The Dynamics Of Tension

For years you lived in solitude
Yet you made no effort at self improvement,
Your Howard Hughes attitude
Served you well,

So what makes you think
That anyone would be surprised that your
Mind went on the blink,
While you spent the last three days in Hell?

There is a certain amount of tension
That accompanies your deliberate movement
Out of temporary suspension
Of your life of living in a cell,

You realize that you’re rather crude
But you’re not any kind of regular dude
When you go to see your shrink
Then vomit in the kitchen sink,
Entering into your old dimension
Of not wanting any outside attention,
Casting about your mystic spell
From the inner cave where you dwell,

You might have thought
That you would never be caught
In this somewhat embarrassing situation,
That your actions though irrelevant
Would turn out to be malevolent
Or that you would be just another human iteration.

Translation Taken From A Fictitious Pottery Shard

Oh, Melancholy!
Oh, Woe!
You have left me lying here
In the dust,
The strings of my lute are broken,
Yet I have songs,
Are they to remain unsung?

It was only yesterday
I was the favorite of the Court,
Today I am nothing,
Was it the wine?

Where is the ship that can take me from here?
Take me to new countries
Where I am unknown,
Where my lyrics
Have not become trite,
Where I can plug in my Fender Strat
To my Bluesman amp,
Soaring high upon the neck
Of the Muse,
What?! What words are these?
Unknown to me
Coming from some strange place
Yet discovered?
What is yonder green light approaching?
A ship that sails in the air?
Surely this is strange!

When The Full Moon Is In Your 12th House

You are not afraid of hidden things,
Things like spiders or invaders from Mars,
Only humans provide you with
Questions about what may befall you,
So you limit your contact
Taking on the mystical realm
Rather than the secular,
Your problems are yours alone
Until you let them bubble to the surface
To embarrass you
Or to convince others that they are right
About your craziness
To the point of insanity,
You keep waiting for the Green Light of Success
To arrive at your preordained spot
To carry you away
To stardom
Or the Red Rectangle Tavern at the
Edge of the Universe,
So be it, you say,
Take me now!
Lift me up on high!
I’ll croon like Sinatra singing
“Fly Me To The Moon,” as I go:
To reside with the adepts
In the palace of Kuan Yin,
Bathe in the Big Dipper,
Wrestle the Great Bear,
Spend eternity
Chasing the Dragon.

Living Like A Recluse

The black SUV crept down the country road,
The old farmer became wary
Hearing the rocks pop away from the tires,
Seeing the arms sticking out of the windows
Like spider legs,
Writhing and pointing,
He could just barely hear the conversation
From his hidden vantage point
Under the old cardboard box,
He liked to sleep there in the early afternoon
Then get up late at night to prowl around
Looking for a drink, and maybe a lady friend,

“We could build a nice horse barn there, honey,”
He heard the woman say,
“Yes, and a big in-ground pool over there,”
The old farmer cringed and rustled the leaves,
He hoped they hadn’t heard him,
He liked it cool and quiet and a little damp,
He also knew that this would happen,
Foretold by the discarded Heineken beer can,
Before the onslaught of development
There had only been Busch Lite
Or Old Milwaukee cans,
He liked to drag those into his lair
To smell and taste the rancid beer
A drop at a time,

The old farmer, skin brown from years in the Sun,
Crept out from under the cardboard,
Brought out the fiddle that he kept on his back,
Began playing a hoedown,
Heading straight for the city folks
His beady eyes trained on the arm sticking out the window,
They didn’t see him, they never do, he thought
As he gave the arm a prick with the end of the bow,
There, that takes care of that,
He said to himself as he backed into his house,
The old fiddle slung on his back,
Crawling into the Old Milwaukee can
As the black SUV sped back into town.

The Misogynist

He loaded up the salami and boloney sandwich
With hot mustard and jalapeno peppers,
Picked up the newspaper
Reading about the recent decrease in
Domestic violence in Russia,
Only because it’s not reported,
Fine, he thought,
Who cares about Russian women anyway,

Riding down Southwest Trafficway
On his new Harley Fatboy
He ogled the young girl
In the restored ’69 Mustang,
Pulled up next to her at the stop sign at
Ward Parkway,
Putting his hand on her car door,
Nice car, he said,
She drove off taking his hand with her,

Picking up his golf bag
He left the house in an uproar,
Smitty would be waiting for him as usual
So they could talk about how
Really screwed up women are,
They wiped off the shaft of their putters,
Washed their balls,
Only to find a foursome of chattering women
Teeing off in front of them,

Out in the workshop
The latest copy of Pantyhose Magazine
Laid sealed in its plastic wrapper
Next to the ’39 Buick grill,
He thought about how the car would look,
“When he got her the way he wanted her”,
How he would take her for a spin,
Knowing this lady would do what he wanted
With no backtalk and no expectations.

He Rolled Snake Eyes The Day He Was Born

Psalm 58:3-5

The wicked are estranged from the womb;
They go astray as soon as they are born,
Speaking lies.
Their poison is like the poison of a serpent;
They are like the deaf cobra
That stops its ear,
Which will not heed the voice of charmers,
Charming ever so skillfully.

He Rolled Snake Eyes The Day He Was Born

It wasn’t his fault
He was handed the dice
That nobody blew on,
He only clutched them in a baby's hand,
Reared back and threw,
The two single dots became the eyes
That he saw through the rest of his life,
What do you do when you face the wicked?
You can be charmed it’s for sure,
You can be beguiled into eating poison mushrooms,
Or taking a drop of cobra venom on the tongue,
All in order to see and understand
What you are facing,
The Wicked acting holy and the Holy
Rolling lucky dice,
Rising up out of their Basket of Holiness
To the tune
Of the Piper who beguiles them
Ever so skillfully
To rise and weave to and fro,
Dancing to the sounds of holiness,
Their eyes fixed upon the two white dots
Of the dice
That bounce off the end of the craps table
Telling their fortune.