COMING BACK FOR MORE

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

1.

Her exterior has been religiously anointed

her interior is exquisitely appointed

but I've come to the conclusion
upon eons of self-delusion

that the solitary life works best
for the constitution

as all about there's prostitution
in one guise or another

so be my sistah
and I'll be your bruther

for us there will no other
till my hour is up

and you're off to your next call
counting your haul as you slink out the door


2.

Decades whiz by
in the flash of an eye
and when I say I took her support stockings off
and wore them over my head
and then went out and robbed the liquor store
I think U know what I mean--
it's the universal language of love
ooby dooby dooby doo
 just me and you

Now I just want to slip
into another world
as this one grows chillier
by the moment
any world that I'm welcome to
(I grope for the key beneath the mat
at the foot of the door)

And she said: what is it 
you love about life?  
And I replied : the way it kicks our asses
and still we keep coming back for more

3.

Now I sit like the Fool On The Hill
on his lofty perch
a  man on a stationary bike
could attain a similar altitude
in far less time and trouble
but I preferred the scenic route

And I can see clearly now
all the dead-end roads
I've traveled down
they stretch in all directions
snaking to the horizon...
leading not to Rome
but to Samarra

PATIO PARTY

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I.

I meet her at the party.
She is working for an agency
called Asians For Special Occasions,
renting herself out to PC folks who want
their social gatherings to appear culturally diverse.
I ask if she has done many similar events,
and she replies, "Oh, yes. in fact when you
see a Japanese, or Chinese, or Korean, or
Vietnamese, or Thai-looking person at a
party these days, they are likely from the agency."

(She isn't supposed
to drink the wine,
but I say here,
you can suck on mine.)

II.

There is a young middle-tier porn actress

there, recruited by the hosts
to add an air of decadent sophistication
to the assemblage. She looks like the
 girl next door--freckle splashed cheeks
 and nose--not like the skanky-looking
 babes from the early days of the business.

Someone asks if she ever gets
involved with the men she works with and
she says, "Guys are so PRESUMPTUOUS!
Just because I DO you--what in the world
would lead you to assume 
I would ever want to date you?"

(She's also not supposed to touch the vino,
but she's eyeing my glass,
so surreptitiously, I slip it to her.)

She grabs a handful of almonds from
the hors d'oeuvre table and says:
"Imagine if I were allergic to nuts."

III.

There is a Jewish woman wearing a head scarf.
She is posing as a Muslim. She's there for the
same reason as the other hired help. They couldn't
get the real thing on short notice, she confides, but
she has similar coloring, and everyone assumes.
Because of the head scarf, they assume.
"Perception is reality," she explains.
(I offer her a sip, but she says, "Better not...it would blow my cover.")

The hosts have thought of everything.
Except to have stocked enough wine.
When it runs out, I prepare to make my exit,
thanking the two of them--a white couple in their fifties--for their hospitality. The couple doesn't
know me, but each assumes the other one does.

Which is all well and good I say to myself
as I move, a little wobbly, toward the gate.

I wasn't invited.

THE REVOLUTION WILL BE TELEVISED

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Wish I could decide
on some kind of compromise
between lying around on my dead butt
and leading the revolution

Should be a happy medium
that won't get me shot
and turn me into a martyr
yet still provide a modicum
of intrigue and excitement
(like leading a bus tour of celebrity homes in L.A.)

Though a martyr wouldn't be
such a bad thing to be
with my picture on a T-shirt
(just have to grow my beard out bushy)

And I gotta admit the romantic vision
of taking to the hills with our rifles
and our long-haired women--
little papooses strapped to their backs--
has been a long held fantasy

Back in the day I had more stomach for it--
raising a fist in solidarity
with the Panthers up on that podium.
Even had a secret crush on Patty
(or was it Tania?)

Yeah, could use a little excitement
but what's an old hippie
who's gone soft
and out of practice to do?

Must be someone

more qualified than me

and don't wanna hang you up

so maybe I'll just take a rain check on the revolution
(We had such wide-eyed conviction 
that a new day was comin')

This time it will certainly be televised
and I'll be right there
beer in hand
rooting y'all on
between the commercial breaks
(we really BELIEVED...ya know)
so shoot me
an email
if there's anything else I can do.

HEARTBREAK IN FADED JEANS

dVerse Poets Pub

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I like it when a poem mentions a real place
like Omaha or Charleston as that immediately
tells me there won't be any faeries or elves in it
and so it's safe to continue and I like it when
a poem mentions a real thing like let's say a lonely
bus stop and I like it when a poem mentions real 
people like old lovers or new lovers and some
way that all these things come together like at a bus
stop in Omaha where a woman stands waiting for
what could be an old lover on a bus that doesn't
come and not how it makes the woman feel because 
we don't exactly know but how it makes the poet 
feel as he observes her from the gas station 
across the way and there's a chill in the evening air
and after a while he walks on over to inquire as 
to whether he can be of some assistance 
she is a dark haired woman who reminds him
of an old lover and she says where you headed
mister and he says Charleston and she smiles
and says oh that would be pretty far out of
my way as I live about five miles down the road
and he wants to say something but there's this little
voice telling him she's heartbreak in faded jeans
and he says well have a good evening then m'am
and when he pulls out of the station never to return
again he glances in his mirror and sees that she has
stepped off the curb and is thumbing for a ride and
in a New York moment (a pregnant one at that) he says
fuck it and turns the car around and you will write your 
own ending same as we all do in real life and that there's
the kind of poem I like now mister yes I surely do

RUN

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse

My first baseball game

second grade I believe

recess out on the playground

they didn't use a baseball

it was a soccer sized ball

you whacked at it with the bat

and then you ran

that's what I saw the other kids do

you ran

I didn't know one thing about baseball 

I didn't know you were supposed to stop at the base when the ball was being thrown there 

and someone called out SAFE!

or OUT!

Mom's Second Big Mistake 

having shown me nothing 'bout anything

'cept how to be passive aggressive

so I just kept running

running home

because I didn't know 

you know

and the kids thought I was dumb or something

or maybe had a screw loose

'cause next time up I did it again

and they were yelling STOP

but I kept on running 

running home

and I didn't look back

And when it came time to bust out of

that little town 

years down the line

I ran

and kept on running

running away from home 

And I didn't look back 

Last Tango In Timbuktu

BRING A GRIN TO THE FACE OF THAT LOVER OF LITERATURE WITH A QUIRKY SENSE OF HUMOR ON YOUR XMAS SHOPPING LIST...

A WOMAN'S SCENT...FADING

Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

A worldly young man, tainted by love,

railing against the ruling classes,

(promising a chicken in every pot

but offering a payday loan joint on every corner)

drives down a lonely road.

The snow beyond the windows impenetrable.

The wind whipping across the park.

In his mind's ear: 
flute music played

by street musicians from Chile--

portable lives in the nomadic sun.

He hears: The war drums of the Sioux.

He hears: The voice of God singing "Hey Jude."

He wonders if he can reconcile

with the Antichrist in the kitchen.

He remembers when she said "Teach me to love."

They devoured each other like

children with melting candy.

(The just washed dankness of her hair.)

He drives past a billboard that says:

WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH STRETCH MARKS

In his mind it is all compartmentalized--

there are remnants of old lovers in each of these rooms.

And it's so puzzling to be a person

asking why does anything exist?

Time moves imperceptibly

until the world becomes a city full of strangers.

And he wants to be at a ski lodge

in the Grand Tetons, sitting cozy by the fire.

A young woman moves near.

She is an African girl--so lovely

it makes him sad. It is her love

for her youth, and for his,

that draws them together.

Could a dance like this go on forever?

And he passes a billboard that says:

WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH B.O.

And he is back on the island

with Marie--it is where they met.

The alliance of sun and alcohol

so conducive to romance.

His imagination so fertile now,

filled with ghosts and ballerinas.

When he gets home they will talk,

like they never do. He will clear the air.

He will ask if she's having an affair.

And though he knows she is

a sovereign nation unto herself,

they must remain allies to prevent

both their worlds from collapse.

And he knows to some degree that he

will always be searching for the Holy Grail.

He glances at his watch
though he does not want to think about  time--

the only constant in life being the question

of whether love will be there in the morning.

The snow swirls around his car.

On the street a white-haired man

bends haltingly against the wind.

He is almost home.

He passes a billboard that reads:

WE'RE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WHO STILL CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ATE THE WHOLE THING

He parks the car, then tramps

the few steps up to the apartment.

He inserts the key. He opens the door...

A woman's scent, fading.

The past...
the present.. 
a blurry haze. 

The world is on fire.

The funniest thing...

And now he remembers.

Marie has been gone for twenty-five years. 

And he is not the young man anymore.

He is the old one.


This is a revised version of a poem that first appeared here four years ago.

IT'S YESTERDAY ONCE MORE (.doo-be-doo-lang-lang...)

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

Goin back
to a simpler time and place
where at the table
the family says grace
and father knows best

A place where climate change
does not exist
and those greenhouse gas emissions
like the truth
need no regulatin'

Back to a time where
her right to choose
means which pretty dress
in the storefront display window
she will wrap up and take home

Where if we all just stay healthy
there'll be no need
for that costly insurance
just make sure to get
your morning constitutional
in every day

And speaking of the constitution
well, that civil rights amendment 
(# 14 for those keeping score at home)
has not yet been passed
and being civil
means no disobedience--
we'll all get along fine
long as everyone stays in his place

With a chicken in every pot
and a piece riding every hip
don't look at me cross-eyed, boy
don't give me no lip

A land of equal opportunity
where any man
with large enough bills
can rise to the highest office in the land
even if he has no class
(even if he looks like the business end
of a baboon's ass!)

Back to a simpler time
and simple times were meant
for simple minds

So let's play a game of let's pretend
it's the fifties again
don't forget your lunch pail, dad
on your way out the door
and when you get home
mom will have a fresh apple pie
cooling on the window sill

Oh, and remember it's election day
so don't forget to vote
you can get there on your bike...

I LIKE IKE!!!

THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

With her automaton smile
the six o'clock news Barbie
recites a litany of the day's
shootings
stabbings
muggings
rapings
robbings
lootings
burnings 
natural disasters
sewer main ruptures
and one arrest for
spitting on the sidewalk.

The camera zooms in
on a whopper of a loogie
oozing on the concrete
in all its wicked glory.

A young gendarme collects it,
gingerly,
to be analyzed at the lab
so that someone can say
on good authority:
Yep, that's a loogie alright
and tag it "Exhibit A."

The wild-eyed derelict
they've collared
for this egregious offense
manages to fire a parting shot at the camera
a real bullseye that does a 

slooooow

shimmering

hoochie-koochie dance

down the middle of your TV screen--

while the Barbie's pasted-on smile
and glib tone never wavers
like her counterpart on CNN
who dispassionately described
the incineration of eighty-odd
men
women
and children
live as it happened at Waco
for to betray a hint of emotion
would not be impartial
nor professional
when anyone with a whit
of human compassion
would have hung her head and wept.


But that's okay
it's all in a day's work
and it all blends together
after a while anyway...
the real blood you see on the news
looks like the ketchup oozing
in that old burger commercial
from the nineties
and everyone out there
in TV land
is just as numb as you are.

And the guy who spit at you, well
he's only trying to wake you up...
cuz like the old ad once said
If it doesn't get all over the place
it doesn't belong in your face.

NIGHT OF MY WRETCHEDNESS

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Because you need to be somewhere
Because you need to be doing something
Because it's neither here nor there
Except for how it makes you feel
When you stop to think about it

Though you think too much about it
And in the end it doesn't make
A pitiable bit of difference
If you even think about it at all

Cuz you gotta be somewhere
All the time
Thinking about it or not
Total slug or genius
You are still gonna be right HERE
(don't try to be there
you can't be THERE
cuz I'M there 
and no two bodies can occupy the same space
at the same time 
if you get confused go to the map
that will obligingly  point out: "You are HERE!")

Yep
Every fuken day
Of your life
It's right there
Staring you in your fat face
What to do
What to do
That's your existential dilemma
Punky
So think about it
THINK THINK THINK
But not too hard... 

I wouldn't want to see
Your head explode