It will be dark too soon for me,
in my small boat set out to sea,
in search of some eternal shore,
more likely on the ocean’s floor,
revenge for lobsters and food fish.
Yes, death’s an unappealing dish,
but, alas, one we all must eat,
with just desserts found down six feet,
and no need now to tip the waiter.
There’s no chance you’ll come back later.
In my dream, a bright red raptor
slept quietly, dreaming of man.
Somewhere in the middle
were history, reality.
Then the worm of time slowly
worked its way toward consciousness,
within which, it was realized,
I momentarily preferred the dream.
Longtime Benito, the fever dream catcher,
kept in his kitchen a cauldron of brine.
Thus fish were entertained periodically
and from their bones he built himself a shrine.
Forced to the sidelines by random rag pickers,
he felt it his right to get more playing time.
His vision was keen but his sense of smell thwarted.
He’d play for a quarter but not for a dime.
His house was of brick and his bed was of feathers,
donated by birds who were passing in flight.
He wrapped his possessions in camouflage tethers
and felt that the war in his head was all right.
But one day Benito crossed over the river.
He did not come back for a moonful of days.
His door was unlocked and he saw with a shiver
his dear lair had been taken over by strays.
These wild dogs and thin cats were immune to reason.
They would not be swayed by his logic or threats.
And so he deemed this time his space sharing season,
accepting this outright invasion of pets.
The last anyone saw of Longtime Benito,
he carried on his back a pack of his goods.
He sat at the bar nursing one last mojito,
then silently walked off and into the woods.
Sugar foresters plead from the confection zone.
Record players scream the sound of bone on bone.
No one knows you’re home if you unplug the phone.
The current is succinctly out of time,
the vestibule encased by mordant rime.
Tell the mailman you’ll not be accepting bills.
Move your tent out of the mall into the hills.
Live on wine, fruit of the vine and daffodils.
Do not excuse abuse or space or time.
Predominantly talk in codes or rhyme.
Put the zeros where the ones all used to be.
Never stand alone but always take a knee.
Heirloom art and spare parts are now history.
Refuse to live on daylight savings time.
Insist a broken clock is not a crime.
Refine your bailiwick to one small spot.
Sell air space on your noble microdot.
Measure life in terms of cold and hot.
Sing that song about rosemary, sage and thyme.
Answer every question with ballet or mime.
The local pub burned down today.
There’s no more karaoke.
I know there’s many who would say
the practice is quite hokey.
But those who lift their voice in song
once every Thursday night
don’t really care if notes are wrong,
as long as they sound right.
And all their friends were there to cheer
as if they were a star.
But now there’s ashes on the floor
and no roof on the bar.
And so it goes, the sound of voices
longing in charred wood.
Often times the tunes were bad,
yet the intentions good.