I thought I was abed.
I felt it in my head.
The pillow hard but round,
a rock upon the ground.
The blanket leaves and weeds,
sufficient to my needs.
The breeze my temp control,
blown slowly through the soul.
My mattress made of dirt.
I think it’s called a yurt.
The street is wide enough for dreams and sounds appropriate,
suggesting poolside guilt in cellar bars and anglo plays,
with subtle buzzing urged by those who know in yards of green
felt heaven beneath smashing neon stars unrolled through
space and smoke, revealing abject memories of pain,
in the blistering spirit of the road and the low moaning rain
of a blinded sky, wherein a wizard might die, calling for you.
Bob was Bobby ’til he learned of palindromes.
For his living spaces, he sought motor homes.
His history was built upon deceptions.
He’d been to some Republican receptions.
And on his wall a Spiro Agnew portrait hung.
He’d fallen under that man’s spell when he was young.
When asked, he’d always tell some vague connection tale.
The truth was that he’d found it at a rummage sale.
Although he came from wealth and had a large bankroll,
he preferred to live like he was on the dole.
"Rich folks just aren’t cool," he’d heard a woman state.
And so, just like a fool, he lived life second rate.
He died before his time, found in some squalid squat.
Murmuring palindromes like mom, dad and tot.
Kid, they will write on your back,
scratch your name on the walls
with your own petrified eyelids.
They told me and they will tell you
to climb up and jump down.
Stares, vague and lifeless,
will be lined up like book backs
on the shelves of your memory.
Terrific dragons will turn to lawnmowers
and castles melt before the sun.
Push on, push on; the dreaded cry
will become a sharpened knife.
Remember your doorways, your shoe size,
your airs. Crouch low in the belly of dreams.
And always keep reaching.
Someday someone will see your hand.
That I cannot play the guitar any better than I do
after fifty years of trying’s disappointing.
Bad hand neurons.
Brain lanes blocked by Mighty Mouse and Whitey Ford.
My only little league hit was a bunt. Live pitching
was very different from pinkball off the garage door.
Hand-eye coordination disturbed by strange vibration.
Probably "Sweet Little Sixteen." Chuck often took the blame.
And bad sneakers was always a good excuse.