the desperado cowboy-poet awakes
anxious, needing-ending relief,
the craving greater than great,
he begs-raggedly, with Raggedy handily Andy words,
to all and anyone in the aroused surrounded vicinity,
give please give, of something to write

the bay, soothingly plays the would-be author,
"place me, look my way,
have I not droplets endless
from which you've drunk exquisitely,
so many more to fair share"

the birds twit and flit,
raucous caucus demanding
to be seated
by the tablet's keypad
to gain entry
to one more congressional natural tribute

the sky and sun organize a
joint session, extraordinary mission;
"we are the first of your day,
thus primarily,
we win the primary,
deserving in your recording of our
nomination as the first day's
sound and light show victorious"

sorry folks,
got a better tale to tell,
natural in its way,
titillating, and quite suitable
for reputating Au Naturel humanity
and it's a quirky, say hey tale,
morning coffee fresh,
a first word report from an
untelivised convention
of a different kind of congressing

awoke to find the:

chauffeur in bed with the cook,
the Poppy, beside the sleeping Nana,
the poet, eyeing the lying next to him, tango dancer,
the classicist eyeing the sleeping moderne,
ditty ditsy Ogden Nash astride a Shakesperian sonnet,
the thinning gray line defending his bedded half,
from an invading horde of unionizing blonde tresses,
the republican with the democrat,
the conservative with the liberal,
heated discussions, non-neutralizing negotiations
conducting and watched by
peeping tom skies, clouds, birds and waters
pretending to fly flow past


wow

now that,
is quite interesting
deserving worthy of a
disrobing disputatious disreputation,
very newsworthy and why not,
a poem all its own?

the bay waved goodbye,
the birds disbanded in silence,
quietly disenfranchised.

the sun and the sky hung around
pretending to be UN neutrality observers
wearing cute blue and white helmets
looking every where but not,
at the line of demarcation


the beggar, by his new impoverishment, enriched,
another love poem writ,
niched and pitched
one more itch,
so very well scratched

.

•point                                   
our fing-                                 
ers to the                                 
nearest a-                                 
vailable s-                                 
uckers• to                                 
take respo-                                 
nsibility  a-                                 
nd be  acco-                                 
untable....no                                 
one really bothers•we                  
do it so well unlike any other•al-
     most a skill that never gets duller•**** hits
the fan, we all look for someone to blame•it's a
hapless situation when we partake in such a ga-
  me•it's become a norm that simply never ends •
it's a nasty situation that makes enemies out of f-
riends•i look at myself and realise that i am no
   different•for i too, have my finger pointed si-
   lent•i too, have erred...warranting reproach
•milling over transgressions my words
dare not broach•sigh...why is it so
that such a habit we can never
sever•think no further...let's
just blame it on......................


human nature•

.

Of death
aren't you?

Sick of hearing about it
talking about it
seeing it,
family members
strangers
friends
aunts
uncles
parents
next of kin
all I feel is dread when the phone rings.

Pablo may have been weary
of chickens
but
I've had enough
death
to last a lifetime.

Every night on
the daily news
the death report
reminds me
every time you turn around
there's another tragic story
you're going to hear.

I'm sick to death
of death
in the movies
on
t.v.

You know what I mean.

You know what?
I'm sick of this poem
I'm sick of thinking about death.

It's 8:06
I
declare it officially
dead.

The poem, I mean.