Catnip

There's wispy clouds

morphing slowly into

some other shape--

some other beingness

right before your eyes.

Not like your life, which

does it behind your back.

The birds are doing strictly bird

things, they don't give a crap

about you and me, unless its to splat

some on top your head

And off the top of my head

I'm rehearsing what I might say to you

tonight, if you ask about her, and why

it all turned to shit so quickly, and

I'll just say that she was the

prima donna type, and me,

just a casual guy who doesn't sweat

the small stuff--and I think it was

'cause I didn't bow down to

her, or even curtsy, somewhere

along the way. Not really knowing,

but banking that you won't be

the same, but hey...

Sitting on the porch, I spot

the feral cat who lives underneath

the house, heading off on his mid-afternoon

hunting expedition. And when I think about

moving from here, I think about

where would he go in this

stark coyote land?
There's a bowl of water that I set out.
Never food.

He's lean, but he's a survivor,

and I'd never want to turn
a wild thing into something less.

And I glance up at those birds on a wire--

heads down in a heartbeat--

and off to who knows where,

'cept that it's someplace else, as

I languish here, dreaming of

Adriatic whores, and some way to

attain that kind of altitude.

HANDFUL OF DUST

2012-01-17T18:41:00.001-07:00

She often spoke in rhyme or verse.

A strong semi-classical face.

Decked out in shocking pink.

And who needs a bra?

Her mother was a sorceress.

She had the power to move

objects with her mind.

Compellingly strange.

An ambiguous mystery

wavering between good and evil.

Rising early on Saturday

mornings to watch cartoons.

Getting an enema laced with hallucinogens.

She has the power to

turn men into murderous zombies.

Sailing into treacherous waters.

Storm clouds on the horizon.

You must make her stay.

Faced with the ghosts of

the past, your summer love

will fade like a press-on tattoo.

Mounting a furious campaign

to find a new love by Halloween.

Taking a transatlantic cruise

to France. Then, in the rain forest

somewhere near the Indian Ocean--

bees and wasps and flies.

Calls of a thousand strange creatures.

Back in the sunny land

you practice the changing of

reality-- like a film with an

alternate ending.

It is going to be a night to remember.

The scent of sandalwood

from an open doorway.

Background music.

The thrum of guitars.

Crimson And clover

over and over.

The sun sets in her amber eyes.

The ink black night.

A veil of white.

The sound of rain...

sharp, like the pangs of regret.

A handful of dust.

Tambourines.

MLK DAY!

2012-01-15T14:00:00.001-07:00

MLK DAY--I love this video!

PERSONHOOD

2012-01-06T08:40:00.002-07:00

it's so strange to be a

PERSON...

to suddenly zzzzzzip back
from the nightly sojourn
to awaken and
allow it to dawn
that you're back to feeding this drama
the trauma
of CHOOSE at every turn
no way to win with those kinds of odds
so go ahead and make
mistake number three
cuz you're really just here to
accumulate karma
now what kind of dharma is that?

Goin' apeshit batshit ratshit

at the prospect of writing the next line
knowing it signifies nothing
but still gives you something
to read
as you sip your Corona
on the beach at Pomona

that tenuous hold
on all of your gold
to stand there and stare
pretending to care
playing the game
just for shits and grins
knowing nobody wins

banking on Nietzsche being full of it
with his eternal recurrence
(like all philosophers, he was in his head way too much)
yet considering the possibility
ruminating
if all of the highs
(of which there were many)
would be worth all the lows
(of which there were plenty)
to come back, Jack
and do it again
making your grand re-entrance
with a HEY BEETCHES...WHASSUP?
but if you really gonna heed that guy
then you know ya gotta try
to make every day
the best it can be, though

kinda hard when you're walking through the woods
in the dead of winter
and having to whiz
and discovering that you've put
your long johns on backwards
with an opening in the front
but none in the rear
which is now reversed...

OH DEAR!

And it's so strange to be a person
fresh from the slide
off a magic carpet ride
feeling trapped here inside
once again

now you've been zipped
your wings have been clipped
you soul has been stripped

to fit inside this box

so strange to be a person
this creature
this thing
fiddling with your ding-a-ling
hoping it will bring
some solace from it all

and it's so strange to be a
person
when you've seen beyond the pale
when you've poked through the crack
in the cosmic egg
grasping at last
that it's no longer a matter of
when will you leave
but of how much longer
will you keep coming back

SWIFT AND DETERMINED (inspired upon observing a local TV news person striding through the mall)

2012-01-03T15:42:00.003-07:00

Funny Bunny Fridays

d'verse Poets Pub

Hi, it's ME...the girl who does the local news on TV. Yes, and I'm BEAUTIFUL! Well, you can see that, you pitiful peon! No ugly girls on television, you know. I see you gawking when I pass by but...don't look at me! Well, I mean...just LOOK at me, dummy!

Life is grand when you're byootiful! I walk through the mall in a swift and determined way. As if to say GANGWAY PEASANTS--my heels pounding the tiles. And what does it feel like, you pathetic piece of poo that's stuck to the bottom of my shoe? Don't try to stop me! Well, yes---STOP ME, if it's copious praise you'll be heaping.

'Cause there's no ugly girls on TV. Okay, well, there's that UGLY BETTY show. Geez, what's up with that? Oh yeah, and there's Martha, my colleague. Not nearly as FABULOUS as me! She's a MINORITY--and you know how that works. Still, she PLOWS through the mall in a swift and determined way, thinking she's hot poop just because she's on TV! What a stupid thing to think. But not if you're BAYOOTIFULL! Now, kowtow to me, you scum!

When he hired me, my boss said there's no CASTING COUCH. But I did him anyway, just to cement our relationship. Cement...that stuff that starts out soft and then gets hard...tee hee! Never a dull moment.

Oh yeah, I had a STALKER once. Calling me at all hours of the night. Breathing real heavy into the phone and making these weird chicken noises. And peeking into my windows. Well, I can't really blame him for that. Like, who WOULDN'T if they got the chance? It puzzled me for a long time. Then I got this BRILLIANT idea to look at my caller ID display when the guy was on the phone. Sure enough, there was his number! Turns out it was my little brother's best friend. That knucklehead! I told him I might give him a good spanking if he didn't watch out, but he just looked at me with this weird grin on his face.

Now, I want to say something about the way we look on TV. Some people think just because I have this BLANK STARE on my face when I'm doing the news, that I'm stupid or something. But when we read these stories about homeless people getting squished in trash compactors and stuff, my boss doesn't want us to show any emotion. That's because EMOTION could be, like, expressing an OPINION with your face. And some people might get OFFENDED if we did that. Then, if they tune out, our ratings would go down.

I know in another ten years they'll be booting me out on my butt--replaced by someone who's younger and (don't want to say it) more BYOOOOTIFUL. But before they can do that, I'll get knocked up and go on maternity leave. Hey, last year the weekend anchor filled in for Jennifer for like, SIX MONTHS. And she wasn't even preggers! She brought these pictures of her SISTER'S baby into work and showed them around. Yeah, we ain't dumb, ya know. No, were...BAAAAYOOOOOTIFULLLLL...you pathetic excuse for a cockroach.

Hey, it's not all a bed of roses. There's hair and makeup right before the show. And having to learn those big words like Ahmadina...uh...Amajina...uh...oh FORGET IT, panther poop! I'm not paid to be SARAH PALIN (she's smart!) I'm paid to be FABULOUS. It's in the contract. Anyway, it's time to go parading through the malls again...

So BOW DOWN to me, you slugs!

ADORE ME, pig lickers!

WORSHIP ME, maggots!

Oh CRAP...look at that...I just broke another nail.

2012-01-01T12:04:00.003-07:00

Shadow Shot Sunday

IT ALWAYS COMES BACK

2011-12-26T07:35:00.003-07:00

d'Verse poets Pub

And we talked about time

and how we sometimes wish

we could get past the unmomentous moment

but that's just willing ourselves

one step closer to death

but we never see it that way

we just want to be nearer to that

which makes us feel more alive

And Time

you smirking sack of shit

I study your face as you perform

your sleight of hands

and when the big one's on twelve

and the little one's on eight

I've come full circle again

heading out the door in a groundhog daze

and all this picture needs

is Sonny and Cher

singing "I Got You Babe"

And the hands of time keep circling

like vultures around
my fledgling schemes

but time is well spent

when one's well spent

and I try to think of what

I'm supposed to be thinking

but it always comes back to you

and every song on the radio

has already read my mind

this much I know is true

you make me feel brand new

I say a little prayer for you...

And Time

you old gypsy man

just once I'd like to land

a swift kick to your cojones

as a token of appreciation

for dragging me down

this one way street

And I think I know what it is...

it's this feeling of being alive

that's so heady and bittersweet

Spinning into a moment

that spits in Time's face

like a fortune cookie that reads:

You are living in an eternity...

the time to be happy is now

2011-12-17T08:46:00.005-07:00

Photo by Timoteo Poetry Picnic

WHEN YOU GET RIGHT DOWN TO IT

2011-12-08T09:34:00.020-07:00

Funny Bunny Fridays

All right

NATURE LOVERS--

Let's talk about the NATURAL man

When you get right down to it...

It is UNNATURAL to

trim one's hair

It is unnatural to

shave one's beard

Or to shave one's legs

(and I knew plenty of women in the 70's

who were fully cognizant of this!)

When you get right down to it...

It is unnatural to

get a bikini wax

Or to allow someone

to unceremoniously rip off

the hair

that is naturally growing

on one's back

with that sticky tape...

AAAAAGGGHHHH...son-of-a-BITCH !

When you get right down to it...

Were we to opt for the completely

NATURAL LOOK

we would all

(eventually)

be the spitting image of BIGFOOT

Just like the aggressive

chest-thumping

barely evolved past apehood

species that we are...

And wouldn't the Victoria's Secret fashion show look funny then?

POOP SOUP

2011-12-05T12:40:00.006-07:00

ONE

I see...

a home

where the buffalo roam

no more

I see...

a land stained

by the blood

of conquest

I see...

a gypsy palm reader

spitting on your hand--

you spit in her face

I see...

you at the theatre

with your head buried

in your iPhone

for most of the movie

but anyone can see

it's really up your butt

I see...

you incurring substantial debt

for the purchase of material items

that the recipient will neither welcome

nor appreciate

and that is called The Holidays

I see...

You being trampled to death

at a large department store

on Black Friday

TWO

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...

I wore white after Labor Day

it was kind of an off-white

so I thought it might be alright

no one in my ghetto

seemed to care

Such pretense

when our prehensile tails

are not that far removed

clackety-clack

don't look back

And now Ladies and gentlewomen

here to sing a medley of his most DEPRESSING hits,

the ever maudlin... JOSH GROBAN!

(song playing)

Announcer: We interrupt this song to bring you a news flash...a young woman, listening to our station, has just jumped off her 16th story balcony!

happy

sad

happy

sad

happy happy

sad sad

happyhappyhappy

sadsadsad

the world is bi-polar

(That's north and south, for you geography majors!)

hum dee dum

ya lousy bum

1st man: Hello, my name is Fu Chow.

2nd man: Pleased to meet you. My name is Egg Foo Yong.

1st man: Yes, I have heard of you...people say that you are a good Egg.

And now, the new craze that's sweeping the nation...SAINT VITUS DANCE!

Round and around

and around and around

and around we go

Take your anti-depressants,

America,

but don't forget the increased

risk of suicide...

EXCUSE ME

but hasn't anyone noticed

that's the exact OPPOSITE

of the intended effect?

Looking for the quick fix

has put us in quite a fix

(Spit on the drug addict

while deluding yourself

that your chain smoking

isn't the exact same thing)

You're listening to Radio KSUK...all Josh Groban--ALL the time...that's right, America, we're JOSHING you 24 hours a day!

(song playing)

We interrupt this song to bring you a special news bulletin...no basketball players were charged with killing any hookers today...

And you wonder why

you have A.D.D.

America,

when there's a commercial

break

every five minutes

Capitalism could have worked

were it not for the

inherent

incessant

need for MORE MORE MORE

built into the human psyche

So go ahead and anoint

your sports teams

as WORLD champions

when no outside teams participated...

You will always be the Earth

that the sun revolves around

until it draws close enough

to consume you in its fire

THIS MIND LEFT INTENTIONALLY BLANK

IN MEMORIAM

2011-11-27T15:18:00.015-07:00

Everything starts here

in my composition book

just like the ones I never used

for school work

too busy scribbling my subversive poetry

in study hall

a nasty little parody of Beowulf

or The Night Before Christmas

a drunken Santa staggering around

busting up the furniture

always thought drunks were funny

still do

art imitating life

I guess

I was past the days when dad

barely able to stand

took the car out one New Years Eve

and wrecked it

injuring some innocent family members

in the other vehicle

then

somehow getting a ride back home

and taking our other car out

and wrecking it on the same night

the guy was a gas

one day I said this is such B.S.

this idea of school as a full time job

and I vowed to stop taking homework

completely

and made good on it

my last two years of high school

nobody cared

the funniest thing was

they let me graduate

dear old mom and her Second Big Mistake

would be at the beer joints all night

I'd stay up alone on Saturdays

in that isolated farmhouse

watching Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi on late night TV

I wanted to walk like an Egyptian

I could always count on them

to come home fighting

ripping the phone out of the wall

and busting up some furniture

so comical

I'd pass my nasty rhymes around in class

Teach would be up there with his blah blah

my poem circulating up and down

each row of desks

even the girls snickering

and passing it on

and Teach

protector of impressionable minds

intercepting the paper

beginning to read

beginning to laugh out loud

catching himself

face turning red

going on a diatribe about how such trash

was the product of a sick mind

but it was too late

I'd already caught him

in the act

and gool ol' Mom lying there

in a pile of chicken feathers

from a ripped up pillow

and ol' Doc from town would come out

and patch her up

discreetly

it was a small town

and Doc's young daughter

prettiest girl in my Junior High class

asked me out one time

to a roller skating party

it occurred to me much later

that he must have put the kabosh

on that from ever happening again

with the likes of me

and Santa cursed

and flipped them all the finger

as he rode out of sight

after busting up some furniture

of course

always thought drunks were funny

still do

but only funny

if they're funny

and not morose

more points if he's staggering around

with a lampshade on his head

every comic knows

that comedy comes from pain

so please don't stand there

with that look of disdain

and try to change me now

SAY HIS NAME

2011-11-22T11:08:00.011-07:00

He is heading out

for open road,

his big rig humming.

Thanksgiving morning.

The day is crisp and clear.

He will eat his holiday dinner

at some truck stop,

where his banter with the waitress--

a kindred spirit--

will be about keeping the world running

while the rest of 'em

spend the day gettin' fat and happy.

In a while,

he will put in a call to Janie and the kids.

They'll be over at mom's today.

In their pre-meal prayer,

they will say his name.

And yes, he is thankful.

Hell...lucky to have a job at all

the way things are going.

The road snakes on to somewhere

anywhere

nowhere.

And the holiday travelers

blow past him,

just another obstacle

in the way

on the way

to their overindulgence.

He remembers how,

in the beginning,

he thought this would be

a romantic kind of life.

But as he looks out now,

across the endless expanse,

he is struck by the thought

that it's kinda like

gazing at the moon

in daylight.

THE DAY AFTER YESTERDAY

2011-11-17T13:40:00.017-07:00

How now

brown cow

I want to live

in the NOW.

Yes

I'll live for the moment

that's what I'll do

and blind myself

to all the rest

like Mister Magoo.

Hey, that was a good one...

it just went by so fast

it eluded my grasp.

WHOOSH--there's another!

and another

Now I'm spinning round

snatching wildly at nothing.

HEY-- c'mere ya li'l sumbitches!

How can I know

what living in the moment is like

when the moment is passing me by

in the blink of an eye?

That's an enigma

wrapped in a riddle

topped with a sigh.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow

all vying for space inside my brain

it's driving me insane

and that is truly a pain

the

ASS.

Don't mean to be crass...

but it's making me crazy

think I'll just have to pass

and not think about it anymore.

Yeah, that's the ticket!

I just won't THINK

about it anymore.

I'll just stay quiet

and close my eyes

and get into the lotus position...

Damn!

Gonna have to master

that lotus position

one day...

Well

no time

like the PRESENT...

heh heh

OHM...OHM...

CHRISTOPHER STARDUST

2011-11-13T14:44:00.009-07:00

You gambled on a sure thing and your losses were incalculable. So you hit the road (after being tossed from a speeding pickup truck).

While hitch hiking, you meet up with an old southern gentleman who is offended by the stars in your eyes and the stripes along the highway. He says, "I SPIT on you, suh!"

"No ya don't," you cry, keeping on the move, bobbing and weaving, increasing the tempo until he runs out of saliva.

You shag a ride with a woman in a Jaguar convertible. She parks along a dirt road and her top comes down. You desperately want to get her home to play a game of Scruples, knowing that she has none.

You say you can never be bought, but she purchases you outright. And though there was a price on your head, she says it can be easily removed with a little soap and water.

Her career is in high gear, so she leaves you at home to play Mister Mom. She sends you a text that says: BANG THE DRUM. BURP THE BRAT. BE SURE THE DOGS ARE BATHED AND PROPERLY TUCKED INTO BED. (It is public knowledge that she has a rash in a private place, but since it's always dark when she gets home, you're the last one to know.)

You become a transvestite, fashioning your own dresses from the burlap bags you buy with your meager allowance. You wear glitter in your hair and call yourself Christopher Stardust.

The newspaper does a human interest story on you. You get your own cable TV show, doing psychic readings for house pets from the way they bark, mew, or snort into the telephone. You tell a cat that its last escape from death was just by a whisker.

You parley your knowledge of animals and your smooth bedside manner into a successful phone sex business for those who are into bestiality. (You imitate all those beastly noises yourself.)

You take all your profits and hit the casino again, intent upon making that one big score.

You put it all on black.

It comes up red.

You borrow money from a guy named Bruno. You don't lose your shirt...you lose your bra, your wig, and your garter belt. They take you back to the highway where they toss you from an even faster moving truck.

Ever the hardheaded one, you gather yourself up and stagger down the road. Glitter falls from your hair and gets stuck in your navel. You look up at the sky and see a shooting star burning itself out. Your woman drives by in her Ford Fiesta.

This time, she doesn't stop.

STARS ON WATER

2011-11-02T09:45:00.014-07:00

We are lost in the darkness.

The autumn constellations

Like the sparkle of snow.

Dreaming.

Drifting.

Like milk wagons from a bygone era

On nightbound roads

Moving ceaselessly in search

Of a vanished dawn.

The sleeping forest

Crisp and cold.

A jewel in the moonlight.

Night planes.

Spiraling stars.

Whispering pines.

Deer snorting in the underbrush

Like whores eating chop suey.

Our campfire

Like the summer

Fades to glowing embers.

The Great Comer

Spills his seminal shower of stars.

The great nebula of Andromeda.

We need only believe in mysteries.

Eternity so vague

Yet so fleeting.

Springs and autumns flash by

slipping wordlessly away.

And we

Like stars on water

Drifting seaward

In the awe-filled silence.

MEMO TO MYSELF

2011-10-31T10:02:00.007-07:00

The day doesn't care

what you're doing.

The sun will still

make its arc...

the quail will still

scamper across the yard

in the morning...

and all the nasty little children

will pile off the bus

in the afternoon

screaming epithets

that once were the purview of sailors.

You can lie there

on your dead butt

or you can do something heroic...

but you won't do anything heroic

lying on your dead butt.

The day doesn't care

what you're doing...

it will pass you by

without a moment's regret.

It's all up to you.

RISE OF THE FALL

2011-10-21T11:42:00.016-07:00

St.George and the Dragon--by Gustave Moreau.

Night descends

like a straight razor in a morgue...

The cutting edge of the

moon illuminates a blood-spattered

canvas, as art imitates death.

From the tenements there comes a wail--

siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots

in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but

you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.

In the night I sense that he

is soaring over the city

with his searchlight and his megaphone.

Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.

Brownshirt in a black sky.

He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.

He has come to inspect my paintings.

I tell him that once viewed they

are no longer mine, but belong to the world,

like Saint George and the Dragon.

Pretending to be a Brahman with

high-falutin' ways, his tail switches

like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.

His lips curl into a sardonic smile.

Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth

as he contemplates his next tactical move.

When I escape, the sky

is on fire in my rear-view mirror.

Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.

Is Paris Burning?

Quick, try to remember the year you were born...

and were you in love with Anastasia after all?

Across town it is ladies night at

the poolroom, where Miss Manners

is learning to let down her hair

as she falls off the chair,

lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--

the foam on her lips like white caps

on a sea of unspoken desire.

Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...

Unhand that rainbow, you cad,

and let me color my world like

a purple-assed baboon

walking backwards on the moon!

The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.

While I sit lonely

by a fountain

where naked cherubs

are pissing away my dreams,

knowing that collaborationists

stalk their own shadows

while pigeons goose-step

through the square--

but none can tell you whether ghosts

sit up and listen to the footsteps

that echo through an empty museum.

Now, the edges of the world begin

to blur, like a painting by Monet.

I must draw my own conclusions.

And I am running...

RUNNING...

ducking down blind alleys

searching for the truth

that will open my eyes.

ATTACHMENTS

2011-10-13T16:40:00.019-07:00

d'Verse Poetry Pub

Not the kind that come

with your sewing machine

or your vacuum cleaner

but the ones that keep us coming

back to this dubious place

for another merry chase...

love

hate

money

sex

power

food

fame

shame

the love of the game

gambling

rambling

murder

(like a cattle herder)

booze

dope

greed

people

iPads

(EGADS!)

words

perversion

any old diversion

Hypnotized like sleepwalkers

we follow our nose

see how it goes

take off our clothes

any way the wind blows

gleefully ignoring the spectre of karma

So simple

the way Wernher Von Braun put it

For every action

there is an equal but opposite

reaction

Don't need to be a rocket scientist

to get that one

You don't learn to share

what the hell do you care

but you think you're immune

let's go to the ball

and pretend that midnight's pumpkin

isn't waiting down the hall

the unmitigated balls

to think you'll get away with it scot free

now you're hanging from a tree

If the definition of insanity

is doing the same shit repeatedly

while expecting a different outcome

(I'm as guilty of that as any

not like the few

just like the many)

then we are all crazy

to be coming back here and thinking

THIS time

it will be a cakewalk

You know

Fonzie

duality guarantees

that there will always be

heartache

along with happy daze

the more we cling and grasp

the more our grasp is exceeded

Taken away

taken away

To the land of Nevermore

So quick

find a replacement

a sub

a stand-in

a hero coming off the bench

to save the day

isn't that the way

it's always going to go

until finally

at long last

(have you no shame)

we get tired of this game?

VISIBLE AFTER BLOG OWNER APPROVAL

2011-10-06T10:35:00.008-07:00

So is it that you are afraid

I might use your comments section

like the wall

of a public restroom stall?

Hell...y'all should be so lucky.

Some of the best wit

I ever saw

appeared in that little cubicle

where minions sat

and shat

and posted their witticisms

in that minimalist style

so reminiscent of Hemingway

or Raymond Carver

for all succeeding thinkers

and stinkers

to ponder and reflect upon--

next to the phone number

of some girl

who would show you a good time.

I never called

though I was tempted.

And who could ever forget

that timeless classic:

Here I sit

all broken hearted

ran sixteen blocks

and only farted

Those anonymous writers

were carrying forward the legacy

of the prehistoric cave artists--

or less romantic perhaps

they were the forerunners of the taggers.

It was the closest thing to the internet we had--

especially when the crapper

was located inside

an international airport terminal.

So no

I'm not concerned

about offending the laity.

I prefer spontaneity.

So come one

come all

and scribble something

on my wall.

It's only words

(as the Bee Gees once said)

after all.

HIS COY TOY (a modern-day take on Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress.")

2011-09-29T08:10:00.005-07:00

d'Verse Poet's Pub

I'm not interested in the official version

of anything

all sanitized and polite

but lacking any kind of soul

and Nietzsche was right

about one thing

you've spent your whole life

trying to keep your base instincts under control

that's not the way I want to roll

anymore

we'll order moon under glass

a little pinch on the ass

and we're on our way

if there's an inner skank

that's present here

I'll thank

you to acknowledge it

over a beer

would that we could contain our drool

until the third date

then at the crack of the starter's pistol

we'd burst out of the gate

no need to wait

any longer

the requisite number of days having amassed

so you'd feel that you hadn't been cast

in the role of the slut

but that's all a game

such fear of shame

we carry

there's no time to tarry

I know what you're going to say

but hush your mouth

I'm a nomad from the frozen north

poised to explore

your deep south

and yes I've read the official version

that you're not a tart

but I know your heart

wasn't in it

and time is passing by

it's all over in the wink of an eye

would you rather say in the end

you hoarded that

which you had every right to spend?

NEBRASKA BACKROADS

2011-09-21T10:15:00.007-07:00

So I was watching this news show on TV about teenagers and how stupidly mean and cruel they can be to one another, with all the online bullying and that kind of crap that goes on. Suddenly, I flashed back to Elaine. Hadn't thought about her for many a moon. On a whim, I thought I'd try to look her up online. I've had little success trying to find people with ordinary surnames...it's the proverbial needle in the haystack you'll never find unless it pokes you in the butt. But Elaine's last name was unique. I figured there couldn't be more than one of her out there, and I was right. I typed in her name and hit enter. And there it was. A whole extended family photo album from back in the day up to nearly present time had been transferred to the net, with captions identifying who was who. I began to scroll down...

We were both fourteen. Eighth graders in that tiny town. She was sort of cute, and I was attracted to her. One day I found myself walking her home. Somewhere along the way we stopped and engaged in a long, sweet, warm embrace. An innocent, but romantically charged kind of thing to be sure.

Then one night a bunch of us kids were out joyriding, and I ended up in the rear seat of the car as it wended its way along a dark Nebraska back road. Elaine was sandwiched in between me and one of my classmates...I'll call him him Buzz. I was thinking that this might be another opportunity for me and her to get cozy with one another.

And then...

I looked over and Buzz was making out with her. And he was feeling her up.

Everywhere.

And she was letting him.

A myriad of emotions swirled around in my head. I was a bit behind on the learning curve, but it didn't take long to catch up. Elaine was the first "loose" girl that I had encountered at that tender age.

After a few minutes, there was a break in the action and Buzz looked over at me and said, "TAKE OVER."

And Elaine looked at me expectantly.

Now, had we all been ten years older, my response might have drawn some raised eyebrows, and likely some comment about me being a kinky kind of cat. But none of us were that hip at the time. I was nervous. And I think my sense of it was-- at that point--that she was already damaged goods. So I said...

"That's okay...I'd rather just watch."

A couple days later the phone rang and it was for me. Elaine was on the line. Before I could get a word out, she called me a few choice names. Then she said she was calling just to tell me that nobody liked me. In fact, everybody hated me. I was taken aback. Where was all this coming from? (As far as everyone hating me-- that's another story for another time.)

I couldn't believe that someone I was in the clinches with just a few days earlier could turn so hateful and mean. And it's quite likely that she started a one person crusade to turn most of my peers against me. It's taken me till now to grasp that Elaine must have felt rejected by me--in her dissolute sort of way-- in the back seat of the car that night. My first painful experience with a woman scorned.

So I'm scrolling down the family photo album, and there she is. Her high school graduation picture, taken just four years after the last time I ever spoke to her. She was dolled up and decked out, and even cuter looking than I remembered. But if you looked closely at her eyes, they looked sad.

Scrolling further down. There she is, at her sister's wedding. Older and...well...

It's incredible to watch someone you haven't seen since adolescence age before your eyes in a few minutes. And here we are--the new millennium arrived and we partied like it was 1999...and Elaine is a matronly, frumpy looking, somewhat overweight woman who didn't exactly hold her looks. Hey, it happens. I'll never criticize someone on that basis. Oh, and there's her husband. Uh-huh. Suffice it to say she stayed in that same rural area and married one of the local boys. They do look content together in that photo. They look like...well...they deserve each other.

I thought about what her life must have been like. I thought about what my life--alternately crazy, exciting, bizarre, the heights, the bottom, the travel, the glory, the faded glory, the women, the heartache...and, if nothing more, the fodder for writing--had been. There's no way to compare one life to another. In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. I heard that in a song somewhere.

But I will admit to what I felt for a small moment when I had finished looking at that photo album.

It was a feeling of triumph.

JUST ASK

2011-09-15T08:20:00.004-07:00

So here is my card

I hope you'll keep it handy

And when you call my number

Just ask for Love

Don't as for Robert

Don't ask for Bill

Don't ask for Andy

Don't ask for Phil

Don't ask for services

They can't fulfill

When you call my number

Just ask for Love

Don't ask for the doctor

He'll just give you drugs

Get them cheaper on the corner

From your neighborhood thugs

Don't ask for Ms. Anthony

Cuz she's too busy lying

Don't ask for Obama

Cuz he's too busy crying

Don't ask for no truffles

Or them fancy dishes

Don't ask for Osama

Cuz he sleeps with the fishes

Don't ask for Mr. Gibson

Cuz he's been black-listed

Don't ask for Mr. Cheney

He's too sick and twisted

I'll make you squirm

and squeal with delight

the neighbors will hear us

all through the night

So don't ask for Rhonda

Don't ask for Kathleen

Don't ask for Shlomo

Or for Mr. Clean

Don't ask for rainy day people

They only love you when it's raining

Don't ask for the plumber

You know it's too draining

Don't ask for sex tapes

No classy or trashy 'uns

What more do you need

To see of the Kardashians?

Don't ask for Yoda

Don't ask for the Klingons

Don't be that person

My dog wants to pee on

When you call my number

Be ready to get your freak on

I guarantee you

we will fit like a glove

When you call my number

Just ask for LOVE !

HAPPY FOOL

2011-09-09T08:20:00.004-07:00

dVerse Poets Pub

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' it as it comes

day by day

Stock market's in a free-fall

Cops are yelling" Up against the wall!"

London is burning

(not Paris for a change)

yet the world keeps turning

think I'll go out to the mall

Economy teeters on the brink

Ask the man in the street what he think

gas prices are through the roof

think I'll go out and have a drink

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' it as it comes

day by day

TV screamin'

'bout all that's wrong

and here's a new movie 'bout monsters

stay tuned for more doom and gloom

after these words from our sponsors

If you're gonna try to fly

then don your clean underwear

'cause the perverts now wear uniforms

and they'll be touching you "down there"

Folks are easily manipulated

we follow along like ants

one news story

after another

designed to make you crap your pants

Makes some folks wonder

why they should get up in the morning

but all I see

is a new day dawning

Ten years after and people gettin' jittery

'cause Al Qaeda's playing their games

turn it all off

save the aggravation

and your life will be the same

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' life as it comes

day by day

STREETS OF GOLD

2011-09-02T08:20:00.002-07:00

d'Verse Poet's Pub

Through the dark

glassily

in a neighborhood where

loneliness is but a salt

shaker of dreams

in a port of stormy

maggots

leaning toward the light

toward heaven and its

prospects

prospecting for streets

of gold

to its holiest depths

when what is hell

is growing old

kicked to the curb

out in some suburb

of grease and candlelight

making the best of

one's shittiest days

where you wear

your scars on the inside

for all to see as something

that seems to be something

else

that seems to be something

else

that may not be what you think it

are you mental

too sentimental

it's elemental

to the essential meaning

of nothing

take the train to nowhere

where thinking invites pain

visions of a country lane

two sides of the same

coin

in a Buddhist trance

and I just want to see you

without any pants

and we can prance

into a frenzied night

from here to eternity

if you'll only

Be My Baby

be my baby now--a oww

oh whoah oh oh oh...

DE FIRST THING YOU MUST LEARN

2011-08-26T09:49:00.019-07:00

You go to de sink

and de cat, he is in de sink

an' he look up at you

wit dat look

an' you know he want a drink

so you turn on de faucet

and de cat, he start to drink

den de telephone ring an'

you go to answer it--

meanwhile de cat,

he has drunked his fill

an' he hop down from de sink...

he don't turn off de faucet,

an' he don't come by to tell

you dat he be done wit his drink...

instead he go to de box an' scratch around

an' den he make poopy

an' den he run outside

becuz first thing you must learn about de cat

is dat he don't care how long de faucet run

so you talk and talk on de phone

an' den you take a drive to de store

becuz you forget all about de faucet

an' you come home FOUR hours later

an' you see dat de faucet, she be still running

an' what is de first thing you say?

Come on now,

becuz you know dat de first thing you say is not

OH, HOW STUPID OF ME!

dat is not de first thing you say...

becuz de first thing you always gonna say is...

DAMN CAT!

OOH BABY...OOH

2011-08-21T15:28:00.014-07:00

d'Verse Poet's Pub

Ooh baby, the storm's a comin

I can feel it right here

right here in my HEART

you see where my hand is baby

right here on my heart

and you can put your-

ooh LOOK baby

LOOK

the cloud is touching down

and it's BLACK

so black baby

like death

and it's coming this way

coming right for us daddy

no WAIT

stop the car

oh yes I know we need to run

need to kick it in gear

and squeal on outta here

but oh what a picture it'll make baby

WHAT A PICTURE

get the camera

come on get out

I'll stand right here

at the side of the road

and oh I KNOW I'm crazy honey

crazy as a goddamn bedbug

and the wind now

is ripping through my hair

and that sound

like a freight train bearing down on us

and no I can't hear you anymore

and I know you're screaming at me baby

I know

but just snap the picture

JUST TAKE THE PICTURE

that's it

line me up in front of the cloud

my sweater the color of blood

right there in front of the black cloud

the cloud of death honey

and OOH God what a picture

oh you've got it now

so let's RUN

run to the car

and oh GOD baby

what if it doesn't start

oh my GOD baby

it's coming right for us now

LET'S GO BABY GO

Oh baby...

we made it...

ooh

I love you so much...

I can't believe how high I am baby...

never felt so alive in all my life.

Put your hand on it, honey,

put your hand on my heart...

can you feel it pounding?

Can you feel it?

Right here--up underneath

my blood red sweater...

ooh baby

I love you so much...

love you so much...

OOH baby...ooh

PERV...2011

2011-08-14T10:48:00.027-07:00

dVerse Poets Pub

I had a dream that Sarah Palin

was letting me feel her up--

and during those few moments

when my hands

were running wild over her body,

fingers even slipping inside her pants,

I thought that I might even

get to like her a little--

even though I find her politics

alarming,

and her cavalier disregard for living creatures

appalling,

but getting a feel for her was

pleasing--

and no, she didn't mind at all--

so I felt a bit confused

when she said she would do

whatever it took to win my vote,

and so I said okay

you've got my vote...

cuz that was what it took.

Then I allowed her to get back in line,

and she boarded her flight.

THIS POEM (inspired by the debt crisis, the economy, war, rampant paranoia and...you name it.)

2011-08-11T08:17:00.017-07:00

This is not your father's poem

we must admit it's true...

this poem belches at the dinner table

picks its nose at the opera

and passes gas in church...PEW!

This poem is a nasty little bugger that will sneak a peek up your dress

or bite you on the rear if you don't stand clear.

This poem stepped on a crack and broke your mother's back.

This poem wants you to wear your stiletto heels and give its ass a whack.

This poem doesn't give a damn if you're black or if you're white.

This poem IS black...this poem IS white.

This poem don't care if you're gay or if you're straight.

This poem IS pretty gay...and this poem WILL set you straight.

This poem needs no critique,

nor will it ever appear in some anal-retentive academic journal.

This poem possesses no mystique,

but its heart is pure and its message eternal.

This poem don't care about what's "PC" or what isn't...

This poem is free to sing My Country 'Tis of Thee...or 'tisn't.

This poem makes no apology to any lace-panty wearing pantywaists

who may be offended by words--

who believe that speech should be free

only when they agree.

This poem don't cotton to no flag waving love-it-or-leave-it hypocrites

who tell us we should love the symbol more

than what the symbol stands for.

(Do you KNOW what it stands for?)

This poem believes that life, liberty, and the pursuit of "hap"

is being threatened by the whiners and all of their crap.

This poem knows that our minds have been brainwashed

by those whose misdeeds have been whitewashed

until everything we believe is hogwash.

This poem advises you to murder your television.

This poem has had a hell of a vision

that your television is out to murder you.

This poem wants us to get our heads together--

this poem wants us to get our shit together,

but this poem doubts whether SHITHEADS can ever get it together!

This poem is bi-coastal.

This poem went postal.

This poem is headed for a fall...

this poem banged its head against the wall

and passed out in the toilet stall.

This poem is a celebration of what America once thought she could be...

and a requiem for what she has become.

This poem is done.

MEMO TO A LANGUAGE POET

2011-08-02T10:11:00.017-07:00

dVerse Poets Pub

To get the most out of this poem, one should be at least somewhat familiar with what is referred to as Language Poetry. Please take a moment to read some lines from Leslie Scalapino, and then come back.

I think Scalapino's poems are prime examples of what I'm referring to in "Memo To A Language Poet." By the way, I read "Memo To A Language Poet" in a literal den of Language Poets on one occasion, knowing what I was getting into, and somewhat apprehensive about how it would be received. When I finished, a young dude got up and read something that was just as disjointed as Scalapino's lines--glancing over at me in defiance a number of times. I applauded him at the end, because I think it's important for all poets to support other poets...no matter how their work strikes us.

MEMO TO A LANGUAGE POET

As a toddler you rejoiced not in stacking the blocks

but in knocking them down--

and it must have been difficult for you

when the teacher said to diagram a complete sentence

because you refused to write one.

And I understand that your favorite

game was DISCONNECT...the...dots.

Now, you say, the idea is to separate

language

from

meaning.

Life has no meaning,

so why should poetry?

Imbued with ambiguity,

it's not just a poem--

it's an adventure.

But your fits and starts

are starting to give me fits--

and it would surely give me pause

if I could find one independent clause.

And it must seem like a ball

and chain, this societal expectation

to make a little sense--

for to write with coherence

would be grave interference

with your disjunctive conjunctive experience.

Now I'll admit that I've enjoyed your work--

this Chinese food of the literary world,

for three or four seconds at a time.

But I find that I'm always hungry again

when I reach the next line...

and I keep thinking that if you'd

only hold that thought for a few

syllables longer, you might at least

come up with some haiku.

In your defense, I know a guy who was on

a step ladder one day,

and stuck his head a little too close to the ceiling fan...

now he has a short attention span

and he thinks you're a genius!

But you're forgetting one thing:

Language was invented

for the purpose of COMMUNICATION--

otherwise we'd still be sitting around

the fire saying UUGHH...

and beating each other over the head

with clubs, and eating with our fingers...

otherwise you are mentally masturbating

on my eyes, so put that pen back

in your pants and get a grip

on reality this time.

Don't get me wrong--

I like to play as much as the next poet,

and I can be as cryptic as an Egyptologist

sometimes

but to disconnect language

from meaning--

you might as well remove the ball and chain

from inside your toilet tank.

Either way you end up with shit.

ON A DAY IN EARLY SPRING

2011-07-27T12:51:00.020-07:00

And you find yourself

strolling through the market

on a day in early spring

encountering a woman

who smiles at you

not in a polite way

but in a way that shows

she'd be interested

if you weren't both there

with your carts

passing for the briefest of moments

in the opposite direction

and before you can even think

of what to say

she's turned the corner

Leaving you longing for some other time

and some other place

where two people were properly introduced

by a maiden aunt

in the courtyard of a church

on a day in early spring

extending her white-gloved hand

and holding your gaze

for the briefest of moments

as she demurs

each making a mental note

to get religion again next week

And you find yourself strolling

through an open-air market

on a day in early spring

your demure lady

tending to your child at home

A woman passes by

giving you THAT smile

holding your gaze

for the briefest of moments...

You pivot

eyes following her

as she stops

picks up an apple

and holds it to the light

then slowly turns

in your direction...

ADJUSTABLE WENCH

2011-07-20T14:35:00.016-07:00

Poetry Potluck--One Shot Wednesday

dVerse Poetry Pub

I'm looking for an adjustable wench.

One that when the grip feels

a little too tight

it can be backed off some

and when it's too loose

it can be tightened some too.

Seems all the ones

I've handled lately

are pretty set

in their ways,

and when I rotate them

a hundred and eighty degrees--

trying to get just the right angle,

they pop off

LOUDLY.

Seems they only like

certain positions

and it's

hard

to get their heads

back into the task

at hand.

I looked for one

at the hardware store

but the lady there

just gave me a funny stare.

But I need me

an adjustable wench

to get these nuts off properly,

because sometimes my arm

can get pretty tired

trying to do that.

One I can lay down

next to me

and know will stay put

while I take out my screwdriver

to finish the job.

OOPS!

Why looka there...

seems that in my haste

to finish this poem

I omitted an "r"

here and there

in certain...uh... critical spots...

I can be such a tool sometimes!

But now that it's posted

let me know if I should bother

going back and sticking them in..

or if you think you get my drift, anyway.

SENRYU STEW # 7: Potty Talk

2011-07-15T10:26:00.008-07:00

Poetry Potluck

d'Verse Poets Pub

women's restroom line

longer than the men's--

more practiced in the art of holding it

we had an outhouse

that was a two-seater--

ma and pa held hands

Kaopectate convention

in Acapulco...

location location location

COOL BLUE EYES

2011-07-07T10:30:00.004-07:00

Here in your world

of fantasy and fury

I wait in limbo

like a poem you've read

but won't allow to touch you

while you studiously

examine each word

for traces of toxicity

and hidden meaning

thoughts tumbling

round and round

in a spinning dream

gun sights rotating for

enemies imagined

while I bring only flowers

to place in the barrel

it's your mind

you are at war with

your anger

simmering

shimmering

behind cool blue eyes

mercurial

on an already sweltering day

firing randomly

at anything that moves

and I must duck and cover

waiting for the all clear to sound

to shoot you

my disarming smile

REHAB

2011-07-01T14:56:00.009-07:00

One Shot Wednesday--Poetry Potluck

Mah woman caught me lookin'

at another gal on the street

mah woman looked right up at me

and said in a voice so sweet:

YA GOTTA GO TO REHAB, REHAB,

YES YOU DO--

REHAB, REHAB,

OR I JUST CANNOT BE WITH YOU!

Rehab, rehab,

it's rehab for me and you--

rehab, rehab.

DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!

You'll deal with all those issues

of which your life is fraught

you'll deal with all those issues

you never had till you got caught

You'll have a bunch of counselors

they'll teach you everything

they'll teach you how to think

with something besides your ding-a-ling

Rehab, rehab,

it's rehab for me and you--

rehab, rehab,

DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!

You'll meet those famous philanderers

like Tiger and Jesse James

and all those other celebutards

whose lives went down in flames

They've been turned into robots

the kind of guys a gal can trust

they're caring and they're sensitive

and best of all--MONOGAMOUS!

It's the modern day equivalent

of a frontal lobotomy

gotta go to rehab

just to save me from bein' me!

Oops...ah farted...

gotta go to rehab for fartin'

Oops...I drooled right down mah shirt...

gotta go to rehab for droolin'

Oops...didn't use no deodorant...

gotta go to rehab for stinkin'

Now a man is gonna be a man

no matter what they try to say

if it feels good--DO IT--

just don't hurt no one along the way

Rehab, rehab,

it's rehab for me and you

rehab, rehab,

DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!

It's the modern day equivalent

of a frontal lobotomy

gotta go to rehab

just to save me from bein' me...

yeah, ah gotta go to rehab

just to save me from bein' me!

SENRYU STEW # 6: Adventures With Gypsy

2011-06-23T09:46:00.009-07:00

Poetry Potluck

One Shot Wednesday

early morning walk--

Gypsy sniffs

the latest Pmail

Gypsy perks up

when other pooches woof at her--

attention hound

strolling past the bank

with Gypsy--

she makes a deposit

AND ALL WE SEE...

2011-06-16T20:25:00.003-07:00

Good morning

Mister I'm Gonna Blow Up The World

And how are y0u today

praying to your God Of Territorial Disputes

getting ready to go out with a bang

probably never considering that

once you've enjoyed each of those 72 virgins

happily waiting for you

it may not seem like heaven any more

knowing the way your mind runs

but we never seem to think of the obvious

yes

it's important to fight for what you believe in

but I draw the line at my humanity

and no

God DOESN'T want you to do that

any more than he wants you to pop a fart and whistle Dixie

and I don't know why you look at Him

and see petty

and vengeful

and finite

when I see infinite

like the classroom teacher who knows

you don't take sides in playground disputes

the main thing is for the little buggers to learn something

so you can pass them on to a higher grade

but we ain't there yet

so it's always us and them

and all we see is

an infidel

a nonbeliever

a heathen

an apostate

an unholy

unrighteous

wicked

blasphemer

Jesus

give me a break

what are the chances there's only one path to follow

and each of them shouting OVER HERE

even I can see

that's a mathematical impossibility

if we are all God's children

wouldn't it make more sense to think that

every

belief

system

may have at least a piece of the truth

and if we'd just put our heads together

and compare notes

the bigger picture might come

into sharper focus

but no

you're going to kill

in the name of your God Of The Partial View

in a crowded market

with a bomb strapped to your waist

you are no better

or worse

than the guy

who sends the misguided missile screaming through the sky

the aftermath is going to be just as messy

and oh

a bunch of women and children bit the big one that time

unintentionally of course

collateral damage

back to the drawing board

with a shrug

we're still the good guys

and none of our strutting Suits

have any regrets

I heard them say it

must be nice to sleep at night with NONE

of that on your conscience

you

poor

sad

crazy

numb

deluded

power junkies

too blind to sense

that you're going to be

on the wrong side of history

to a man

it's all a game to you

where the end always justifies the means

well hell

I know it's a game

but still I'd like to play

with as much integrity as I can muster

and be able to shake hands with my opponent afterwards

don't know if you can do that

when he's carrying his dead child in his arms

but you never have to view that close up

never once considering that it's all tainted

from beginning to end

and that nothing good can come from that

which proceeds from a starting point of evil

and that it will hound you

through this lifetime

and how many more

I can't say

your only salvation

your only hope

of escaping karma's

massive kick in the ass

is that maybe...

just maybe...

this is all a dream

THE SUMMER FLIES

2011-06-12T08:26:00.010-07:00

The summer flies are banging

against my front screen door again

how insistent they are

on gaining their freedom

I just get settled on the sofa

and I hear them slamming

against the metal again

I rise to crack open the door

and allow another bunch to escape

How accommodating I've become

in my involuntary and ever growing

awareness of fleeting time

Go...GO I say

and be flies

go and eat poop

and whatever you can snatch

from someone's bistro cafe sandwich

go and be a scourge upon the populace

annoying and pissing off one and all

with your kamikaze fly bys

the world is your cat box

so feast your omniscient eyes upon it

and take it all in

It's all over in a few weeks

you know

how

the

summer

flies

And now...the heroic adventures of...CACTUS MAN! (.he's one PRICKLY dude! )

2011-06-07T10:18:00.015-07:00

We join Cactus Man at the local supermarket, where a relatively new trend is developing. Drugstores, markets, and the like are acting as collection points for various charities, and it is now commonplace for cashiers--at the behest of management-- to ask customers in the check out line if they would "like" (no pressure, of course) to donate money to the specific charity du jour. We'll conveniently add it to your bill.

CASHIER: Good morning sir, did you find everything okay?

C.M. Everything but my ass...I seem to be losing it everyday in this economy.

CASHIER: (Oblivious, and ready to launch into her spiel): Oh, and would you like to donate a dollar to the Sisters of Perpetual Glum and Sorrow?

C.M.: Hmmm...you're the supermarket chain that touts "low prices everyday," are you not? And yet, I noticed that those rutabagas I bought are now a DOLLAR more per pound than they were last week...and most of your other prices have been steadily rising as well.

CASHIER: Well... ah...er...I only work here...

C.M. : (Raising his voice for nearby customers to hear) Last week I could have afforded to kick in that extra buck, but like most people these days, I'm on a budget. So who do you think is ultimately responsible for the Sisters of Perpetual Glum and Sorrow not getting that extra dollar in their pocket...ME? Or could it be...CORPORATE GREED???

CASHIER: Uhh...(hack...splutter...cough...choke...burp)... er...so did you find everything okay, sir?

C. M.: I'll find my way out the door is what I'll do--and likely never come back!

CASHIER: (brightly) Okay...next?

STAY TUNED FOR THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF...CAAACTUUS MAAAAAANN...he's one PRICKLY dude!

SENRYU STEW # 5: Supermarket Blues

2011-06-03T09:49:00.006-07:00

my supermarket

boasts low prices everyday--

consumer fraud

spaces in the parking lot

already occupied---

shopping carts

emerging from the aisle

with my cart piled high...

T-boned

RHETORICAL QUESTION

2011-05-25T15:08:00.015-07:00

And so I ask myself

why THESE people

knowing it's a rhetorical question

there never being enough time

to subject the whims and wiles

of fate to psychoanalysis

Yet even the most callous

among us surveying this devastation

would surely give pause to reflect

Why THESE people?

These humble people

these salt of the earth people

raising families

making ends meet

one way or t'other

filling the churches to capacity

on Sunday mornings

And every year

it's the same deadly fury

touching down from the sky

like the fingers of God

so beautiful in its own horrific way

And yet

survivors

not cursing the dawn

just feeling thankful

to be alive

their faith undiminished

unshaken

in the terrible awe-filled light

of morning

Yes they could leave

but their roots grow deep

in the earth and the soil

the seeds of their destiny

sown at an early age

Not like me

the kid who grew up among them

who heard the siren songs calling

on distant radio stations

deep into the night

the kid who was always going to leave

who nonetheless

never forgot

where he came from

So maybe you can understand

when I bow my head

and ask why THESE people?

These stoic people

these turn the other cheek people

these do with me what you will O' Lord people

Already contemplating the rebuilding work ahead

Just another of life's puzzles

I guess

the jigsaw pieces scattered

like the haphazard wreckage of their lives

ANOTHER DAY

2011-05-24T10:04:00.012-07:00

Ambrosius Bosschaert

"Bouquet of Flowers on a Ledge"

courtesy: lacma.org

June 5, 2011

Delia awakes in a dream

in which a flower vase

teetering on a lofty ledge

uses every ounce of free will

to either cling to what is known

or take the plunge--

the roses in the vase more alive

than the people below who shuffle along

in a dream

of a dream

of life

In the street

a naked sumo wrestler

drives by in a tiny golf cart

and pinches the bottoms

of unsuspecting shoppers--

too smug to acknowledgethat they have felt something--

while two midgets

unbeknownst to each other

walk on stilts concealed beneath their clothes

blending in with the crowd

When the midgets meet

each smirks into the face of the other

automatically assuming the other

to be someone with nothing to hide

While high upon the ledge

the wind

like the voice of God

whispers to the flowers in the vase

that teeters on the brink

From nearby windows the random sounds

of conversation are heard:

End of the world ain't no excuse not

to take out the garbage, ya lazy bum...

And then:

Did you see that woman Arnold slept with?

Any port in a storm, I guess..

And then:

I'll show you the end of YOUR world--

see my fist?

And then:

Yeah, but that was only after Maria said

GIT OFFA ME, YOU BIG TUB O' GOO!

And then:

All these years we worshiped Lance

and now it comes out he's just another cheater...

And then:

Did you see Britney's butt on TV?

damn thing is HUGE!

And then:

Ah STILL don't believe that's the real birth certificate...

And then

having heard enough

the vase that teeters on the edge

relinquishes its lofty perch

to descend into a world where people

walk along in a dream

of a dream

of life...

about to experience a momentary awakening

THIEF OF MOMENTS

2011-05-20T08:32:00.012-07:00

June 7, 2011

Beware the Thief Of Moments

for although I am near you

in a casual way

you will not suspect

that I have come to rob you

of your secrets

just to hold a piece of your essence

next to my heart

Shagging what you toss to the wind

as you stroll through the park with your lover

the random bits of conversation

you feed each other

like morsels from a picnic lunch

become my sustenance

tormented by this inexplicable need

I must devour your words

so that I may live

Did you ever hear about

the ice cream wars in Montana?

The guys who ride around in trucks

peddling frozen delights

while the music blares from their speakers

the competition is so fierce

they try to horn in on each other's territory

sometimes one chases the other down the street

trying to shoot his tires out

while the children watch

and the music plays merrily on

I lifted that from a couple guys

at the gas pumps

they were filling their tanks

and unwittingly

filling mine as well

A young blonde

no more than seventeen

beautiful

with that girl-next-door look

sitting with her friends at the mall

I walk by and hear her say

I know it was a hazing

but bamboo shoots up my bum?

That was a tiny lunch

but strangely satisfying

In a department store

a woman clings to her shopping cart

for support

something is wrong with her foot

I can't walk on it honey

she says to her husband

I can't walk on it

There is a silence

Then STAND on it

comes his icy reply

This leaves a bitter taste in my mouth

but it is sustenance just the same

I am the Thief Of Moments

and I must devour your words

so that I may live

A moment

once shared

becomes a conspiracy

the accomplices like revolutionaries

plotting in the torch light

of underground chambers

I am the spy in your midst

You will never know of my betrayal

until it appears in a poem somewhere

A moment is such a long time

when it lives forever

POETS UNITED !

2011-05-18T08:26:00.006-07:00

HEY KIDS !

There is an interview with me over at the Poets United site!

If you've ever wanted to learn about what makes Timoteo tick, click on the link and check it out.

Many thanks to Sherry Blue Sky for her amazing work on this!

SENRYU STEW # 4

2011-05-13T15:16:00.008-07:00

actress photographed

without makeup--

right cross to the jaw

miniskirts so short

these days--

midgets get their kicks

watchin' those old movies

drinkin' some beers...

can film festival

MOST MEN IN AMERICA

2011-05-08T18:58:00.009-07:00

Outside my window

the raven calls

to follow him again

as in that kingdom far away

in a time when hoods

of muslin saved our sight

from the the diamond in his eye

that blazed like a thousand suns

And wasn't it you

who told me that love

is like a banana

you've got to peel

away the facade

And wasn't it you I saw

seething inside your skin

at the Metropolitan Opera

grunting like a pig

when the fat lady sang

hooting from the balcony

like a Portuguese pimp

a break with tradition to be sure

running amuck till they pinned you down

inside the ladies room

tempest in a pisspot

And isn't that

Miz Chauncey Lee Lamour

sitting right over there

sucking on her

mint julep

trading tales

of the good ol' days

when men were men

and women were horses

and GIDDYUP OL' PAINT

was the prelude to a kiss

her entourage

of the rouged and the wrinkled

hanging on her every word

well aware that

most men in America

in this year of the locust

in this decade of the plague

would rather be sniffing

through the long abandoned

ruins of an old haunt

than to give up the ghost

to your baby-faced whore

And now my old friend the raven

has moved to Baltimore

where he works as a squeegie man

on certain odd numbered holidays

and plays the guitar

with Eric Clapton

and sometimes Charlie Byrd

while all the sweet young things chant

GO CAT GO!

But well you know

that the whole world's a stage

that you're going through

just to get to someplace else

and though they stomp and shout

for another encore

quoth the raven: AINT NO MORE !

It was a lively time

says Miz Chauncey Lee Lamour

well aware that most men in America

take their pants off one leg at a time

all grist for a story of some kind

and you know dahling

you really should write it

LAZY AFTERNOON

2011-05-04T15:20:00.015-07:00

The century plants in the yard look like they're dead. They've surprised me before, though, kicking back to life after a couple of good rains. This whole desert city is going to look pretty dead before long too, as we hunker down into air conditioned isolation for the long summer siege. (We spend too much of our lives encased in concrete, and it makes us hard.)

The breeze is blowing in through the window, billowing the curtain into a kind of open parachute. The wind chimes ring off a couple of notes and fall silent again. It's a lazy afternoon.

It's nice to sit here and not think about things like Afghanistan, or the fist-pumping crowd outside the gates of the White House, celebrating someone's brutal death. I don't care which side you're on, repeating the bloody cycle of an-eye-for-an-eye down through the ages doesn't appear to be a strategy that is going to win your enemies over to your side--take the Israelis and the Palestinians for an ongoing example.

I've often wondered what if would be like to NEVER read the newspaper or hear the radio and TV news. You know, life goes on--the day to day part of it that we see first hand--pretty much the same as always. We talk to our friends, wash the car, sit on the toilet (or sit on our friends and talk to the toilet). The rest of it is just mind games. The news is designed to provide us with a daily dose of anxiety--a modern day Scheherazade that keeps us on the edges of our seats, waiting for the next episode.

Now there's this 2012 thing--what delightful suspense! December 21st, 2012 is the date the Mayan calendar apparently predicts that the world will go POOF. Many will hold their breath at the stroke of midnight--just like we did with Y2K. Some will undoubtedly sell all their possessions (what will they need the money for?) and head for the mountain tops, awaiting the rapture. The day will go by, just like every other day, and those folks will head back down--red faced--with just bare floors to sleep on. Meanwhile, those "primitive" tribes in New Guinea ain't gonna miss a beat, cuz they're oblivious to it all anyway.

So by now you may be wondering what's the point of these ramblings--where's he taking me and am I going to like it? Well, what's the real point to life? Where's it taking us and are we gonna like it?

We want desperately to like it--those of us who've decided to "keep the faith" and hang in there for the duration of this go-round. We give it the benefit of the doubt--maybe more than it deserves--because we're caught up in it. Fascinated. Spellbound. Addicted. We want to stay for the play. The journey out--into manifestation--and the journey back to Source. So we keep coming back. I think our spirits know that it's not all going to be a bed of roses when we sign on, before the amnesia sets in, (and in that sense we may all be astonishingly brave) but it's those selected moments of what Maslow called peak experience, I think, that give us the notion that it all might be worth it.

And maybe that's the best we can expect. Isolated moments of frisson when we feel like we could grab Arnold Schwarzenegger by his fat neck and swing him around like he's Mister Rogers; moments when we've got a room at the top of the world and we ain't comin' down; moments that by all rights should last forever--though we know they won't.

But they last just long enough to keep us coming back.

And maybe even moments like this will do. Moments when the wind is just husky enough to tickle the chimes...and I ain't too concerned about nuthin'.

SENRYU STEW # 3

2011-04-28T10:35:00.009-07:00

Poetry Potluck
One Shot Wednesday

penguins

see the world

as black and white

expanded sports coverage

on the 10 o'clock news...

bingo highlights

Death

has been outlawed in France--

won't give up his burka

BLUE MONTANA

2011-04-23T10:55:00.001-07:00

Marie sits in a bar called Blue Montana and plays a song on the jukebox titled "Tomorrow Is Just Another Ache In My Heart." Cowboys amble over like the lazy August wind and ask her to dance. She looks each of them hard in the eye--but only for a moment until she is sure--then politely declines.

Lately, when they hit on her, she takes a new tack. "I'M NOT OF THIS WORLD," she says, with no further explanation. Most of them will stand there for a moment, as if trying to grasp the significance of such a statement, then totter away.

Jimmy, the owner, stands watch over her and tells tales of bygone days up north, where the sky follows along like a gun riding on your hip. Above the bar sits a picture of a horse. A roan mare named Sunshine. Jimmy's one true love. She wandered off one big sky morning, and though he searched for days, it was like some giant spaceship had come along and spirited her away. In his dreams he still sees her, running free beside a rippling stream, and he wonders if it's just possible...

But it's been years now.

Jimmy doesn't have a lot to do with women anymore. Says they're as fickle as that mare, maybe more so...'cept for Marie, of course. Talk gets around. The cowboys think she's a little tetched, so they mostly leave her alone now. Which is fine with Jimmy. He's the only one who knows her real story. Eastern city gal who came out west and fell for a drifter who let her down hard. Now she sits in Blue Montana , playing the sad songs and bending his sympathetic ear.

They are together...and they are alone. As those who grieve are alone together.

But she likes watching Jimmy move, and sometimes a primitive kind of feeling comes over her and she gets the urge to nuzzle...but why does she think of it that way? That word.

And though she will not yet fess up to it, Jimmy feels that she is slowly becoming of THIS world. His world. And he will tame her--slowly building her trust until she is eating out of his palm. Someday, she will shed the blanket of her pain and come out whole again.

And he will be there.

But now, the sun is dropping and she is headed home. She stops in the doorway--her chestnut mane suffused with the soft fire of twilight, and says, "Tomorrow...is just another ache in my heart."

2011-04-21T09:10:00.001-07:00

photo by Timoteo

SENRYU STEW # 2

2011-04-16T09:58:00.005-07:00

cat sleeping

on the TV remote--

searched for it all day

air traffic controller

asleep at the switch...

in his dream he's flying

the royal wedding

is such a bore

I'll enjoy the royal divorce much more

NEVER

2011-04-09T13:24:00.013-07:00

I never thought it would come to this...

After happy days and high school plays

Willie Mays and back seat lays

Shadrack Horshak Abednego

and Zeke The Talking Raccoon

after the wheels in my head that wouldn't stop spinning

like a record going round

they wouldn't stop spinning

after getting starstruck

after getting struck by stardom

after I stepped up to the plate

after I stepped up to the mike

after the groupies that hung around

black white and brown

who thought I was something

that I was but wasn't

after all the times I was alone

when I thought that I wasn't

after the receptionist turned pale

and told me I looked like her deceased husband

after I rolled over

played dead

and fetched his bedroom slippers

and tried to fill them

after taking the boss's wife to Mexico on a lark

after gassing up at Texaco and peeing in the park

after the drunks and the skunks and the punks

after the first of the Mohicans

and last of the Puerto Ricans

after Woodstock and Plymouth Rock

after the monkeys and the junkies and the flunkies

after the freaks and the Greeks and the geeks

after golden showers and happy hours

I never thought it would come to this...

After my guru told me that life

is like trying to piss on your shadow

while doing the Macarena

(an Indian guru if you believed all the buzz

though an Indiana guru in fact he was)

after all the rejection in my search for perfection

finding Cinderella's glass slipper

and the hobnail boot she planted up my butt

After the good Samaritan veterinarian in Mexico City

yanked her Levis down to her ankles

and shot his wad in a shotgun blast that peppered us both

as we lay there in a stupor

AND THAT'S WHY I'LL NEVER DRINK TEQUILA AGAIN !!!

After casually tossing the condom that had served its purpose

out the hotel room window in Managua

hearing it splat onto the sidewalk

and someone shouting: AVE MARIA !

I never thought it would come to this...

After all the false starts and missed connections

and what ifs and what the fugs

after to give as good as you git

is to no longer give a shit

after all the days and nights

in the prison of my own desire

all the bittersweet days I remember

in an updated and romanticized version of life

the images colliding like sub-atomic particles

as a thousand million bursting stars

explode in a never ending climax

expanding ever farther into the reaches of space

I never thought it would come to this...

Face to face

at this moment

in this place...

and neither did you

TIMOTEO'S SENRYU STEW (eat slowly...and savor)

2011-04-05T12:40:00.015-07:00

hacking up a hairball

onto the carpet--

cat licks himself again

beauty contestant stumbles

regains composure--

expletive deleted

coyotes howl

pampered pooches chime in...

call of the wild

2011-04-01T07:24:00.004-07:00

cactus needles

in my butt--

splinter group

taco stand

tasty burritos ...

off to find some Beano

she gives enemas

for a living--

bottoms up

AND THAT WAS THAT

2011-03-26T10:32:00.019-07:00

Whatever happened to hot apple pies

cooling on the window sill,

Norman Rockwell calendars,

and long romantic walks in the park?

And whatever happened to Ozzie and Harriet,

holding hands,

and hula hoops?

Whatever happened to cuddling

on the back porch swing,

men wearing hats,

and...

women without bras?

Whatever happened to pulp fiction,

poodle skirts and Parchesi,

slow dancing,

the strong silent type,

and...

women without bras?

Whatever happened to family picnics,

bouncing the kids upon our knee,

Sundays at grandmas house,

draft card burning,

civil disobedience,

bad acid trips,

wife swapping,

women without bras,

and horizons without limits?

It was a summer's day in 1986--

I remember it well.

I was strolling through the mall,

and being the observant fellow that I am,

I noticed that all the bosoms were unbound,

unfettered,

free to be all they could be--

to jig and joggle,

to wobble and weave,

to bob and bobble,

to bank and roll

with the normal ups and downs

of everyday existence.

Then,

the very next day,

as if by some cosmic signal from

THE GREAT GOOGLY-MOOGLY

ALL

THE

WOMEN

PUT

THEIR

BRAS

BACK

And that was that.

And a colder wind has blown o'er the land...

but sometimes I still long for the good ol' days

when the nips that nourished a nation

were proudly displayed

through the milk of human kindness

and in the interest of full disclosure--

no fakes, forgeries, or false impressions given.

And I guess I should just forget about the past--

make a clean breast of it,

and end this uplifting tale.

But sometimes I can't help but wonder...

Whatever happened to hot apple pies

cooling on the window sill...

long romantic walks in the park...

and...

2011-03-24T10:11:00.006-07:00

rotting fruits and vegetables

atop the compost heap--

breeze wafting my way

spring rain

tires splashing--

you dripping by

sexy dream

suddenly interrupted...

cat's paws

WAITING GAME (a pantoum)

2011-03-19T21:31:00.009-07:00

I have led a life of great anticipation...

trading the hours of my days for the digits in a ledger--

biding my time; buying into the myth of security in numbers

and always believing that love was just around the corner.

Trading the hours of my days for that which gave me pleasure,

I languished in lobbies and watched the women of the world walk by,

assured the law of averages was in my corner--

a lonely sojourner playing the waiting game.

Watching the worldly women walk by,

I lobbied for a glance or a smile--

a lonely sojourner playing the waiting game,

still convinced that love was just around the corner.

And so, with a glance or a smile,

once in a while one would come my way--

curious, as she was, to see if love was just around the corner,

and for a while we'd fill the empty space with laughter.

Yes, now and then one would come my way,

but in the end those who wait are never waiting for each other--

mindful, as they are, of love that's just around the corner,

leaving just an empty space and the memory of laughter.

And near the end, those who wait will always hold a place for one another--

finding, as they do, a kind of purity in numbers,

trying to fill some empty space with memories and laughter...

leading lives of great anticipation.

PEOPLE

2011-03-11T12:00:00.008-07:00

People are so strange,

and weird,

and funny looking--

with their baseball caps

and safari hats...

All shapes and sizes,

but mostly round--

with bellies that spill over belts

like giant teardrops about to fall,

and long baggy shorts that stop

just above their socks

(another inch and they'd be pants).

Huffing,

and puffing,

and shuffling along--

off to the bank,

off to the cleaners,

off to the market to pick up some wieners.

What do they think?

what do they hope for?

who are they buying that Soap-On- A-Rope for?

What are their innermost

dreams and ambitions?

(hey, did that guy just let off an emission?)

Ambling along in their clogs

and their flip-flops,

connected to ipods

and some kind of hip-hop.

Joking, and smoking, and choking

their lives away--

yet up every morning

to greet the brand new day...

People are so strange,

and weird,

and funny looking

on the outside...

But often beautiful--

yeah, kinda beautiful

on the inside.

LAST DATE

2011-03-05T10:44:00.011-07:00

I wonder if you can sense that you're mostly tip and very little iceberg,

though I still get a chill thinking of you--

and do you understand that your shallow hellos and how-are-yous

don't begin to scratch the surface of this itch?

Like the Sphynx, you sit there stone-faced,

a cryptic note I wrote to myself and can no longer decipher.

You strain to read my lips while I try to interpret your hand signals,

and that's as close as you and I ever come.

But all I want to do is touch you...

and maybe, maybe if we make love, I could break through--

but I remember some who wouldn't give me the time of day

on the day after, as if to say WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

You can't touch me THAT way.

But maybe, maybe if I told you all my secrets, then I could touch you--

or would you just sit there in embarrassed silence and order another cafe latte?

Or if I whisper dark obscenities in you ear, or force you to look into my eyes,

or suck on your toes (while you're blowing your nose)--

stand on my head, or take you to bed...

yes, I know it's not always a bed of roses,

and sometimes things get thorny--

but DAMMIT, lady...I'm horny!

SORRY...just a minor loss of control--

not something you, or the crew of the Titanic, were the slightest bit familiar with.

There is a place inside you where emotions become trapped and die,

so allow me to translate, my dear:

I LOVE YOU GO AWAY!

I NEED YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT!

Go ahead and blame your parents who didn't have a clue,

but the buck's gotta stop somewhere baby...

and when I say to you that you're responses are perfunctory, you say "OH?"

And when I say that you're proving my point, you say "OH?"

And still you sit there like a demented desk clerk,

while all the while your brain is screaming:

CHECK OUT TIME!

Wait a minute--you can't leave now!

You can't just get up and walk out--

tear things apart when we could be so together...

Ah, geez... there goes another one.

Good thing I told the waiter separate checks.

SONOFABITCH

2011-02-25T09:49:00.011-07:00

I remember the first time.

It was a crisp Omaha morning, and I was four--

playing in my front yard when three boys came along.

They were BIG kids--maybe eight or nine--

and one of them said: HEY, YA LITTLE SONOFABITCH!

Just casual like...

I asked him what that word meant,

and he said: Go ask yer mama, sonofabitch!

So I did.

NOTHING...it means NOTHING, she said.

And: Who told you that word?

I led her outside to meet my new friends,

but they had disappeared.

And I couldn't understand why they had gone.

Years later there was a girl named Mary

who lived with me in the Hotel San Cristobal

overlooking the ocean in Old San Juan.

There was a little Italian place nearby

where we would drink wine and she would call me "Ducky."

Then one night we were arguing in bed

and she said:YOU SONOFABITCH

and tore my ring from her finger and threw it against the wall.

Then she disappeared.

And I couldn't understand why she had gone.

Time passed and one day my best old childhood buddy

came to visit me in Tucson. I met him

at the airport and he said: YOU OL' SONOFABITCH!

We caught up on things and downed a few,

then we downed a few more.

Before you knew it the days had flown by

and I was taking him back to the airport

where he did this funny bit, singing: We'll meet again...

don't know where, don't know when...

And then he disappeared.

Two weeks later I got a phone call--

he'd been in a bad car wreck and was lying

in a coma in an Amarillo hospital.

Two days hence he departed this world

without regaining consciousness.

And I didn't understand why he had gone.

But all that was long ago...

and things are gonna be different now!

So I've made me a new rule.

If you're gonna call me a sonofabitch...

you've got to promise not to leave.

CONTRIBUTION

2011-02-16T16:17:00.014-07:00

creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed/en

Everyone who was alive in 1885 has jumped ship.

Where'd they go? We don't know.

But they've taken their secrets with them.

And you and I, fast becoming museum pieces,

are on that same journey from the relevant to the obscure--

eyes soon to be staring from a sepia-toned photo

in the glass encased confines of the local historical society.

And what have you contributed to the dialogue, my boy,

and will any of it survive the fuzzy TV snowstorm screen of time?

And what would they know of the real you

if indeed a name or a photograph survived?

Still, you'd like to be remembered--and don't know why--

though you think it has something to do with being loved.

And you're content to write shit in silent protest of your solitude.

And you feign indifference in your involuntary celibacy,

telling yourself that ass isn't all it's cracked up to be--

though in truth it's just like food--no big deal until you have to go without.

And you wonder at what exact moment did you cross the line

from "so fine" to something more akin to what the cat drug in.

And why didn't anyone warn you of the impending disaster?

Now, generally, you avoid mirrors, though sometimes

you seek them out with a morbid curiosity.

In elementary school we sang "Frere Jacques"

and "When Those Caissons Go Rolling Along"

in our gruffest soprano voices.

"Play That Funky Music White Boy"

had not yet seared its way into our psyche--

the circadian rhythm of time still on the verge

of breaking into a more primal beat.

Now, all the young women are turning bi-sexual,

SO TIRED of waiting for guys to call...

and the beat goes on.

Dawn's curtain rises above the prairie.

Actors resigned to their fate

begin to stir and vie for parking spots.

Sweeping west, reptilian eyes blink and greet the sun.

Palm fronds sway in the breeze,

and your island dreams are dashed

in the swell of concrete--the shimmering heat

rising to meet the sky, and you and I

are no closer to our first hello and our last goodbye.

Day is done. The local TV newscasters--

so Shirley Temple serious--

so imbued with their own sense of self-importance,

as if anyone will give a damn

about the words they mouth from a teleprompter

ten years from now...or even next week.

Surely, my boy, YOU can manufacture

something with a longer shelf-life.

Or maybe not.

Maybe just another face in the group photograph

turning yellow with age--

waiting for some stranger

contemplating the swift passage of time.

MY FUNKY VALENTINE (with apologies to Rodgers & Hart!)

2011-02-10T12:02:00.023-07:00

(Theme: Love, Bonds and Relationships )

My funky valentine

Reading the comics valentine

Oh, where oh where do I start?

Your looks are laughable

Yet, I'm so affable

I'm just gonna call you abstract art

Oh, your figure's less than chic

And your nose looks like a beak

When you speak

You're speaking Greek

To me-eee

You don't comb your hair for me

There's a pubic hair in my tea

What does it matter to me?

Each day is Valentine's Day

Of your figure I can't speak

A less than noteworthy physique

And there's an odor from your feet

That sets you apar-arrrt.

But don't wash your hair for me

Or change your underwear for me

Stay funky, valentine, stay...

Each day is Valentine's--

unless it's Groundhog,

President's, Saint Patrick's,

April Fool's, Mother's,

Father's, Columbus, or Labor...

Da-eeeyyy

PREGNANT WEATHER GIRLS

2011-02-06T10:30:00.002-07:00

A cold front? A warm front?

Will it rain or shine?

He can't remember what she said

Cuz she just looks so fine

There's sexy Sue, and Ashley too

Reporting with exuberance

Then one day without warning

WHOAH--a big protuberance!

Now her face is glowing

Smiling oh so brightly

Cuz she's so proud to show the world

What she's been doing nightly

Oy! His curvy fantasy

Has turned into a blob

And now it's plain for all to see

That she's been laying down on the job

The boss was overheard to say

(Only half in jest)

That when she stands in front of the map

Her bulge blots out the whole midwest

Oh, those pregnant weather girls

There's one on every station

Don't get too used to seeing her

She'll soon be on vacation

Now you see her, now you don't

Now filling in--the janitor, STEVE!

But hey folks out there, don't you fret

She'll be back after months of maternity leave

She knows the camera loves her

But so does good ole Ted

And things would be much simpler

If she could just do the weather from bed

Yep, she's gonna have it all

A career and kiddies too

But all those little darlings

Will be raised by a nanny named Cindy Lou

WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN

2011-01-29T09:56:00.020-07:00

photo courtesy of Getty Images