Thursday, June 22, 2017

We're already in love.
All we've got to do is fall.
I'm fallen and I can't get up.
Oops! I can't say that,
It's copyrighted.

Maybe I should say, "I'm white
And I can't get down."

No, that's all been said, too.

Maybe I could suggest,
"Let's do it,"
But that's suggestive
Unless I add,
"Let's fall in love,"
But like I said,
We're already in love,
So maybe I'll go back and quote myself,
"All we've got to do is fall."


Wednesday, June 21, 2017

If I don't pray in ways you think are right,
Yet I hold hopes of love and perfect light within my heart
For you and others that I love,
If I have eyes to see what lies above
And wish for that to be down here below,
Then how is it for you to know that I'm so wrong?
And what if something as simple
As dipping yourself into my song seven times would heal you?
Well, what if the spirit moves me to come and reveal to you
Some inner truth that might availeth much?
Then would you let me come and touch you?
Lay my hands upon your heart
And impart this great burden of life and love til you were sated
With health and wealth and wisdom?
Could you accept it from this soul
That you feel to be so contaminated?


Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Tonight the birds chirp adamantly,
But it doesn't bother me
Because I don't know what they're saying.
They may be telling all their woes,
The pain of death,
The throes of egg laying,
But I don't understand the language that they speak.

All I hear is their rhythm in the night,
A tonic overlay, that runs counter melody
To an easy track the crickets laid down.
A big bass drums along.
I'm not sure, but that might be
My own heart beating.

I can only see five stars tonight,
But I know there are seven sisters,
And the Pleiades wonder
Where the others have gone,
While the night birds chirp on and on
About nothing.


Monday, June 19, 2017

The coasts are cloudy.
Makes me pout.
Hisssss! boooooo!

They'll clear again.
They always do.


Sunday, June 18, 2017

I have my quaaludes and my drink,
Waiting for some poor sap
To think I'm here to listen to all his problems and dreams.
Slip him a mickey.
But then what will I do?
He'll be too big for me
To lug him through the lobby
Or up the stairs.
And, these days,there are too many cameras in elevators.
But even if I could get him up to my room,
What fun would it be
To take advantage of a sleeping pipi?

And this my friends is just one of the differences
That ensures a definite inequality
Of the sexes,
And a continuation of the violation
Of anyone who finds him or herself
In a vulnerable situation.


I carry a razor in my shoe.
It's not to cut you up.
But in case I find a patch of dark, unruly hair,
I can shave it there and then.
What is happening to my skin?

This is growing in a place where hair
Used to be pale and wan, and blonde,
And tamable.

And now I also have the urge
To drink my water from a ditch.

I don't eat,
Yet I'm solid and can swing
From limb to limb and tree to tree.

What will become of me
When it has taken hold,
And I can't fight the urges or the air
Or the hair any longer?


Something outside
Narrows its eyes
To peek through my blinds.
It's not quite a sneer,
But, from here, I would say
It's a frown.
Lightning flashes,
Eyebrows are knit,
And lashes are dark.
Disdain would take me
For a walk to the woodshed,
But it's about to rain.
There's not enough time
To explain myself tonight,
Not enough words or definitions,
And the man in the moon can't hear, anyway.
The only part the galaxy chose not to give him is ears,
But he sure has a pitiful, upside down mouth.

My eyes are pretty much ornamental,
But I have a heightened sense of hearing
And sense of smell,
And I can pretty much tell all about a person
By touching them.

Let me touch you.
Let me see
How much of you is full of you,
How much room for me
You have in your heart,
Your soul,
Your body.

I want to know,
Pretty much.


Saturday, June 17, 2017

I dreamed I ran on the beach again,
On wet sand and soft sea weeds,
Stretching it out on the balls of my feet,
Fast, as wind on air,
Like a steed that runs into war unafraid.

That's all I've ever wanted--
To run fast,
And, like Secretariat,
To have a place to show the world
That my heart is twice the size
A heart should be,

And that someone might come
And run with me,
And see, for all my whinnying,
The only thing I ever kick up
Is a deep love
For my brothers
And sisters.


I wouldn't have hat hair
If I didn't wear a hat,
And if I weren't bow-legged
My horses would all run free.
And if I hadn't tied a knot in the devil's tail,
Well, he'd slip right through his prison cell bars
And come after me,
Again and again and again.

But I'm a cowgirl, pardner,
And I know how to shut a gate
When I've gone through.
And I know how to open one, too,
And walk right in and be at home
On the range, or on the phone,
Or at the charity ball,
Because there's no one quite like me,
And not too many who've ever known
Quite what to do with the likes
Of this long, tall Texan.
Git along, little dogies!

I'd let you go ahead of me,
But I see you're already ahead of me.
Maybe you should let me
Go ahead of you?

I see you now in the Great Dance
In the parking lot.
The shopping cart wants to go one way and you the other.
I always let the shopping cart lead,
But that's just me.
I've just seen that eventually,
It wears me down,
And I realize it has a better handle
On the Tao,
As well as the Dow of life.


Friday, June 16, 2017

I can tell I've come to the end of the dream
By the way the cymbals crash
And the lights go down
And the corners of a big curtain somewhere start to squeak.
Or, at least, the pulleys
That have been groaning,
Holding up the gravid threads
Through all those acts
Begin to squeak and squeal in glee.
Five o'clock has come for them.
They can punch their clock, go home,
And let go of all that heavy material
That separates the dreams
From the realities,
That separates all the world
From the stage it plays out in.

But what time is it now for me ?
Is the dreamer of the dream
Now half asleep?
Or have I been half way awake for all this time?


I was in that fat you ate
Before there were any stips to late you,
Long before hate could amp your tastes
To cause you to eliminate parts of me
You might not like.
You'd already swallowed me.

Now, as you start to sorb your ab,
I can feel the mac er ate
Of all your gastric acid
Solving all the dis,
And soon all we'll remember is this:
It's too late to em you,
But not to embody,
To be a part,
Not second rate,


I waited in line for the women's restroom
And finally heard a flush.
A MAN came out looking sheepish
And in a bit of a rush.
And I walked in to see the commode
Slowly overflow.
Right behind me came the janitor,
Who glared a hole in my soul,
And I said,"There was a man in here
Before me, and he did this!"
I am a fair maiden
And my poo doesn't stink,
Much less stop up toilets.


Thursday, June 15, 2017

Art isn't beauty.
It's duress,
And what comes out
Sometimes it's an exhaled breath,
A drop of sweat,
A tear,
A splinter, that finally got squeezed
And tweeezed,
And made its way
Into the light of day.

Ancient beauty,
Were cheat notes
And hacks to pass
History exams and physics class.
And if you translate obelisks right,
Each cartouche that finds the light
Will explain
That wind or snow or rain
Won't fade the ancient truth.
But only life and love will make
This honest world go round.


I like a white shirt.
It goes with white teeth and tan skin,
With blonde hair that hangs down across blue eyes.
It's blue skies and white clouds.
It looks very French to me,
And I should know,
For I am French,
And you like me?


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Skinny girls get chocolate
Which makes them fat.
Fat girls don't get any,
Which makes them skinny,
And the yin and yang
Goes round and round
Again and again.
Imagine that.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Anger is a beautiful angel in armor that shines and gleams.
She comes to do battle for us
And take our pains and all the stings
Of devaluing statements made to come our way.

But if we turn her away,
There is nothing she can do.
She must allow the venom of the hurt to go into me and into you.
Then our anger angel must come deep inside,
Where she will burn night and day
Until she has burned the poison from our clay.

But inside us, she appears to us to be as ugly as sin,
Until we acknowledge her,
And make her beautiful,
And powerful again.


The Sun is watching youtube videos
These days to learn to highlight
The girls hair better.
He's got to compete with snobby stylists everywhere,
Who say they know The Way.

And with so many afraid of Him,
For he's been labeled a carcinogen,
He shakes his mighty head until
Even his sunspots quake.
"Have they never read the ingredients
In those awful sunscreens they slather on their skin?"
He booms incredulously.

But how can He compete with tanning beds,
Manicured feet, and stylists,
The snobby ones, indeed,
Who take up a brush and smelly oils
And the most alchemical of chemicals
That change lead hair to gold?

But He sticks to His catechism,
His articles of faith of His religion require
That he give the people what they clamor for,
And there is no clause "as long as."
He will even give you Barabbas
If what you want is that much beneath
The Truth that you deserve.

For he's a live and let live kind of guy
And watches quietly from the sky
And sees all of the people everywhere
Doing just exactly what they want to do
As far as they know.


Sunday, June 4, 2017

Snakes are like bees,
In that, if we don't have them,
Life, as we know it on this planet
Will not be anymore.
First, a collective sigh from the colonies,
One of societies' top fears is extinct!
Then while we debate on how to end public speaking,
Mother earth will unlatch her high sandals,
Take off her girdle and walk barefoot through the garden again.

But eventually it will dawn upon her
That she has no more goosebumps
Because there are no more slithering things to terrify her,
Nor to tickle her places that no one else is willing to touch.
And in her sadness, the world will go gray.
Flowers will purse their primitive lips
In a great tsk tsk toward the other vegetation,
And then the bees will be the very next to go.

I come in and put the sacks down,
And he lies right down on the floor and cuddles up to the groceries.
He puts his face an inch away from a can
And stares longingly.

I grunt and roll my eyes
And mutter under my breath,
"I studied the Bolshevik Revolution for this?!"


Saturday, June 3, 2017

The equation for orbits is surprisingly the same
As those for objects going down a drain.
The great swirling majesty of the Milky Way
May be the galaxy's mode to throw its trash away.
It fascinates us from a distance
And confounds us while we're in it,
Much like the forest we can't see
For the trees.

But before you say, "Well, there's no hope,"
Take yourself a bar of organic soap and enjoy the bath.
Who's to say that the mysterious flow
Of the cryptic dark matter that makes us go around
May be as holy as the holiest universal solvent?
We can pray that it is a drain that takes us to the wetlands,
And that the sewer is a sanitary one.


Friday, June 2, 2017

Little orphan cats don't groom themselves
As well those who grow up with a mother.
They grow accustomed to matted fur,
And so, also, when they are grown,
They don't mind a ruffled look
Or being rubbed the wrong way.
They will take whatever petting they can get.

Little humans that aren't comforted when they cry
Produce a lot of cortisol
In an attempt to relieve themselves of stress.
This hardens the brain,
And other results aren't known.
But they may mind very much
Being rubbed the wrong way.


Thursday, June 1, 2017

He knew he was born to be an archaeologist,
For his face already looked like
It was carved from stone,
And judging by the weathering there,
A thousand years or more ago.

His best friends were pillars of salt,
And he knew he shared their fate,
For, just as Lot's nostalgic wife had done,
He also had a propensity to look back.

His greatest fear was that he might turn
Just after some amazing discovery
And he would stand, a smallish obelisk,
And silently be misread and misinterpreted
For another thousand years.


My dream is a house
That hovers mysteriously
And hums while a magic carpet flies by.
My door opens from the east
And I can stand and look outside
And watch the world,
So busy and creepy.
It hustles and bustles for this and that,
Runs to and fro and traverses land masses
For things that really don't matter that much.

And as the world hurries,
I stand in my dream,
Perfectly still and slowly blink
And breathe and am
And continue to hover
As a few monks are left
To conjure me.
They chant their song,
A beautiful ommmmmmmmm,
And my heart dances,
But never my feet.

Even the morning lasts without you.
Even the day, like a midnight sun,
Has stopped and paused
Like a picture taken,
Captured forever,
But you are gone.

But you're still here!
Aren't you? Smiling?
Standing on a cliff at the Grand Canyon's wall?
You're still here!
On my refrigerator!
I see you, posing, after dinner,
Ten feet tall.

Who will come and start the record
Over, who will put a quarter on the needle
So it won't skip, or get stuck in
An endless loop forever?
Who will jar me loose
From this nightmare?
Wake me, tell me, "It's alright,"
That you're not with me, anymore?