i am the hero of my own life
without a family without a wife
but nevertheless plenty of strife
for want of wear i was lacking
the town i was sacking
my mind i was racking
another round into the chamber
of my sordid delight
no end in sight night after night
i burnt the candle at both ends
at once twice even thrice
removed from the reality
that affects mere mortals
i the hero
my very own nero
setting the world ablaze
in an Afghan hash haze
and all those sorry assed days
come to naught
for what i sought
could not be bought
or at least so i had been taught
by the esteemed grey heads
in tales told to the young
who were only young for a moment
in the time that was mine
but eternal the kernel
of truth that remained
to inform my soul
of a better daze and hazier ways
along my own private path
to heaven's gate
only to end prostrate
from the pain in my prostate
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Deep down inside
I have this thing
That makes me vomit
When I am sick
I fill it up
And let it work
Without a quirk
A marvel it is
That I hear but
Never see it
Sometime's it's quite
In the way that it works
At other times it speaks to me
It rumbles and roars
In my drawers
Oh pardon me
To be polite
It's no delight
To take a slight
As the wind goes out
Oh what a fright
I have this thing
That makes me vomit
When I am sick
I fill it up
And let it work
Without a quirk
A marvel it is
That I hear but
Never see it
Sometime's it's quite
In the way that it works
At other times it speaks to me
It rumbles and roars
In my drawers
Oh pardon me
To be polite
It's no delight
To take a slight
As the wind goes out
Oh what a fright
Reefer Madness
Mentally or physically ill
And still a pill of a bill
I have to swallow
In a world that's completely hollow
I'm forced to wallow.
To find a cure
I may have to endure
My allotted four score
Years or more.
Sure I'm sore
To the core.
The cost of health
Has taken my wealth.
The dentist drills deep
Into my pockets
While I'm asleep
So all of my pearly whites
I can keep.
There should be rights
And many are the nights
I've thought of the delights
Within my sights.
But then the pain
Of nothin' to gain
Only the dreary rain
Again and again.
What the hell
If I break this spell
Will life rebel
Pal Mall.
I've smoked and token
On the finest weed
That's my real need
That the voter should heed!
On this thin reed
I'll cast my seed
Without any need
For wholesale greed-
For this I plead!
Mentally or physically ill
And still a pill of a bill
I have to swallow
In a world that's completely hollow
I'm forced to wallow.
To find a cure
I may have to endure
My allotted four score
Years or more.
Sure I'm sore
To the core.
The cost of health
Has taken my wealth.
The dentist drills deep
Into my pockets
While I'm asleep
So all of my pearly whites
I can keep.
There should be rights
And many are the nights
I've thought of the delights
Within my sights.
But then the pain
Of nothin' to gain
Only the dreary rain
Again and again.
What the hell
If I break this spell
Will life rebel
Pal Mall.
I've smoked and token
On the finest weed
That's my real need
That the voter should heed!
On this thin reed
I'll cast my seed
Without any need
For wholesale greed-
For this I plead!
Edgar Lee Masters
You died the same year
In which I was born
The place of death and life near
A city made famous by Whitman.
1950 was the year
Camden the shitty city.
You were one of the masters
Of your own time
(And on your own dime)
Which stopped for no man,
But paid you a visit as it did me
At two different ends
Of the cosmic spectrum.
A lawyer by trade
Given to tirade
With Clarence Darrow
Your partner.
Marital lapses
Made you human
Of time and eternity
You spoke and broke with.
Back to Spoon River
The ultimate flow of life
Brought you
Back from that nursing home
In Melrose Park PA
That you had no doubt
Been shuffled off to.
I'm just a dead man squalkin'
Out here a walkin'
Sister Helen Prejohn
Say a prayer for me someday
And carry me back
To my own Spoon River.
You died the same year
In which I was born
The place of death and life near
A city made famous by Whitman.
1950 was the year
Camden the shitty city.
You were one of the masters
Of your own time
(And on your own dime)
Which stopped for no man,
But paid you a visit as it did me
At two different ends
Of the cosmic spectrum.
A lawyer by trade
Given to tirade
With Clarence Darrow
Your partner.
Marital lapses
Made you human
Of time and eternity
You spoke and broke with.
Back to Spoon River
The ultimate flow of life
Brought you
Back from that nursing home
In Melrose Park PA
That you had no doubt
Been shuffled off to.
I'm just a dead man squalkin'
Out here a walkin'
Sister Helen Prejohn
Say a prayer for me someday
And carry me back
To my own Spoon River.
Love's Eternal Hardship!
Standing outside your hollowed Mausoleum
In Harley Cemetery across from the Whitman's Chocolate factory,
I realize the wormhole in the social universe
That you created
For people just like me
Is just the beginning-
A commodius, vicus of eternal recirculation
Back to Delaware Riverrun.
Camden, you broke my heart,
And then made it better again.
And again the bittersweet chocolate memory
Of your sad reality
Haunts me down through the even sadder ages
Of my long lost youth.
I have no idea as to when
Lilacs last in your dooryard bloomed;
And O captain, My Captain
You have not fallen completely silent and dead
Because your Adam's apple has fallen from the Bodhi Tree.
Rather, you have just entered into a new
And impossibly final
Cosmic dimension
Both in and out of space and time.
Of Knowledge and Being you speak even now,
Down through the ages to come
That remain as much part and parcel to
The ever present
Eternal Now
As the Leaves of Grass that rustle in the wind.
Standing outside your hollowed Mausoleum
In Harley Cemetery across from the Whitman's Chocolate factory,
I realize the wormhole in the social universe
That you created
For people just like me
Is just the beginning-
A commodius, vicus of eternal recirculation
Back to Delaware Riverrun.
Camden, you broke my heart,
And then made it better again.
And again the bittersweet chocolate memory
Of your sad reality
Haunts me down through the even sadder ages
Of my long lost youth.
I have no idea as to when
Lilacs last in your dooryard bloomed;
And O captain, My Captain
You have not fallen completely silent and dead
Because your Adam's apple has fallen from the Bodhi Tree.
Rather, you have just entered into a new
And impossibly final
Cosmic dimension
Both in and out of space and time.
Of Knowledge and Being you speak even now,
Down through the ages to come
That remain as much part and parcel to
The ever present
Eternal Now
As the Leaves of Grass that rustle in the wind.
November 1963
Being in Washington, D.C.
That day
Made my heart sink,
Not with fear of the unknown
But rather with fear in regard
To what was known but unseen.
It stalked America and the world
That grey day in November
As they moved the gleaming bronze coffin
Of the dead President
From the White House
To the Capitol Rotunda.
I saw it pass me on the street.
It was the same U.S. Army caisson
That had transferred the body
Of President Abraham Lincoln
Whose sacrificed body had
Made the same sad journey
A century earlier.
It was hauled from the White House
To the Capitol
By six strong black horses,
While tethered to the gun carriage
Was the same rider-less horse
That had followed Alexander through Babylon
As well as Abraham
With one polished black boot still in the stirrup
But pointing backward toward our loss.
It was history's decision
That great should follow great
Down the same solemn alley-way of Fate.
It was a day to remember,
It was a day to mark down for all eternity.
It was November 1963.
And it was a time amongst the ages to remember.
I became a small part of history
On that day,
As I settled into growing
And becoming
What every thirteen year old boy
Is expected to become
Whether he likes it or not.
For my part I chose not,
And my memory of that day
Was part of that not.
I saw Mrs. Kennedy pass
And all the other assorted
Dignitaries and state officials
From far and wide.
Kings, presidents, movie stars,
And the vast cavalcade
Of all the world's illuminati
Who were resplendent in their isolation
From We
The People.
According to Mr. X,
It was just certain unkind chickens
Coming home to roost,
But for me
It was my own private window
On history.
It was a history of crime and misfortune
That I would dedicate my only long lost life
To trying to understand
In a way that would make me proud
To have once been a part of this long lost
Cavalcade of Life
Down and through
The twisted sinews of Fate
To where I am today
Fully awake at last and wondering
At the vast and beauteous spectacle of it all.
It was November.
It was 1963,
And the grey of that day
Matched perfectly the grey
In my soul.
Being in Washington, D.C.
That day
Made my heart sink,
Not with fear of the unknown
But rather with fear in regard
To what was known but unseen.
It stalked America and the world
That grey day in November
As they moved the gleaming bronze coffin
Of the dead President
From the White House
To the Capitol Rotunda.
I saw it pass me on the street.
It was the same U.S. Army caisson
That had transferred the body
Of President Abraham Lincoln
Whose sacrificed body had
Made the same sad journey
A century earlier.
It was hauled from the White House
To the Capitol
By six strong black horses,
While tethered to the gun carriage
Was the same rider-less horse
That had followed Alexander through Babylon
As well as Abraham
With one polished black boot still in the stirrup
But pointing backward toward our loss.
It was history's decision
That great should follow great
Down the same solemn alley-way of Fate.
It was a day to remember,
It was a day to mark down for all eternity.
It was November 1963.
And it was a time amongst the ages to remember.
I became a small part of history
On that day,
As I settled into growing
And becoming
What every thirteen year old boy
Is expected to become
Whether he likes it or not.
For my part I chose not,
And my memory of that day
Was part of that not.
I saw Mrs. Kennedy pass
And all the other assorted
Dignitaries and state officials
From far and wide.
Kings, presidents, movie stars,
And the vast cavalcade
Of all the world's illuminati
Who were resplendent in their isolation
From We
The People.
According to Mr. X,
It was just certain unkind chickens
Coming home to roost,
But for me
It was my own private window
On history.
It was a history of crime and misfortune
That I would dedicate my only long lost life
To trying to understand
In a way that would make me proud
To have once been a part of this long lost
Cavalcade of Life
Down and through
The twisted sinews of Fate
To where I am today
Fully awake at last and wondering
At the vast and beauteous spectacle of it all.
It was November.
It was 1963,
And the grey of that day
Matched perfectly the grey
In my soul.
Dope Daze
And crazy ways
The real deal schlemiel
Is always a steal.
These days the rays
Of hope and desire
Point in another direction
Much, much slier-
If not higher.
Altogether the point being
That seeing can never mean
Just agreeing.
To just sit here
And act stupid
Is Always
My best bet.
Yet against the forces
Of sheer innocence
And absolute desire
There can be no attire
In which to wrap
The human sole.
And alone
Without desire
I stumble on
In muck and meier.
Always the buyer
Without desire
Looking to get higher.
And crazy ways
The real deal schlemiel
Is always a steal.
These days the rays
Of hope and desire
Point in another direction
Much, much slier-
If not higher.
Altogether the point being
That seeing can never mean
Just agreeing.
To just sit here
And act stupid
Is Always
My best bet.
Yet against the forces
Of sheer innocence
And absolute desire
There can be no attire
In which to wrap
The human sole.
And alone
Without desire
I stumble on
In muck and meier.
Always the buyer
Without desire
Looking to get higher.
Memories
Memories are funny things,
Often obscured-
By gossamer wings.
They take flight
In the dark of night
And bring us back down to Earth
In a terrible fright.
Memories are fields
With bountiful yields.
They need to be nourished
If they are ever to be cherished.
My earliest memory
Was of a Roman life
Existing through time
With powers a rife!
Thunderous boots
In a torch light parade
Would that I wish
This were just a charade.
Like the beat of my heart
Of me it was part
As this new life did start.
Memories are funny things,
Often obscured-
By gossamer wings.
They take flight
In the dark of night
And bring us back down to Earth
In a terrible fright.
Memories are fields
With bountiful yields.
They need to be nourished
If they are ever to be cherished.
My earliest memory
Was of a Roman life
Existing through time
With powers a rife!
Thunderous boots
In a torch light parade
Would that I wish
This were just a charade.
Like the beat of my heart
Of me it was part
As this new life did start.
It's a War Out There!
There's a lot of things
People call conventional wisdom
Which properly speaking-
Ain't no wisdom at all,
(But rather its opposite.)
All whites are racist
All blacks are lazy
All women are whores
All men are pigs
Jews are Shylocks
Italians-mafiosos
This list can get long
And tedious
Its the way that this
Capitalist culture
Teaches of to hate one another,
It's the American way.
Does it bother you that
I want to call a spade a spade
Without be called a racist?
Does it bother you
That I'm so unreconstructed
As a male
That I'm more attracted to girls
Than to football?
Evidence of being a fag
Or not being a fag
What does it matter?
As Rodney asked-
"Can't we all just get along?"
You have to go along
To get along sometimes
With the stupidity
Of other people
And the dumb
Unwashed masses of asses
Out there in the hinterland
Of my mind's imagination
Have more wisdom
At their disposal
Than all the wise men and sages
That ever existed
Down through the sorry assed ages.
There's a lot of things
People call conventional wisdom
Which properly speaking-
Ain't no wisdom at all,
(But rather its opposite.)
All whites are racist
All blacks are lazy
All women are whores
All men are pigs
Jews are Shylocks
Italians-mafiosos
This list can get long
And tedious
Its the way that this
Capitalist culture
Teaches of to hate one another,
It's the American way.
Does it bother you that
I want to call a spade a spade
Without be called a racist?
Does it bother you
That I'm so unreconstructed
As a male
That I'm more attracted to girls
Than to football?
Evidence of being a fag
Or not being a fag
What does it matter?
As Rodney asked-
"Can't we all just get along?"
You have to go along
To get along sometimes
With the stupidity
Of other people
And the dumb
Unwashed masses of asses
Out there in the hinterland
Of my mind's imagination
Have more wisdom
At their disposal
Than all the wise men and sages
That ever existed
Down through the sorry assed ages.
In the Dessert ( A Parody on a Poem of the Same Title by Stephen Crane}
In the dessert
I saw a creature, naked, bistial
Who squatted on my ground cinnamon
Held his hands in his hart
Laid a fart
And ate it.
I said, "Is it good friend?"
"It feels better-better," he answered;
"And I like it
Because I feel better,
And because it's my fart."
In the dessert
I saw a creature, naked, bistial
Who squatted on my ground cinnamon
Held his hands in his hart
Laid a fart
And ate it.
I said, "Is it good friend?"
"It feels better-better," he answered;
"And I like it
Because I feel better,
And because it's my fart."
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