Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

“I don’t like to brag on it, so keep this on the down low, but I discovered the meaning of life and now I’m sworn by an oath to an invisible body, sorta like a majority, to protect the knowledge from you, which is considered best for you, because you haven’t solved the riddle of your own loneliness yet.” Mindy sat Lotus position, wrists set just above her kneecaps, open palms awaiting alms. “But we like you, so we’re practicing patience and exerting hopefulness, sort of like an effort of will but without trying.” When Mindy smiled her face relaxed and she closed her eyes, focusing on the slow draw of her breath, before she exhaled abruptly in short, snorting whiffs, and she rolled, mimicking the manner and posture a bloodhound, sorta like downward dog, seeking luckier than good, survivors.

“You will never catch me doing that.” Walter shook his head with a slight smile as he followed her ass with his eyes, “But don’t stop on my account. I can honestly say what you are doing seems like it’s helping me… perk up a little.”

Advertisement

How the Battle of the Sexes Was Won

Tomica resented doubters
as much as bible thumpers
way her mama anointed her boobies
before buying her a training bra

now how you like that
in my gorilla mask 
I get to be Tom Sawyer 
and make you want to 
white wash my fence

Tomica shimmied with her bravado

I'm a shoe-shine foot soldier, 
my brother,
you acting 
all quiet on the western front

why, I can dig those ditches
and trench
 for half the pay 
and twice as fast
if you're willing 
to shake hands 
and bet on it

go ahead now and hunker
 down in them fox holes
like you're sizing up for your coffin

act like you ain't fooling 

dream in lists

I'll mend the hole in your bucket
as soon as we can lay
this to rest, 
and in peace

As nectar in the sieve
your widow assured to grieve
the day she met 
unforgettable you
she danced
on your grave, and the devil gave up 
his shovel

I swear by it.





Your Scenic Vista

Now wait just a minute, you said, there were all of these People. Different points would come, not to know you. They’d remain lost, uncertain of where to find your context, unfamiliar with almost every reference dropped, direct or un, distorted by layers of pop culture, appropriated, outsourced, and printed on coffee mugs, those thick beer tumblers, funny underwear, words next to smiling turds and cacti that look like dicks that belong to pricks, even if they wanted to, when they felt desperate, but most of all they wanted to be discovered, and not so much by you, they wanted to be validated; to be the validation thru vindictive and self admiring favoritism. And so you sat there with your fingers above the keys, listening to the floes of ice crack, and the trickling made you feel a faint tugging, and so called to nature, you stood at the precipice, pissing into the wind, while shooting for the abyss and the world was golden.

Sculpted

Rodin relied upon his secretary, heavy as David was stone cold, all of his sling shots and pelts hanging on him like leather and fur testicles, wine drunken and funneling from a skin bottle, tight as a drum so he punched him. His secretary landed hard, on his chin, managing to save his teeth, but not the top of his bottom lip that cushioned the blow of his front row which sunk more than bit and when he sat up to spit, he wobbled. “Now look at my tits!” Rodin bossed his secretary, “When you take my dictation, inside your shorthand, I don’t want you to think of my mouth.”

Drunk with Grace

He would be Full 
of Him self (again)
Losing His
Truth (in drunkenness)
Again, recovering under the guise of Grace

The mask of His father was an ill fit 
for Him 
same as His boots, would never be 
worn out from marching
or working very long, along side
His peer-group 
of sheep

He believed 
as a black sheep
but He was Not 
believed

When He swore
He was going 
Mad 
He blamed His father's pain
and admired His mother's Grace
the way One admires resilience in prison
and he loathed Her especially 
on Christmas
Where she took
the occasion to perform 
Jailhouse Rock, wooden spoon in hand
lip synching to Elvis Presley 
between serving-up and Doing 
the Mashed Potato...

Egging her boys on
with a platter 
of  paprika freckled, deviled-eggs

His father Spiked 
the eggnog...
More 
...Sentimental than loving
and Leaning over, Gave 
Him a nudge 
and a wink, He Whispered 
slurring loud enough
for the whole family 
to hear
What He had
Decided
long ago, That He was the softest
of His three sons, Being Married 
to a social tongue wagger
who was so Quarrelsome in bed
She shared it 
with a stray cat and an untrained dog 
Wedged between them
Which could only mean 
One thing...

This would help Him 
when He needed 
support
So drink Up, My boy
Drink Up.

The Price of Airfare

Overhead Baggage (Carrion Luggage)

His songs used to be filled with elbow rests 
and white knuckling
 and not enough Jack to tune out Cracklin’ Rosie 
which he swore made his ears bleed; 
and he’d sit there bleeding in his window seat, 
not wanting.

He felt full of holes and sensitive to any comments; 
every comment made about the condition of his clothes, 
or the way he carried moths around with him, 
proving to His self 
he was the flame if not the utilitarian wool 
that attracted them. 

He had a woman that told him how he keeps 
an extra set of hands 
close to his mouth; 
and what he calls tusks 
are really just the arms he pulled off a baby-doll. 

He liked that about his woman, 
the way she cussed at him in private 
so he could sing about her in public 

and he told everybody 
they don’t have to respect how 
she takes her glasses off 
so she never looks at them directly, 
they just needed to accept it.

When a stewardess asked him if he’d like a pillow, 
he stopped jiggling his knee under the seat-tray.
 
He ordered another jigger, 
no ice, 
and told her, 
he can’t sleep up in the air, 
or most nights, 

and that sometimes he thinks he can fly 
like a car lighter left in a parking lot, 
sparking on oil and paper and pigeons; 

something always sets him off 
and then he changes the subject. 

Maybe he’d write a song about her 
if she told him her name. . .
even though he could barely look her in the eye.

He confided to his stewardess, 
how people either saw him as a shipwreck 
or a monster, 
some giant octopus masking and camouflaging, 
while he hunted, 
appearing suddenly to spill his ink 
enfolding 
bow to stern.  

He lamented 
how they never did consider 
that he might actually be the ocean itself, 
all the sneaker waves 
and riptides, 
the whirlpools 
and tsunamis, 
swallowing the shore, 
and joining 
with fresh water rivers 
that inherently take the paths of least resistance 
by filling up every crevice 
and flowing on. 

There were only ever a few sirens that got to him, 
he admitted, 
but he’d never remember them in the morning. 

He peeked up to glimpse her reaction 
from behind the drink cart 
and his stewardess quickly pointed 
to all 
of the emergency exits.

🥃  ✈️ 💥

(written in memory of JM and Summer, 
The first printing of the poem,
"The Price of Airfare, 
(Overhead Baggage; Carrion Luggage)" 
was featured on BitterSweetPlace,
 a fleeting He(art) Gallery in January 2021. 
The 2nd printing, edited edition was featured
 by The Mysterious Case of Déjà Vu
(Traveling Poets Gallery) in January of 2022.  
This is the 3rd printing, 2nd edit edition, 
All Rights Reserved ©2023)
“Big Jet Plane” (feat. Dabin) · Daniela Andrade Covers, Vol. 1 ℗ 2013 Crooked Lid Records, Provided to YouTube by TuneCore.
Lyrics:
She said, hello mister
Pleased to meet you
I wanna hold her
I wanna kiss her
She smelled of daisies
She smelled of daisies
She drives me crazy
She drives me crazy
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Be my lover
My lady river
Can I take ya
Take ya higher
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Gonna hold ya,
Gonna kiss ya in my arms
Gonna take ya,
Away from harm
Gonna hold ya,
Gonna kiss ya in my arms
Gonna take ya,
Away from Home
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Gonna take her for a ride on a big jet plane
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Hey, hey
Hey, hey

Songwriters: Angus Stone / Julia Stone
Big Jet Plane lyrics © Sony/atv Music Publishing (australia) Pty Lim

(❤︎Special thanks to The Mysterious Case of Déjà Vu and Kevin Lord for selecting, featuring and sharing the cover song in 2022 with the poem. Point of order regarding the line: “She smelled of daisies” in the song; Daisies STINK. They are resilient, long lasting flowers and so look “fresh” but there has never been a daisy that didn’t stink. Reminder: Roses on the other hand, remain sweet as ever… ❤︎)

Will and Testament (no. five) poem: The Wind Sock

"It wasn't for the love of tennis that we explored His 
footnotes" Sandy introduced Oscar this way, "It was 
rather a cruel joke." 

"As I can attest." Oscar flashed a smile of utterly 
flattered approval.  "Do please go on."

Sandy, never one to wait for permission, stepped on 
his last word, conjoining it to her twin speak at 
once.  She said, "He dragged us through the details 
of his murder and not just the events that led up to 
the way he hung Him self, but every single clipped 
toenail."

Oscar shuddered.  "It was positively grisly."

"I believe He wanted us to know... He tried to love
 us." Pernille interjected gently.

Oscar laughed in his amused manner.  "Alas, My angel, 
how you always see the good in men."

Sandy was paused to observe Pernille blush and 
glance down under Oscar's not insensitive, 
confident stare.

"It is but a reflection of your love, kind Pernille, 
lovely sweet Pea, that such a compliment 
bestowed upon such a fool, could ever be 
imagined true.  Ah, but you are the very 
essence of Hope herself, that last shard 
of beauty, left in the box... and even as the 
key has been thrown into the abyss, you 
would remain open, every secret airing upon 
the wind... how you would set a man free..." 

Pernille gasped and clutched her pearls.

Sandy spanked Oscars icy hand away from 
Pernille's knee.  Pernille shivered and pulled 
at her hem.  

Oscar laughed, his manner more amused than ever.

 "We could never quite picture it though."  Sandy 
continued, "The way his wife discovered Him.
The way He left her to clean up after Him, for 
the last time..."

"I believe it was Grand Pa Pa that might say, 
"He died the way He lived." Pernille perked up.

"Indeed He was a messy boy." Oscar championed 
Pernille's meek contribution.

"He was a cocktail." Sandy put it bluntly, "Which is 
not only the Right Combination, but a bomb. He 
bombed Him self.  He died Not just, Nor justly 
Hung; He died bombed."

"To die as Absurd as Absurd would have Him." 
Oscar moved his hands in a gesture of putting 
the frosting on a cake. "To Be or Not to Be... That! 
Is The Infinite Jest."

"He'd grown weary of carrying Pigeon code, over 
the grid, fairground to truck stop to titty bar
and started to believe in killing the messenger."  
Sandy explained, "He'd been alarmed by the
narcotics cops that chased Him after curfew... Up 
and down the alleyways, His bare feet sliced 
on the jagged-mouthed tuna cans, He scattered the
 chorus of fish-reeking toms... Barreling into 
the trashcans, to lie..." 

"Got the wind knocked out of Him!"  Pernille startled. 

"After all he was a windbag."  Oscar encouraged 
Pernille teasingly.

Pernille pouted much to the admiration of Oscar who 
found her to be complete, if not adorable.

 "He was unafraid to make men into a monkeys and 
bound to Inherit the Wind."  Sandy divulged, "He was
an atheist, crossed his heart for show and sworn to 
die for the same, as well as a borderline..."

"Genius?!" Pernille shouted the possibility and 
practically jumped out of her seat.

"How very casually the modern reader throws
 that word around."  Oscar chided Pernille as if 
she were more than the child she already was.

Pernille pouted much to the admiration of Oscar who 
found her to be complete, if not adorable.

Mr. Badger’s Funeral

Oh... it's you. Why hello there Mr. Badger.  What was that?  I'm Invited...
to Where?  Oh... to your Rave... 
Well, now I do enjoy dub-step once in a blue moon...
What?  Not a Rave?
Oh!  You said your Grave?! 
Wait a minute, 
WHAT?
I'm invited to your Grave?!
Oh... I see... everyone is invited... The more the merrier...
Not the more the merrier?  
Ooooh, you're hoping at least one person you invited shows up... 
to BURY you... 
Certainly if you have sent out one thousand invitations, some
One will 
bring a shovel...
Yes... yes...
Well, now I don't know... 
Are you dead, Mr. Badger?  
Uh, huh... uh, huh...You already feel buried alive... 
But you want to make it official...
Wow.  I'm... at a loss...
for words...
 Did you want me to say a few words? 
Like, were you wanting a eulogy?  
I mean, 
I hardly know you... 
Mr. Badger, do I remember 
that night you went Tiger?  Well, now... let me see... 
I guess
You were always considered to be
in a family 
of agitated hot heads, 
If that's what you Mean? 
Now, wait just a minute!  
You don't have to bite my head off... 
Oh, That's not what you said?
You're not the head? 
Oh right, right... of your family... 
But you're burning bright? 
So... what? You want me to recite... 
William Blake?
Oh... you said your whiskey intake
had you flying high as a kite...
wrapped around a telephone wire...
and caught on fire!  
Just like your dearly departed father...
Oh... not dearly?
You say he had T.B.? 
And that it was a tragedy... 
How cold was he... His temperature dropped
He was dank
when he drank
but he would not stop
and now you've got the rot?
Indeed... Indeed... I do see, your eyes look cowardly
yellow, I do believe
that's jaundice...
You want what?  Carrot Juice?
Oh... you said...
Do I remember 
when you went 
Parrot
after all of the Abuse...
You refused... 
to stop 
Badgering...
Because you were sad
about your Dad
so you hate 
His ghost 
the most
for haunting you...
into this Channel... You are channeling... His... 
Wait what?  To whom am I speaking?
Mr. Badger? 
Senior?
And you're inviting me to the Grave
for your son?
So you won't be the only one? 
You need some one to shove his body
and some one to shovel
him over... so he won't get any older?
Well... Don't the two of you have some unresolved business?
I'm certain I can 
attest
as I have 
witnessed...
Why Yes!  
R.S.V.P.
R.I.P.
Count me in!
I'd be more than happy
If the Badgers
Met
The End.









Rain, Rain Go Away; Come Back On Another Day

I saw that you were weak, 
my love

You jumped into that puddle
on purpose, remembering 
yourself a child
to splash in a reign 
made of your own worship
not knowing 
anything
but worship
after rainfall, and everything 

is sparkling

And fresh
even the rainbows 
mixing oily water under parked cars
becomes Holy

You are marveling 

The world is trickling
down
drip by drip...

You open your mouth wide 
to cloudy sky,
a yellow chick
ignorant of drowning
from thirst

You would be cooped

The hens can't teach you
they can only peck
you to death

The rooster can't teach you
he can only crow
for the son

The farmers can't teach you
they want to breed you 
then eat you

You puddle-jump
one 
after 
the other

Splashing.