SIVVY

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I think of all the decades
I eked it out
and scratched it out
and to what end 
I ask myself  
but I did it
and I still don't know
why you couldn't manage
the simple multi-tasking
of putting one foot forward
and then the other one
and then the other one again
it's called life
and I still don't know why
with all you had
and what you left behind
you didn't want it.

Yes, I'm pissed at you
having seen most of your pictures 
and there are a lot of them
(I can't...I can't...get over 
 that white bathing suit)
and falling in love with a dead
legend is strictly the purview of
hopeless romantics and I raise
my hand
no longer
ashamed 
having been around
a few live ones in my time.

And you need to know that there
is the person and there is the legend
and the two don't necessarily have
to have a lot to do with one another. 

But the legend
rolls head over ass downhill
in all that white powder 
until it becomes larger than life 
or at least as big
as Frosty's balls and 
that's disproportionate to what
any human can carry.

In you last collection
you mentioned carbon monoxide
multiple times--
you were dropping hints
like Hansel and Gretel 
with a loaf of Wonder Bread.

Yes, you weren't right in the head.
Is that all we're going to say?
Is that where we should leave it?

Maybe, like me,  
you asked yourself
to what end...to what end... 
and saw the answer come up empty.

You wrote: We should meet in another life,
we should meet in air, me and you.

I'm just crazy enough to think
you might have been talking to me.

CONTRIBUTION

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Note: Today's poem is an encore presentation...one I originally posted way back in 2011. Time flies. Which is what this one is all about. Among my current readers, I am certain there are many, perhaps most, who haven't seen it. So please add your comments, if so moved, to the "vintage" comments already staring back at us like a sepia-tinged photo from the past at the bottom of the page.

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.

BE MY VALENTINE

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

February 14th arrives...

Like Audrey Hepburn 
crying in the rain
like Rita Hayworth
dancing into your dreams
like a golden slipper
slipping through your fingers.

Love will take you nowhere
but it can get you through the night.

Like Kim Novak
and William Holden
slow dancing to "Moonglow"
like Bill Murray and
Scarlett Johansson tripping
through Tokyo
like Brando dropping his pants
on the dance floor
like Sylvia Plath
singing "Nothin' Says Lovin'
Like Something From The Oven"
like a mysterious painting
of Laura hanging on the wall...


I made you up inside my head.

Who cares.
Let's go to bed.

BREAKFAST TIME IN AMERICA

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

Corn flakes get so soggy
so fast
not like grape nuts
which will hold up for a while.
So be quick with your flakes
and let your nuts soak a while.

Do you miss any of the houses
you used to live in?
Or any of the mouses
that stayed there with you?
Or did you just methodically murder them?

Order. 
Chaos. 
You want fries with that?

The fakers and the fakirs come and go
charming your snake for a while
until someone yells:
Put that thing down!

What will be your saving grace
a la Steve Miller in a psychedelic haze,
and if you only save face
by saying grace
will that be enough for you?

Life is a game
pick a struggle
take a side
or just sit in the stands
drink beer
and shout obscenities.

To work on the work
is all there is left.
And all that matters.

ALONG FOR THE RIDE

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

This ship is sinking fast

women and Chaldeans

into the lifeboats!

Lucky for me 
the Evil Jungle Princess

is along for the ride
oozing poetry

from every pore

mischievously cryptic

grin inducing
a morbid fixation

(like Jackson Browne)

with lawyers in love

the wayward 

esoteric word

dropping out of the blue

and landing where you'd least expect 

like a North Korean missile 

gone wonky into the sea  

Look it up, peasants!

I can hear her say

Turning pit bosses
from pit bulls
into puppy dogs
the Princess floats 
through the crowd

Roulette as a spectator sport
is infinitely more economical
the house advantage 
reduced to zilch 
the grizzled veterans 
laying it on the line
grimace and groan
as The Princess calls out
psychically selected numbers
from the sidelines 
too early in the game for money
where your mouth is but not for
wild thing...I think you MOVE me!

And yes he's likely crazy

we agreed
but it makes for some intriguing times

as everything he throws up

as a distraction

merely results in another

call to action 

though I've tried to stay

above the fray

in my detached and graceful way

for if Nietzche is right

and we live the exact same life

over and over

then I'm for grinnin'

toastin'
and singin'

let that wheel spin round
just one more time!

A FITTING END

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--d'Verse Poets Pub

I wasn't born into sin.
I created that for myself
and had a damn good time at it,
thank you.

Oh, you'll be happy to learn
that here--the Las Vegas
of the solar system
(if not the galaxy)-- 
what happens on earth
stays on earth.

So 'ave at it boys and girls--
everything's permitted.
How do I know?
Because it exists!

HA!

And to think at one time
I wanted to be a squid farmer.
So maybe I missed my calling
but in my present role of
guru/ philosopher and Certified
Bra Fitter, I can serve the world
on dual levels.

A fragment in time
becomes a fragment
in your poem.
String enough fragments together
and voila!
The question being should there be
a unifying thread?

Is there a unifying thread
that runs through your shirt?
(That's some nice threads, man!)


Einstein looked and looked
for a unified theory of the universe.
He never found it.

So my advice to you is to
go out there and be the best
squid farmer you can be.
And leave these larger questions 
of life to us professionals.

And I do hope you'll come
 in for a fitting soon.

NO THOUGHT WENT INTO THE MAKING OF THIS POEM

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I have been able to successfully
live in the moment for up to

30 seconds at a time
you just push every thought

out of your mind
it becomes blank like

the page I'm writing this on
before I fill it up

you become keenly aware of
sounds at that point

the sounds you normally block out
with your monkey mind

going a mile a second
push it past the half-minute 

mark and congrats...
you are a zen master!

thoughts are insidious
even when you don't think

you are thinking
you are thinking about

not thinking 
and all manner of things 

like a poem you are thinking of writing
about not thinking

and I tried so not to think while writing this 
and I do think it shows

HUMONGOUS BURNT SIENNA TURD

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--dVerse Poets Pub

How sadly festive is the geriatric pensione!
Does the pensione make you shiver?
Does it?

I saw the seaside sentinels
Of my generation fall.
How I mourned the old hotel.
How I mourned our breezy apartment
Overlooking the shoreline slum.
It makes me shiver now.

The pensione smells 
On account of old farts
Blasting off farts.

The cafe is a pig trough.
Down down down 
Into the bowels they waddle
The chubby, the oily, the endomorphic.

I saw the flavor of my island destroyed.
Are you upset by how 
greasy the food is now
and how it all tastes like McShitburger?
Does it tear you apart to see
the once proud resort
pulled under by a tsunami of salami?

A humongous
Burnt sienna turd?

The winds blew through
But they didn't erase the memories.
So blow out the candles
Another year has passed.
The die is cast.

The pensione awaits.

ON THE LINE BETWEEN AUTUMN AND WINTER

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

I.

Between what could have been
and what was
lies The Land Of Regret
where the hotel service is lousy
the beds are never made
(the sheets get so tangled)
and it's always raining.
You can go there 
for a visit
but don't stay too long
and never buy 
a one-way ticket
or you will never come back. 

II.

I've had more embarrassing moments
than you
due to a proclivity
for winging it 
in situations that required
a boy scout's preparedness
counting on some magic
unrealism to carry the day
and when it didn't
(which was 99 percent)
I developed a taste for the raw egg
that was dripping down my face
and so I wince
when reviewing the past 
but that die is cast
life is still a blast.

III. 

I journeyed back 
to my little town
population two hundred six
in its heyday
to find it in ruins
the little cafe where all the kids
fed the jukebox and pinball machine
workin' on those night moves
at least in their heads
now just a storehouse
for some rickety furniture
the pool hall 
gone
the people I knew 
gone
it was like a war memorial
in the quiet aftermath 
of a bloody conflict 
where I literally fought
to survive as an 
outcast and a loner
and yet have always felt
better off for being battle tested.

IV.

I stand behind my life 
the way the man who follows
the elephant down the street
with a shovel and a wheelbarrow
stands behind his work. 


V.

No one is unlovable--
if you don't believe it
check out the couples
down at your local Walmart.

VI.

I can write about old lovers

family 

and friends

with no trepidation

and I do.

They don't read my work.

That

intimate stranger

I leave to you.

VII. 

I've searched for meaning

in this carnival world 
that surrounds me
only to learn
there's nothing to do
but join in the dance.

VIII.

It shifted to winter seamlessly
there was nothing you could point to
that said you've crossed over
but somewhere along the line
you did of course
autumn days still mild
nights portending of what's to come
the scent of wood smoke in the air
then one morning you awaken
and the world around you 
has grown cold
and you brace 
for December's finality.

TUNNEL VISION

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

You can always find someone
to feel sorry for in The Naked City
someone who feels exposed
even when fully clothed because
those with the gift of vision
can see right through them
and I, Clark Kent, know about this
better than most

I roam these streets by day
(no fly-by-night superhero am I)
the people see me
as they have seen my alter-ego
so many times on the TV
if not in person
rescuing some ducks
or some sluts
from the gutter
and they never once put two 
and two together 
that I am he
and he is me
by the mere fact that I am wearing
these dorky glasses
I mean come on
really
it just shows you how easily
people are fooled
as no one even once ever said
you know you look a little like him
take your glasses off for a moment
it's why nobody sees
that the emperor has no clothes
as they grope blindly
along the tunnel 
in a dream 
within
a dream
within
a dream
here in The Naked City