ass? Give me your purse.'

One speedball all rolled up in hell, and you

could walk up to 23rd if you wanted it worse

in the Chelsea Hotel. 'Where you going, boy,

where you going now?' My habits, they slinked

in a dark green robe  -  pills and booze and girls.

It was all OK, and I never wrote home.

6063. GENERAL, AND FOR TWO

GENERAL, AND FOR TWO

The more the ice enters the atmosphere, 

the colder my own heart gets : like the 

blue light on the winter lampshade, there 

are nothing but shadows of movement,

the take-away moment of a long-lost 

time within its own shake of 

memory and fortitude. 

-

The small black car is unloading so many

people : where they all came from, and how 

they all fit, I do not know, though I see what

I see. Molecules crowd this place, atoms are

bumping what only seems in place.

-

A more roseate hue? That's for hearts and

lovers alone  -  my eyes, right now, see

charcoal black and coal-mine gray; a

simple seam, to be mined and

hacked away.

6062. HUMAN SIZE

HUMAN SIZE

Small eyes, like the human size, make for a

wonderful face  -  no dinosaur-jagged

protuberances, no wicked leaves in the face.

We don't walk this tree-topped high to have

to worry; I guess that's why. A long time ago, 

even I walked in my childhood woods; the trees

and the forests of long ago. I go there now, in this

present day, and  -  no, of course not  -  nothing 

is the same. They've bolted the trees with doors, and

trimmed back everything the same. I remember where

I used to laugh and jump, and it's now all gone though

the woods seem the same. They seem smaller, but are all

more jumbled up  -  our paths are gone, brambles and

thistles grow everywhere, and the ancient grass is high.

Not yet a whimper passes from me, looking around

instead in some childlike reverie. We are some dead,

and not all my friends have survived. Some still live

around here, and others, yes, have died. Too bad, all that.

6061. THE SADDEST TREADMILL THERE IS

THE SADDEST 

TREADMILL THERE IS

Your caramelized pajamas go well with lunch, and

my dog sees right through to your soul. Am I your

only game in town? Have I already grown too tough.

Here, by the way-station we call counter-top stain,

the kitchen apparatus has gone mad : this refrigerator

sounds like a whippoorwill, and I'm sure the pilot-lights

are out again. Is it just me who can smell the unburned 

gas? How does one ever know the difference, anyway,

between a friend for life and a lover just met? Not me,

I will safely say. We lumber for happy things, while

trudging away on the saddest treadmill there is.

6060. I'D HAVE THOUGHT

I'D HAVE THOUGHT

The distance between objects can only grow, as

this universe between us expands. What of it, I

say. Things which throw shadows are haphazard

markers of a weak imagining; and a blind man like

myself can't just walk in darkness and not hit walls.

I thought I knew once where everything was  -  now

it's as if someone, someone, has changed everything.

-

Accumulation has always been a mathematical thing:

the cash register at the end of the aisle, accumulating

and counting and making sums that one must pay.

Oh dear, I'm short of pocket again. I'd have 

thought that no one would notice.

6059. BOTTOM OF THE SKY

BOTTOM OF THE SKY

I'm laying in the grass looking at the sky,

looking up wishing I was some other guy.

Laying in the grass at the bottom of the sky,

looking up and think, just what am I?

-

Wouldn't need the gift of gab or the color

or the eye, if I was just someone else at

the bottom of the sky.

6058. MAKE THE FILTER FIT THE PICTURE

MAKE THE FILTER 

FIT THE PICTURE

(a jumble)

So many often times so often many times the weird

and wild world suffices the sense the tickless wine

and make men and women sick and then delirious

with both the harm and the idle crime of being hard

in love. the papers have the pictures, the printers

print the tales : he fell for her on a non-light afternoon,

he carried her farmhand's barrow across the harrows

of the farm. Each old corn-stalk screaming back.

-

I saw her. She has grand, dark eyes, and all the

darkest secrets of her gypsy heart.

6057. FELL OFF THE BOAT, LIKE MAN OVERBOARD

FELL OFF THE BOAT, 

LIKE MAN OVERBOARD

Hear those senseless hammers pealing, pealing.

And I am going home. Both Ecaudor and Peru,

they were nothing to me, the Canal, up north,

by contrast was a useful pike at least. 

Pick-up sticks. Pick-up sticks again.

6056. JAPANESE LANTERN

JAPANESE LANTERN

Tea Garden balderdash amidst the lemon trees and

the California wedge, all those people  -  right there  -

sitting around in their so-polite fenzy. Tea drinkers

to be drunk, tea-sippers to sip. I follow the carriage

with my eyes as it enters this scene. Mikado? Or

can it be? Something so close to that reality.

-

She enters on little dog feet, tipping and tripping

along  -  the miraculous sash and that pursed little

mouth, the floral pattern bold on her cloak. I will

sit to say nothing at all, for I am not of this.

-

Cartoon character I am not. Stoned to situation,

frozen into place, secure within an emanation, I am.

A hundred little colored lanterns, each one lit, rolling

both  - up and down  -  this pleasant hillside.

6055. CONCLUSION

CONCLUSION

Thou art : my rage and my victim, my fire

and my flame, the burning and the ashes,

the heaping and the fury, the heat and the

meaning. Without all of that, nothing else.

-

Were I to bring you in, invite or call, I would

find you already there, for thou art all, and

thou hast made me, before all this wanting

at all. I have the signature of you, before

I have even started to write these things,

I do not know why.

-

Some kindled image before a pack of sticks

outstretched, reflect already what Thou art,

and all of what Thou can be  -  yet already

are  -  before the Time elapsed has even

begun to count itself  -  as Time, at least.

-

And all these things  -  oh so powerful motion!

6054. UNDER

UNDER

Beneath the embers of a witchcraft and the 

flames of any daughter's son stands a long 

wall of deceit and bad presentation. I've 

swaddled this day in a hotel filled with lies 

and armchairs of every description. The

porter sang upon command, and every 

call girl went upstairs with delight. 

Now all I need is money to get out.

6053. WILL YA' NOW?

WILL YA' NOW

I read him his rights  -  he made a right at 

Locust and another at Vine. Even he agreed 

to that. Sitting there like an eagle, he was 

dousing his sorrow with mendicant gin. 

In one arm and out the other again.

Oh how I want to travel.-

-

In the middle ages they believed that

God was a star  -  some stellar emanation

coming down from above. I could never figure

how to approach that entire, outmoded affair.

Nowadays, we look up at the sky never

thinking who's there. Have another

look, will ya' now.

6052. RAT TRAP

RAT TRAP

The tanks were coming over the hillside, and 

I was holding some French girl in my arms. She

had said her name was Mariette Chaudimanche,

and I had to believe her. To me, her last name

meant 'hot Sunday', but to her it was just a

name. Whatever. I'd never tell a difference.

-

A part of my mind was saying '1944', but I

knew that somehow couldn't be  -  after all,

I'd just plugged in my charger, and  -  over there  - 

some idiot was playing the Beatles. How 

confusing a mess can one life be?

6051. I HEAR WHISPERS

I HEAR WHISPERS

Nuance in all the intrigue; alacrity in the

misinformation : the store on the corner

- it says - 'now cuts keys'. I think I 

understand the conversion.

-

Here we are, looking on again towards

nothing : I'd like to steal your broker's 

name and reputation. Putative interest,

alone, I'm sure.

6050. UTILIZE THE MAILMAN

UTILIZE THE MAILMAN

Utilize the mailman, America. Put his ass to

work. Send yourself letters with postage due.

Make sure it's return-receipted and registered too.

Get the best insurance, get those signatures returned.

Make sure the postage is paid, hell, send it next 

day air. What the hell, put his ass to work.

-

Drop molasses in the corner mailbox,

so when he comes, it's sticky. Get his bag

and hands all wet, make him walk his ass

off, pissed to be so sure obscure on what a 

sunny day. Annoy the fucking bastard.

-

Utilize the mailman, America. Send him rain or

snow or sleet or frigging radiation samples in

a large brown envelope. Staple everything and

leave the ends unturned. Cut and pinch his nasty

fingers. Make the mailman wiggle, dammit...

earn the pay he's getting.

-

What the hell, put his ass to work!

6049. CALENDAR

CALENDAR

You should never follow the calendar, for it lies to you

and you are dead. One day, the sky tells you of the moon,

and then an eclipse of a lunar stage, and suddenly you claim

you're a Druid. The calendar swears to it. Believe me though  

-  oh instantly converted one  -  it doesn't work. You are driving

a car and eating from plastic and drinking from sweets and

cardboard cups commingled while singing of radio songs

about lovings and lusts. No such Druid, no one trusts. You're

as fake as a tree, brought inside at a Christmas ball, of 

silvery, tinseled plastic and laughter and all.

6048. STATELY MOUNTAIN

STATELY MOUNTAIN

I went to Stately Mountain, where they buried 

the dead from WWI. All I could do was laugh.

I went to Stately Mountain, where they buried

the dead from WWII. All I could do was laugh.

I went to Stately Mountain, where they'd buried 

dead from Korea. All I could do was laugh.

I went to Stately Mountain, where they yet bury

dead from 'Nam. All I could do was laugh.

I went to Stately Mountain, where they yet bury

the dead from Desert Storm and all the rest.

All I could do was laugh. I went to Stately Mountain,

where they will be burying 'tomorrow'. All I

could do was cry in sorrow.

6047. DANGLING CONVERSATIONS

DANGLING CONVERSATIONS

I shouldn't have shaved the title off that last

Marquis' moustache, it was looking so good.

Not it's morning on a likely Winter's day and

can't really remember a thing. We were talking 

in a half-dark of a now-late afternoon; some old

song reminded me of that. Still-life watercolor,

it went. And then  -  just like that  -  I thought

that I was powerless and should probably let 

you know. I was no longer part of the tribe

I was seeing. I felt like another being.

-

Troubles keep tumbling from that old dice-chest

and the house ups the ante to whatever they think

is best. I quit playing. I laid down my cards and I

walked away  -  humming a distaff tune on a girl's

afternoon, wanting to see eyes everywhere I look;

instead I get a bus-station filled with schmucks and

rumblers, travelers from the darkside looking for

the light. Wrong train, right tracks, or the other

way around. I said I couldn't remember a thing.

-

There's a man with a spelling book walking past

the alley  -  he's shouting oaths while he gets them

right. I don't know which is less important, the

grammar or the spelling  -  as long as the message

is clear. In the now-late afternoon, in the darkness

that's here, in the dangling conversations that

we no longer hear. Everything comes together;

each piece falling gently into place.

6046. DISCOURSE (situation savage sandwich)

DISCOURSE

(situation savage sandwich)

They were standing by the pier, doing nothing really,

right over where the fish market used to be : Fulton,

that is. Now a sad and abandoned nothing trying to

fill itself with happiness and touristy glee. I won't

add to this confusion. Let you see : 15 Japanese

tourists out strumming cameras like guitar-fish

stringing violins, 2 folks from Germany, in that

standard German tongue consulting a map and

pointing. A harbor-tour boat plying customers

with thrumming beats and a few barkers at 

shore. A bunch of shuttered stores, and not much 

more. The rain, the cold, a storm with wind, and

memories  -  that was all that was there. No

guidebook yet for that; I don't think anyway.

-

If the stormy new Mayor came by right now,

even he would stumble in this gloom  -  trying 

to give the city away he'd lose it all real soon.

Indigents in each compartment of the Dowry-Berry

Star-Room, stateless small people from southern

climes and nasty drunkards entwined in vines.

-

I could bet even I'd be there soon : give me your

tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to

be free. Yes, well, anyway all that. It's a joke, for

sure, a joke too late for the learning. The what-

to-be for the who-should-have. I cannot ask any

new questions. They've all been asked already.

6045. NOISE

NOISE

Some idiot's car has

jumbled its locks, and

is wailing like a baby

at sea. I can do nothing

but wait.

6044. METICULOUS PORTRAITURE

METICULOUS PORTRAITURE

(I am bereft)

Someone's meticulous portraiture caught my eye,

seen cast as a stone on a beach. Wicked ways and

gentle meanings, together. I approximated colors

with my mind's eye alone, and it all brought me

backwards, to home. Again, in slavish devotion.

-

These weren't the things you were made of  -  candles

in the wind, precious hearts and flowers, flames that

won't go out. By comparison to my heart and mind,

all that is magic. What are we, anyway, but motion.

-

Please don't sit still  -  keep moving. Bring your own

eyes' passions to the flight of the moth, uncomfortable

as ever, onto one of those flames  -  soon brought to

attention, soon singed. That too, just like a heart, and

just like a passion. Here, take this now. I am bereft.

6043. RUN MAN, RUN MAN

RUN MAN, RUN MAN

It's not a supposed thing like the halls

of eucalyptus or somesuch : it's real.

Instead of fat-bellied men blowing

flugel horn trumpets on the side of a

hill, we have beautiful urchins sweeping

the walkways and pathways wherever we 

look. I haven't seen so much fun since

the barrel of monkeys was let loose.

Inside of a minute, bananas everywhere,

people slipping on skins, and monkeys

spitting at one another. 'Run, man, run' 

was all I kept hearing. Then the parking 

lot was torched and the new pavement

took flame  -  it had a good saturation

beforehand of gasoline. Those guys knew

what they were doing : beautiful things

grow like strumpets, rich, ripe, and well

comported to comfort a man. Willows.

A marshland of grasses. Everything

we ever wanted. Everything.

6042. I'LL GRANT YOU THE WALLA WALLA

I'LL GRANT YOU 

THE WALLA WALLA

As if in a western running on down dark-horse,

running, nostrils wide open, horse-spit flying,

there I am. I can't sit still, and anyway now this

saddle has given my ass the rash it deserved.

Give me two whiskeys, barkeep, and please

stop talking to me. This burrito cowtown

implant is getting on my nerves. I want 

to punch his eye sockets.

-

Oh my love, isn't this life one big amazing

fantasy we play on each other. A pony-time

prance-out we get to do once. I can't read the

wanted posters, fat boy, can you move out of my

way : like a 'lik-em-aid' stick or a sugared powder

I have the memory of a spider and the wisdom

of a web. Shouldn't get in what you can't get out.

-

No buddy. No bother. (No time like the right 

time, and baby, the right time is now. 

I'll grant you the walla walla).