a waltz poem

 posted for D'verse meeting the bar

let us play

                in the fray

                                in the wake

                                                                in overflowing lakes

                let us make

                                for the break

                                                (last one there eats mud and gets no love)

let us go running, slapdashingly, head first crashing 

bodysplashing

                heartlaughing  

bayonets

                banging  

life

                hanging

like

                night things

with

                                long fangs and a halo of animal radar

                                                                (there’s always a party somewhere)       

because all work no play makes my mind blind searching for sunlight thru a peephole

because  

sidhartha never sat in traffic

only under mango trees

                soft malaysian breeze

                                cleo on the nile

                                                or blue caribbean

                                                                that easy green feeling (you know what I mean?)

it’s a-flee, it’s a-flu, it’s how-do-you-do

                it’s two cheeseburgers and an order of fries

                                it’s midnight matinee and the moon in your eyes   

                (it’s whatever sets your face on fire)

o insane

acrobat

o Chinese

finger trap

mandolin

                finger slap

play the last blast of your song racing like a hot limerick in a gimmick spitting competition  

                bah-bah, bah-bah, bah-bah

                                                bah!

                                                                bah!

                                                                                Bah!

and the last one there

has gum in their hair

something new

 1st d

little rusty bottlecap

i found you today

here on the curb

where i sat and smoked

fixing a broken shoelace

 

and i thought, you must be a miracle

some kind of precious metal

magnetic and stuck to my thumb

                ugly but lucky

the missing element in my mojo

                                (rock, paper, scissor, bottlecap)

 

like you

i was born in a factory

i cut my teeth in a fuckery

pop my top and pour myself out

everywhere i go

 

                                                                                like you

i would never call myself a silver dollar

                slide into a jukebox and sing a song

never claim myself a prince

but perhaps

crown myself with jewels anyway

                                                                                because

                                                i can make a necklace   

with you

and a broken shoelace 

 

 

 

end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn’t it’s the end of the world)

jalopy dreams · end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn't know it's the end of the world)

 个

(heads up! listen to the poem here)

 (for my friend and teacher Wayne Gilbert)

 

perhaps this is a poem

                or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether

                or page three hundred and three of the g.e.

                refrigerator repair manual

                                or too much caffeine

                too much ambition

perhaps i’m walking the block

in high tech shoes of direction and destination

or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet

this might be september

                                and the moon is shaped like a riddle

                too big to smash with a hammer

this might be a fishbowl

                and i’m just another fishy citizen

                working in a fish stick factory

                                i eat and shit and work

                work and shit and eat

                and then pray for god to come and clean the water

this might be the sticky afterbirth

                or the moment of climax, or the wink

                of spanish fly in a young woman’s eye

                                and a new spirit hovering over

a faded blue buick with steamed up windows

                                young spirit waiting to enter

                the motel called mother

this might be the right circumstance

                in a misfit context

this might be a daytime tv talk show

this might be a keystone cops movie

                or maybe both

                                grainy black and white

                                big hat, billy club

                                                rescue of the whispering

whimpering mr and ms damsel

                tongue tied to the railroad tracks

                                of tv guru voodoo

this might be a snow globe

                 and i should feel foolish

                for not believing in fairytales

this might be candy-hopscotch-doo-dah- mountain

                where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry

                where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphin

                                grapevines sing songs of festival wine

                and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle

                                                                                together

this might be a motor-home graveyard

                flat hills of empty shells and grey weather

                                dead center of humdrum

                where hummingbirds forget how to hum

                and drop dead

this might be trick photography

or the rare occurrence of natural magic

                behold the mighty onion

                                a gallery of curtains

                unwarp the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah

no more universe

perhaps there’s another universe next door

                that looks and smells and shakes just like this one

                except no one there sings songs

                                  about onions (let’s go!)

this might be leap year

                and all the leap frogs are leaving this world

                to orbit some other mud puddle

                                bum around in limbo

snuggle up in candy-colored god clusters

                get too heavy with philosophy and fall down

tomorrow it will rain frogs

this may seem crazy

                but this might be someone else’s fever dream

                and i’m sleeping in the wrong head

this might be the day before i die

                and i’m here to cast the first stone

                                to fill my coffin with novocain

                comic books and last minute field goals

perhaps this the end of the world

                                                                as we know it and

                ʆi… ʆfeel… ʆfine

perhaps all of this could be or should

be or once was

                                long ago

                                                                all i know is

                i misspoke, tried to sing a choked

                bit my tongue so hard it made me cry

and i can’t see anything very clear

                perhaps 

                this is a poem

 

 some new poems from my old friend wayne gilbert

poets for poests and stories tellers united writers pantry