Half Out of Water

I am working on tomorrow, or the day after.
It is sad that I have not been invented.
You told me that I am not wanted.
I believe the rain is colder.
No wonder feels like
this slip of tongue
under the eye
and all,
yet.

(An occasional poem written for the 

2010 Paseo Arts Association Awards Ceremony & Banquet)

A Pleasure 

It's a pleasure.

It's a pleasure to be.

To be sure, it’s pleasant.

Being and all that.

Pleased to be here

and to be heard.

What's it worth?

It's worth a try.

What a Pleasure!

Here we are, still—

perfect reflections of

the primordial thrill.

Mirrored in the mire of  DNA.

What was it Santayana

used to say— “intelligence

is but one centrifugal ray

darting from the slime

to the star.” And he says,

“protoplasmic pleasure.”

Every cell full of

its own joy in living.

Joie de vivre—

as the British put it.

Every bit of life scintillates.

When all these cells

gather together

it must be a something—

a parade, an occasion.

A vacation:

The sunshine spreads

and I see cells chillin’

each under a tiny parasol.

They sport sunglasses.

They lounge on a deck,

which is some body.

Blood is the Red Sea.

The belly’s a cruise ship,

Royal Caribbean liner.

I am one happy being,

being here—like a premier:

Roll out the red rugs.

Throw a few kisses.

Gentle with those hugs.

This is what this is.

Lights! Camera! Action!

Let the public clamor.

Tonight is not ordinary.

Tonight is all for glamour,

a formal occasion,

a rare affair, a function,

even an event.

This special evening,

(did I mention?)

this is all for art.

Art is the object—

thought made real.

This is the big deal

and it is a thrill.

It’s the part that stirs the heart.

What’s the matter?

Art makes it better.

It had better. – It will.

It all seems so real.

Thrilling to the core

It’s how we feel.

We couldn’t be more.

It’s the buzz

between “will be” and “was.”

It’s a cellular celebration,

singular and world wide.

Teasing text, I type

with just my pinky fingers

on a keyboard the size

of a matchbook. Striking.

My poems become electrons,

showers of sparks in the dark.

They glitter in the sun.

A life magnifies in dewdrops.

But this is bigger, bigger

than all of us.

Bigger than life, you know,

gallery sized. That’s huge,

something like liberty.

Happiness, I guess. Yes.

I’m ready for my 3D-Imax,

high-def, Mr. Spielberg.

Bring on the elephants, acrobats;

the sane, the absurd.

My expressions grow abstract.

What’s the right word?

Which ones are left?

Let me picture them.

Real to real, it’s like

you can almost touch

the ideal. Reach. Feel.

Life is a roll in the hay.

Lovers for a day.  So.

Let music fill the ear.

Let color catch the eye.

There are reasons to live,

and this is very why.

We join the occasion

(in progress now). We

lift our glasses high.

Toast artistic creation

in all its manifestations.

We laugh. We cry. We sigh.

At last this is what we know:

What you feel is all  you show.

I’m overwhelmed in gratitude.

Gracious, and I’m grateful

for this pleasure.

But one last emoticon before I’m done : )

as Albert, in Bye Bye Birdie,

sang, “put a happy face on.”

Now, to the fun—

Honor to each and all,

and thanks,

everyone.

Fruit

So, we stopped by the Happly Apple
for some ruhbarb pie.
Scotty had on his overalls
and was beating pans with spoons.
The cream was fresh.
Betty whipped it up good.
That must've been what started it.
We thought heaven was
just around the corner.
Then Bob got mad at Sam.
I don't know who said what,
I just know the taste got bitter.

Line

The muddy river hides my tracks.
Joe says he's a snake herder.
We'll fry serpent tonight.
Wheels go around.
Nothing moves.
The moon
spits.

After Illes Balears

Moon dims, rays
rondo blue lights
across my lagoon.

Music from mandolins
or worn out guitars
reflect the few stars.

Night whips clouds
like high, thin gods.
I dance in down,
thistle and mist.

Fantazy

O, mechanical monkeys
are swinging after me.
And they are all headless.
And I really need to pee.

I run into the jungle
and climb a plastic tree.
It's coconuts are silver.
It winds up with a key.

The elephant drinks cola
and trumpets across the sea.
Buddha rings a bell, so
it must be time for tea.

The panther hides in jelly.
At night he's hard to see.
Yes, the rainbow is a halo.
If you're not in jail-be free.

It’s a Date

(Barcarolle)

Walking back
the path along
Creaky Creek,
I swear there’s
neon in the water,
dark-green neon,
spelling out
R-I-P-P-L-E-S
like neon does.

The fish flash,
while wild
leaves laugh.
Insects sigh.
Birds nest
in binoculars.
Walk back like
we say. We
agree to meet.

—Noon, at the
Point of No
Return.
Hello.

Costumes

The young guy at work says he
is going to dress up like
me for Halloween.
I am too.
Boo
!

Amuse me.

Is there anything more private than a poem?
This public confession that may or may not be fiction-
     this excess of intellect, brute emotion and archetype?
How else can the soul whisper/screem into the variant air?
Clouds are more real and less dangerous.
Rocks are no more substantial.

Deputy Do Dah ran down the road,
dirt and his heels and rocks at
his toes. Ran eight hours for
nothing and yelled at the
sun. He had a pocket
full of bullets but
none for his
gun. This
is his
in.

You
stone.
You rock.
You pebble
in the heron's
beak. You grain
of sun on the beach.
Confuse skin and flame.

Had a care.
Did.
Don't.
You?

Fashion

She had one of those new faces
that looked more beautiful
when slightly bruised--
that color of skin,
as she is seen
in French
maga
zine
s.

The Child's Confession

Baby ate a fiddle back.
Puppy's in the pond.
Daddy had a heart attack.
Who's the with my mom?

Couldn't get to school today,
Not with a bloody nose.
See, the man who likes to play
By taking off my clothes.

Living in a mobile home,
Living in the park,
I don't like to be alone,
Especially in this dark.

Motion

Parties appear
and then vanish.
For a moment it seems someone
say somethingin Spanish.
Appointments
are sharpened
and then dulled.
Expectation is denied;
love overruled.

The Frog

Look at that old poet
sitting on a log
by my pond.
How thrilled he seems
when I jump in.
He mouths, "Plop."
I make ripples.
He writes poems.

How Do You View?

What do you care about
the brick path
I walk down
with this water bucket?
Do you care about
the pot of basil
that needs the water?

Do you care about me-
how my bare feet feel?
Is it the joy
of being sympathetic,
the sensation
of your feet
and some other
brick path?
The sun
warms
even the shade.

And what a beautiful bag of blood you are,
my guttsy muscle, my skin-glistening friend.
Come, let us wrinkle together.
I have breath to share.
I know the place just beyond apprehension
where you want to be touched.
Lets find water and submerge.
Lets live the urge.

I Bike up

morning shade

alley to work,

the bird,

the squirrel,

the young man

who says,

"Hello, sir."

What did

I forget?

Where you going, boa,
snaking around like a prune in the night.
I got some toenails for you to cut.
I got a cup of milk for you to boil.
All you want is your rat's ass
on a silver platter.
That'll happen in Natches, Lord.
And you can stitch that in polyblend.