MOST MEN IN AMERICA

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Outside my window
the raven beckons
to follow him again
as in that kingdom far away
in a time when hoods
of muslin saved our sight
from 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 amok till they pinned you down
inside the ladies room

Tempest in a pisspot

And isn't that Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
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 some baby-faced whore

And now my old friend the raven
has moved to Baltimore
where he works as a squeegee 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!
GO CAT GO!

But well you know
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: Ain't no more!

It was a lively time
says Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
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

AND THAT WAS THAT

Poetry Potluck

One Shot Wednesday

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

ON

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...