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

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

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

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

Oh

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?