Monthly Archive: January 2017

I Once Knew a Song

wrapped in a white towel
just out of the bath
steaming wet
beaming love

I once knew a song that started
with a soft and steady throat trill
in a language far older than Sumerian

something like this:
di..ta…di…di…dit
di..ta…di…di…dit
di..ta…di…di…dit

the heat rises in my loins
to meet the goddess
arms open
wafting through the Void
forever dissolving
the story
of separation

I am home I am

bucket of trolls

I’ve got a bucket of trolls
who are all getting old
and a scoop made of
jade and ivory

once their work has begun
out under the sun
I start writing
this very diary

they dig and dig down
with the cruelest of sounds
whistling along
in their rivalry

when they’re all on the clock
they get those pistons to rock
pumping gems from the
ancient refinery

as nighttime draws near
they strip off their gear
and dress up in
their latest finery

then they dance all about
they twist and they shout
and they drink until
they pass out entirely

I’ll collect them once more
to bucket from floor
and transport them
back to the priory

then the cycle repeats
while we all get some sleep
and our dreams
become the entirety

prose

trying to string some fiction together
is like opening a door with a rusty spring lever

you find that the vat of the words that you’re brewing
doesn’t flow through the page without considerable doing

the difference, you see, between writing prolonged
comes exactly right down to beliefs you have spawned

and the ones that you’ve dropped go falling away
until you then find you have nothing to say

and so you have come to your center again
looking for conflict or else something to win

when all that you see and really do want
is the peace that you find when your writing has stopped

no more strife, no more conflict, no more struggle to be
but without all of that, there is no story

so you get back in the saddle and start writing some more
if you don’t have it yet, you’ll find it before

you’re not certain you’ll be lucky to get out alive
you do a word count: around five hundred and five

and that, my dear friends, is the story of prose
as you drink some more tea, and it comes to a close

could I be

could I be who I can
said the beggar to the man
do you not understand
you’re no better than I am

that will cost you 20 rupees
said the man to the beggar
we must license all the duties
and divide up all the treasure

said the beggar to the man
if I pay you now forever
it will only be with sand
but the man just cried out: never!

we’ll be missing every pleasure
said the man to the beggar
entertainments for our leisure
that have to go on for forever

what holds you up, holds you down
said the beggar to the man
but you’ll come on back around
when you finally understand

said the man to the beggar
you can pay me now or later
though you’re holding naught to measure
our great need’s the arbitrator

said the beggar to the man
from the morning till the night
that’s how it all began
now it’s time to make things right

under the bed

under the bed
where the dust goblins bred
and the paper towels wadded up wildly

angels live there
with their silvery hair
and ambrosia they drink very drily

so I mounted a coup
right out of the blue
yet lost all to a sprite name of Ivy

I wandered about
not quite certain in doubt
didn’t know if I’d spent my time wisely

I found out again
that there’s nothing to win
as my passing behaved so untimely

I might retry it perforce
that’s an option of course
but I’d have to do it all slyly

yet I think I will not
since I gave all I got
and ended up stymied so highly

perhaps next time around
I can go back to ground
and try it again much more wisely