I might be slow; I might not dance The way you’d like. I might not be your dream; I might not even cry When you want me to. I might be blunt; Sharp if need be And even ignore you When you need me. But then you ought to ask Did you dance for me?…
He drew the shutters; The view was constant. The car park in Smart & Final The busy street; Passing cars; The church steeple beyond. It was not a view he enjoyed. It was ordinary, mundane. That’s not what he had craved from life. Where was the adventure? Where was that excitement? Why did it elude…
When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf, And the world makes you “King For A Day”,” Then go to the mirror and look at yourself, And see what that guy has to say. For it isn’t your Father or Mother or Wife Who judgment upon you must pass, The…
Red earth on shoes.
The carpet absorbs it all.
I walk in, barefoot.
All the good questions have been asked.
Am I my brother’s keeper?
Are you my pork chop?
What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?
I’ve been dreaming about my brother,
who lived on Crete. I dragged him out of the surf,
dead drunk, 150-pound carp, but hairier
& muttering every pariah’s secret,
“I’m a creep. I’m a creep.”
Do dreams begin responsibilities?
Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, dormez vous?
A squalid rented room,
the furniture shrouded in wax paper.
Who’s to blame? A stupid question.
Brother Jon, Jon, my brother, are you sleeping?
Poetry, indeed, cannot be translated; and, therefore, it is the poets that preserve the languages; for we would not be at the trouble to learn a language if we could have all that is written in it just as well in a translation. But as the beauties of poetry cannot be preserved in any language except that in which it was originally written, we learn the language. -Samuel Johnson, lexicographer (1709-1784)
A little bit of this,
a little bit of that,
a little more of this, a little more of that,
you flit like a butterfly
and sting like no bee!