Spirit Cake

She always served the same cake,
Some kind of refrigerated, pineapply affair,
With an odd type of chocolate frosting
Encrusted with peanuts,
It was innocent enough,
Possibly naïve,
But she served it every High Holiday
To anyone who showed up,
Is this your Mother’s cake? They would ask,
Those in the know would laugh,
Pieces of the yellowish cake blowing out
Onto their plate,
Of course it’s Mother’s cake
They would cackle out,
Then reach for the cakeserver
Which was, of course, Mother’s, too,
A family heirloom,
A tradition of cakery to say the least,
A Betty Crocker original they would say,
Pronouncing the O in original as a long vowel
Then laughing again,
Blowing brown frosting out at each other,
Wiping tears of chocolate and peanuts from their eyes,
Then one day the Spirit Cake levitated
Three feet in the air and exploded,
After that she served Sara Lee.

Undaunted By Defeat

He knew it was an inauspicious day
When fifty gallons of wine turned to vinegar,
Nevertheless, he considered it a modern day miracle
Akin to the Wedding Feast,
People everywhere marveled at his resilience,
Heaping failure upon failure
He kept telling them he was waiting for the Rapture
When Manna would once again fall from the sky,
He would be lifted up with the Chosen
Gliding up to Heaven on the Hemline of Jesus,
Singing the Alleluias and Hosannas,
In the meantime his 401 K tanked,
Bills came due as vendors discovered unpaid shipments,
Keep on truckin’ was his mantra,
Got to keep on keepin’ on, he would say
His smile quivering at the corners of his mouth,
He thought to himself,
Maybe it was Karma,
Something affecting him from another life?
But his other lives were impeccable, too,
Traffic cop in Atlantis,
Groundskeeper at Delphi,
Apprentice to Dr. Mudd after Lincoln was shot,
He laughed it all off as he proffered his charge card,
Singing, “Oh the Cuckuu is a Pretty Bird
And she warbles as she flies,”
Maxing it out for birdnetting
For his vineyard,
Where he always paid his laborers
The going rate.

Thoughts On The Origin Of Weeds

Weeds originate in areas
Where there is no concern for weeds,
Weeds pop up
In places that have no intrinsic value,
Thus, they are everywhere,
In the garden,
In cracks in the sidewalk,
Along the highways
Where they are called Native Grasses,
Weeds are found growing
Out of television sets on Monday night,
Weeds can be found
In the tanks of automobiles
That only get six miles per gallon,
In the contrails of jets,
In the corners of buildings
Posing as homeless people,
Ubiquitous weeds
Reseed and propagate in senate chambers,
Conference rooms and laundromats,
Fast food joints and the dining rooms of kings,
In the ears of your next door neighbor,
In your brain and in your dreams.

Vietnam (2008 Veterans Day)

It amazes me
That I have now forgotten
The names on The Wall

Spirit Cow

Spirit Cow standing in the roadway,
The grass is greener on the other side
Of the fence you just teleported yourself over,
That which you desire
Was greener over here,
Now it’s greener over there,
Your attachment to green grass amazes me,
Or that you would transport yourself
Only twenty feet,
When you could go to California
Or Oregon at will,
Or with only one breath to the Tushita Heaven,
In your Spirit Cow dream yoga
You move from hillock to hillock,
Eyes to the ground
Taking in green light vibrations,
The Manna that is green grass
Feeding your brain,
Until the next barbed wire fence
Or cowpoke,
Presents itself.

In The Persimmon Grove

Canine teeth punctured the small orange fruit
Leaving most of it uneaten
After being run off with sticks and stones,
Little fingers picked up the remains,
Tasting the fleshy pulp
Before motioning to the others
At the edge
Of the riverine gallery forest,
Who came swiftly
To gather what they could,

Brother Thelonious leaned against the tree,
Showered by the downpour of persimmons,
Laughing as they boinked him on the head,
Taking his knife,
He cut into the seed
Revealing the winter forecast,
The spoon shaped kernel
Predicting heavy snows,
He threw an overripe one to his dog,
Who muzzled it before they headed back
To the monastery to tell the others.

Indulgences

She heard she could get help at Wal-Mart
Telling The Greeter,
“I’m here to get my baby out of jail,”
“Monopoly, Row 31,” she was told,
There beside the Get Out Of Jail Free cards
Were copies of The Divine Comedy,
Get Out Of Hell Free cards,
Purgatory? No Problem debit cards,
A piece of the True Cross,

A man with a feather duster in his back pocket
Approached with bobbing angel halo,
Crooked cardboard wings and a gay voice,
Asking her if she needed help,
He looked amazingly like Jack Nicholson,
“Don’t forget your loved ones,” he chided,

A tonsured monk rushed up
Standing between them,
“Ma’am, maybe all you need is in hardware,
Perhaps a hammer and some nails?
If you need help, my name is Luther.”

She left the store happily carrying her
Environmentally friendly
Indulgences bag,
Secure in her beliefs,
Thanking God for Wal-Mart.

My Head Is Bustin' Out At The Seams

The last time I saw you
Your eyes were still blue,
As blue as the snow in winter moonlight,
So I was just thinkin’ about how you told me,
That all the blues come from starlight,
That drifts on down from the midnight sky,
As something that comes to us in our dreams,
Anymore you wake me up just around midnight,
My head is bustin’ out at the seams.

What you don’t want to know,
I don’t know myself,
Heard you were drivin' out to the Midwest,
I was just now thinkin’ about how you told me,
That you needed a little rest,
Medication for your achin’ head,
I don’t think you’re as bad off as it seems,
You know I’ll do anything that you request,
My head is bustin’ out at the seams.

Don’t come to me cryin’,
Bring your bag of tricks,
Castin’ spells on me and bringin’ me pain,
Just now I was thinkin’ about how you told me,
You were in control of the rain,
That you can turn off at your command,
Water that rolls in the rivers and streams,
Sat straight up in bed with the four o’clock train,
My head is bustin’ out at the seams.

Don't Know If I'll Ever Be The Same

Looked up in the sky
At the stars all around,
Seemed like everybody was goin’ out of town,
Picked up my sax
Blew a few cool tunes,
All of these shooting stars
Are bustin’ my balloons,
I’m tryin’ to get back
To the place from where I came,
But right now I don’t know
If I’ll ever be the same.

The people are comin’ for me
Sure as I’m sittin’ here,
I only got time for one or two more beers,
Got to get things in order
See what I need to save,
Everybody’s tryin’
To measure me for a new grave,
I’m already six feet under
I’m well protected from the rain,
It’ll be a while before I know
If I’ll ever be the same.

The ship is visible in the sky
Gettin’ ready to land,
All that I possess I have right here in my left hand,
The manna’s startin’ to fall,
It’s a beautiful sight,
Fallin’ down on me
From that green shaft of light,
Gonna lift me up to Heaven,
There’ll be no more sorrow or pain,
I can tell you now for sure,
That I’ll never be the same.

Just Hanging Out

He noticed that he could
Navigate
Around the house after dark
By emitting a guttural beep
Which, to him, bounced off of
Things in his way,

Then he took to just standing
In the dark living room
Near the piano,
When approached,
He emitted a high pitched tone
That drove them back,

Later, they found him
Hanging upside down
In the barn.