Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing.
Your head is what I remember that Augusty
you were in love with another woman but
taht didn't matter. I was the gury of your
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten,
bone bag man, garlic in the North End,
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish,
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth.
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you're thinking
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale,
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones.
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain,
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias,
me of the sawdust tavern at the city's edge.
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh
and I admire them also, but your bones
supersede loveliness. They are the tough
ones that get broken and reset. I just can't
answer for you, only for your bones,
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles,
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its
own life in its own skin.

I carved a hole at the side of my head

With nubby fingernails

Now all my thoughts trickle out

Slowly but surely

And my head is getting lighter

With each passing second

Funny thing is

I can't seem to remember

The title of this poem

Leprous hands reach for my money
They deserve it           so do i!
What to do?
An eternal question truthfully answered
Only at the moment of inception

Rotten curled nubby flesh
With breath and life
Eyes two
Or perhaps one and dim
Motion on legs or leg and wood
Pain i hope never to know
Presented to me daily face first
Only place to hide
False selfish concepts generated
In fear and helplessness
Helplessness        a vicious agony
Maker of insanity
And compassionate movements
Stand i not where i want to be

Perfection well eludes full reality
Not even close really
Then how to embrace the imperfect what is?

Ugly is in the eye of the beholder

and saw
the grass
turned to straw
the sunshine sky
to acid rain
all the branches
pointed to me
with their stubby arms
and nubby twigs of tweed
every robin flown
the crimson leaves
have blown
the air
cold as a refrigerator
bit me hard
as an alligator
I put my foot
down in a puddle
stuck as a marshmallow
on a stick
the mud deep
and twice as thick
my heart dropped
as a hailstone
shattered
as a splintered bone
my head scrambled
as an egg
and I beg this pain
to leave
I look in
to see a soldier made of tin

Did you pass me and honk?
Or yell at me while I rode my bike, “get a horse!”     right?
( Even as I had a 4-wheel drive beast sitting in the driveway),
I smile because steel and gasoline can be fun
but never,  made ME    free.

There ARE  things I’ve done
that still live in the dark corners of my inner self,
but the things I DID NOT do
that’s what this is all about.

The things YOU DO should make you CRINGE and
the sickest part is that they DON'T

See, it’s the games you don’t play,
the garbage boardroom songs you don’t download or listen to,
songs I didn’t sing,
lusting ****** from radios or halftime shows.
(Tay Tay is gross, she doesn’t care about you, just your money.)
You probably don’t get it though and never will.
K- pop bletch !

Not a single Bieber note
has ever slipped its talentless nubby paws into this skull.
I wouldn’t know a Britney or Beyoncé track
if it climbed through my window at 3 a.m.
and danced naked leaving a snail trail on the kitchen table
nor would I call THAT art.

I can’t justify wasting the time
to sit still for baseball,
a game that peaked before the radio.
Or let squeaky gang-member basketball
drone its repetitive pointless idiocy in the background
like a sermon from a greedy, confused preacher.
I never asked for ANY OF IT AND I REFUSE TO FUND IT.

I never stepped foot in a sportsball theatre,
never cared who " won ",  ( what do they  " win" , again ? )
because every penalty fest mislabeled as a game looks like a rerun
of someone else’s father’s sad beer-fueled failure.
I succeeded without a team, without their vicarious lies,
without a locker room full of ****, sweaty dudes
slapping each other’s butts and prancing around.

So no, I never listened to AM radio.
So no, I never voted for a Republican.
Not once. Not ever.

I don’t own a gun.
I’m proud I’m part of a white community
where I don’t need one.
I don’t sleep with bullets under my pillow
or polish metal like a greasy prayer.

I served my country proudly,
with a good conduct medal.
I don’t chase their enemies... anymore,
because the last of MY marks
are already reduced to bones somewhere far away,
and I don’t need revenge
the way I need to breathe.

I have no enemies.

I don’t need A.I. to write my poetry or my novels.
My music and my art speak for themselves
and do it well.

I don’t have a soul-stealing spy glued to my hand all day.
I don’t pay to have my phone lie to me and keep me
in an echo chamber
like you and yours. Look around.

My kids once thought I was made of stone and stardust.
They STILL  love AND  respect me.
I’m proud of their black belts and MBAs.
( We drive the Tesla for them, because of them.
Same with the 2 solar systems. )

So don’t worry about me.     Focus on you.
I’m okay separating my recyclables
while you waste your energy begging your invisible sky daddy
to forgive and love you
with NO  results.

I know,  I don’t have to lie    to me and mine
and that’s enough    to keep my chin held right.
So I sleep well
at night.


#Treehugger  ,  #hippie   #patriot   ,   #Liberal ,   #truth ,  #Life , #done ,