It’s Another Thing Now

I am willing to stand in gentle rain at sunset
But not to stand in a storm of sorrow and regret.

It was one thing to own all the mornings yet to come,

Before I knew the darkness would yield to the sun.

It is another thing now.

I am willing to see the sparkle in my loves blue eyes

But not to shield those dark with fear of life’s demise.

With honest hearts I will share the depths of my pain,

But with doubting minds I’ve no time left to explain.

It is another thing now.

My time is limited and the day’s run late,

And I’m too busy finding moments of joy to follow hardened dates.

There’s no time to waste on those who demand plans written in pen —
It was one thing when I had a calendar without end.

It is another thing now.


Somewhere even here – a shelter, a safe haven embraces the “we,” the self corrected and wall-taught flowers, who grow and peek over the garden fence.

(Who did we think we were, anyway?)

If we like what we see, we tilt up towards the dim sun, and grow taller than our environs to open up the gates from innocence to experience.

That tyger burnt so bright then. How now his whiskers lay in a pyle of dust as he breathed next to the untuned mandolin.

The cat’s off balance, yet anyone who can pay bills on time spots us in our natural habitats without visual assistance.

Even gray our claws prey at the ready, sharp enough to lightnigng slash four stripes onto each freckled gingerbread cheek.

Lay our power down with both poles to promote even the pastiest of the white dullards from private to sargent major.

Did you even matriculate that year when the river died outside the state of orange blossoms and drained swampland?

When the big ass bugs failed to promote those heavier than rain mossy oaks and sank twenty catfish boats, that’s the year I really died, as my next mixed tape spun out of its cartidge.

Three and Counting

Please, just listen.
I mean listen:
Life and Look and Playboy and Harper’s Bazaar
Black and white subscriptions
Ambiguous evidence in hand, hunting down women at work.
Sniffed out innocently by the Eisenhower oval office pet dog,
While a General brutishly  goose steps onto the front lawn of Korea.

In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
Curious index fingers ask why about that big dark bird.
We find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen find themselves striped and
Reflected in receding ice cubes,
Swinging across Elm into suburban basement cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated steak and potato dinners
With a side of dry rye wit.

In science we would fold a mirror in thirds and
With respect to the hidden shadows find
Unnatural suspects. How dulled the senses
Thrashed by the gin mill of technology
Slowly pulled out of a Cage of empty spaces,
Drowned by the sounds of wood-paneled isolationism.
Yet we ask questions drawn from a box of angels at a miracle dinner:
An entire eight course galloping Gourmet special,
Or so-called, to feed on somebody else’s words.

The notorious vodka dressed with privately dismembered parts,
Smoking pipes, guns and skulls
Huge hips and house tits – giggles from beet red cheeky kids.
No, mother, advertisements, I swear.
No true story, with full magazines targeted by
Bullet points as submarine 100 proof alcohol holes.

And get this.
Seriously. As if that weren’t enough.
Mister Britain sent our commander in chief, still whole,
An artful paperback starring a spy and women with genitals for names.
How heavily infused with the bonds, stocks, red phones, a desk,
And one bombed blonde.
He related, I imagine he was stirred,
By her vermouth-scented breath waved like a magician’s scarf
Over his cold, bent body.
Promises of a universe held in a single Bucky ball…
And expressed on the moon.

In the years of our first breath our unfinished souls
We came out gasping for air.
Specific yet ambiguous enough
Though I wasn’t adopted as was the upper middle class
Interest en vogue back then.

Next door,
Someone defiantly sweats over a project;
Today’s Society: Our outdated social behavior.
Can you even determine a single source?
While we spread our arms wide across different domains:
Beer, soda, fashion, ties, cruises, cars.
Who wonders if a stenographer became involved with some director,
I think she probably typed for him at an agency,
He may or may not have knowledge of the messages
Samples slices of pies and examples between the unknown layer cakes.

Our lives backed over, in
1966 mauled in a dense article,
Stanley starts filming 2001.
A reenactment with photographs of Lord Snowden.
Phrases like:
“Alcohol consumption”
“Mind altering”
“Hidden innuendo”
Very redundant, for the affluent.
No apologies needed.
No offense taken.