PERSONHOOD

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!


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

YOU

For One Shot Wednesday

I first saw you pouting

in the magazine I hid in my bedroom

when I was twelve--

the year I resolved that breasts

were the coolest thing since Elvis Presley

I was looking for the secret in your eyes

but they never revealed it...

and I still don't know who you are

I was eighteen

a bit of a late bloomer

you already a faded rose

when you gave me that first driving lesson

in the front seat of my Chevy--

and though you'd been around the block

you failed to warn me that a steering wheel

lodged in one's butt crack on a deserted Missouri backroad

makes for an unsteady ride

Seventeen summers were yours

and I'd chalked up twenty-two

on the night of our first cautious caress

all the perfumed blossoms and you

sending me into sensory overload

I was getting good in the clinches

and there in your backyard you pleaded with me

to climb through your bedroom window

and go for the gusto

play it fast and loose while your parents--

too square to have a clue--

were zonked out down the hall

Discretion proved the better part of valor

until the night at Fat Bruce's house

where we made up for lost time--

sleepless in Cedar Rapids--

while he scoured the city for belladonna

or nutmeg

or anything that might give him some altitude

You left me high and dry in Key West

when you hit the road with my friend...

and I still don't know who you are

I met you again in the summer

in Panama

where you told me I must have had some upbringing

because I held my fork continental style

not realizing I was left-handed

and it just seemed a more natural way to maneuver

Back at the hotel we put the moves on each other--

every afternoon the rains came

and we followed suit

I screwed

my companions

and we headed north in your green Beetle

When we had used up all of Latin America

you dumped me at the Newport Beach bus station

with fifty bucks left in my pocket

trying to explain how you didn't like goodbyes...

and I still don't know who you are

Once I stole you away from my buddy

who had spent one night with you

and showed up at your room the next morning

to find us tangled among the sheets

You said you'd once worked as a courier

for certain underworld concerns

and the aura of intrigue

clung to you like cobweb

Trying to clear customs

from a three day sojourn to Curacao

we were invited into the back room

for an intimate inspection of our belongings...

and I still don't know who you are

One winter you took the elevator

up to the radio station in Penthouse One

I slapped on the long version of

"In--A-Gadda-Da-Vida"

and stood monitoring its progress

through the plate glass window

as you got into the groove

and did what you said you'd do over the phone--

on your knees there on the roof garden

the lights of San Juan shimmering around us

When your girlfriend came outside

I flinched

you didn't miss a beat...

and I still don't know who you are

I've seen you on the streets of

LA

New York

London

and Paris

brushing by me as you head in the opposite direction

and I study your face for the answer

You've dogged my tracks

and I've hounded your trail

through so many lifetimes

I've lost count

and still you return--

to a poetry gathering

where you try to be inconspicuous

but I know that you're here

for when I glanced around the room

our eyes locked for just a moment

then you looked away...

YOU know who you are