No Way to Git Along

– This ain’t no way to git along, Honey,
no way to git along. There’s plenty’ll
get in our way, Babe, so let’s git along.

– Life’s no song and dance, it doesn’t
rhyme, and it’s get not git.
– Git is the cowboy variant.
– I once knew a guy named Gil.
– Was he a cowboy?
– Cowboys spell same’s everybody
else. You’re just a romantic fool.

– Git along home, git along down
the line, git to bed, git up and running
coffee and runny scrambled eggs.
Pull out a paper and jot this down,
no way to git along, weary Deary,
no way to get it all back home.

– I ain’t no doggie and even if I was
I don’t like to git get nor gat for
that matter. And this singing
cowboy gig of yours ain’t
worth a saltine cracker
in a bowl of filé gumbo.

– This is no way to git along, my
Shepherdess, no way to git along.
Come ride with me and we’ll mend our
fences and bring the doggies home.

A Hard Fall

A hard fall separate and divided
the returns bags of bottles
and illuminated cans
set lists of dying songs
and a guy in a brown study
disquieted over how much
everyone paid coprophagous
possum grin pocket change
and beer in his beard.

Heard not smelt nor sniped
learning to relax and unblame
to understand every Tom
Dick and Harry and Sue
Jane and Mary their woes
worries whys and wherefors
until the body oak cask aged
slows to a broken bicycle crawl
drink from a cold army canteen.

In fall when worry turns
to gold and rust the lorry
covered with lurry tarps
and no leary ear longing trips
by the river down the valley
to the coast faraway swells
ocean crossed turn to waves
everything that ever came
breaks in this only moment.

Rubato

One rues the day on pillory display
one’s last tweet skids street stocks
to ad-lib a life one means to loose
the self from one’s love’s strictures
with daily tinctures of absent mind
edness not mindfulness mind you
on free range one affords to ignore
the pranger to be clear (for once)
contempt for public humiliation
only worsens one’s foot whipped
condition and enlivens passersby
to come closer and reach out not
to help but to tickle taking easier
forms of torture of clean beatings
this the dunce cap prepared you
for the report card without wit
and those sounds in the distance
coming over the mountains over
sand dunes and from far down
under the railroad tracks a dark
portentous prattle of pompous
importance back home to roost
one plays out of time for only
so long usually in fact for just
instances in time such that we
often don’t even notice a slip-up
especially in our time when time
has already been so economized
compromised clock punch drunk
now thirsty now dry now thirsty
in the twilight I see glow
blue eyes turn to gold.

Cats

Some cats are wiry others fat away
this one wary that one behind naive
a cat for all seasons for every girl
and all good boys out on the town.

The Falstaffian cat scats doo-doo-pow
night’s toil scratched in a kit lit box
drops his slow slurs keeps us a lilt
trolls nixie but in the end refuses.

The cat who comments with nothing
to say falls late into Trouble Tavern
the cat who daily cancels negates
good counsel and drinks all down.

All this cats lie about and lie in wait
for the day is hot long and the night
yet weary the stop cease and go of it
infinite but as quick as this conscript.

The Cat’s Meough

The cat comes quietly a Sunday morning
blue eyes lightly freckled cheeks glossy
smooth silver fur tasselling corn down
lips oysters on the half shell half open
legs the dance of life waiting to erupt
on the private stage of her boudoir.

She walks in weird beauty this cat
on two legs with patience galore
knows full well her lustrous sheen
when seen in the crackling of old
magazines etiolates the cold celery
stalks flowering in the veggie garden.

For a cymbal cup of truth and trust
and what good has it ever done
her to have even one man shun
while another calls her gorgeous
rather have the cat in your lap
purring your fingers thru her pelt.

Down by the Bay

Summer so dry
waiting for rain
under a tree
radio plays.

Sign by the road
cafe ice cold beer
and the night
falls so slow
down by the bay.

White caps like snow
valley so low
river unfolds
down by the sea.

Walking alone
at night red tide beach
and the sun
takes a bath
down by the bay.

Waiting for you
out in the waves
sand dunes so blue
down by the bay.

And a Song of Despair

And despair is to separate to break up
to stop falling in love and hit bottom
down from to hope and to be the despair
of another now absent and in a state
of disrepair collapse and abandonment
like the house on a dead moon unplugged
in the mist of space dust floating falling.

To disengage throw away toss out fall
back without limbs to swim or fins to flap
the earnest muscles sore as a dam morn
train slowly pulling out of a foggy station
leaving your sad waves to platform alone
waiting for the next train hands waving
from disappearing windows brakes off.

Dissed and pool pissed despondent one
the heart crestfallen full of sorrow sick
as a parrot unable to breathe or repeat
how hap hap happy we were when we
happily eschewed commas and went non
stop without regard for clarity to others
or any kind of on time railroad timetable.

From pillow to pillow I missed you
but love is on the dot not wanting
a life of one’s own but a share
of the Earth a clear spot to bed
down without fear of knowing
what can never be fully known
or understood the random odds

and ends the noise some call music
others say poppycock and applesauce
I wash my eyes out with vinegar
and oil my hair for the dark night
of the soul is here drumming door
rhythms untuned sonic booms
as I fall through the night gloom

destined to wreck on the jetty pokes
into the ocean waves oh Lord please
let me be misunderstood disregarded
by anyone but with her I cannot be
seen this drowning in words won’t
work then or now what silence wanted
was for me to go up into love the altar

boy who understood but a few words
of Latin and even then daydreamed
through the mass of the sea and waves
fell asleep on the altar but awoke quick
and jangled the bells upsetting sisters
yes an old story now how then he met
the girl of not dreams but awakening.

What is sundered cannot be surrendered
alone now at the end of the voyage one
sees coming through the morning ocean
fog your bright sun of yellow hair your sky
of blue eyes your cotton candy cheeks
of dunes freckled with tiny sad flowers
your strong legs soft hands your sand

highs and little lows your kisses full
of compassion your fall frowns your
annoying finger in my yawns your grab
pulling the rear view mirror off its mount
laughing tussled hair your silence in my
despair your stubborn insistence we
make a life together out of despair.

Twenty Love Poems: 20

Mornings stolen cold dirty socks on damp
feet slushed street Bathsheba and the kids
sleep past the cryptic graffiti on the corner
phone booth an annunciation to be glad
to rejoice as we once recess Angelus rings
asked joy in backyard bestowed with sun.

Between no yes we stopped and I touched
the fruit of your wamb womb cherry bomb
compassionately swallowed your freckled
cheeks whole like the great horned owl
absorbs the snouty mouse grace flavored
rain blurred eyes wiper smeared drive.

Byssus threaded hand in hand hip to hip
we survived ice storms attached to rocks
blessed grace full I kissed your salt but
now thin and weak bland unpalatable
the beach is closed to surfers who pray
for waves gone by sucked into sand.

Our songs drift into space beyond sound
what cannot be seen or measured is love
yeah we rocked and rolled and jazzed it
up but in the end we are just a folk duo
doomed to sing our same old love song
oldie of oldies on infinite scratched repeat.

Soma of couple submerged together sing
a sleeping song awake these hundreds
of years adoring each breast to breast
and now my heart before need of repair
asks to roll up what sweetness remains
into one last rollicking bollocking ball.

Twenty Love Poems: 19

We had the sun on the run for a time
but today he’s nearly caught up with us
just hard-on hearing now all my whats
what randy birds of prey coxy claptrap
peck pecking at your resealed window
I didn’t hear shut nor your breathing
whispers rain after a long hot summer
husky hairs rubbing between fingers
an avian hymn to a lost limb a bird
building a nest in the old oak crotch.

Not what to put in but what to leave
out diaper pins before disposables
green canvas chairs on a tan lawn
Mozart and dogs singing on moonlit
nights across the lake venial sins
misdemeanors of youth parking
tickets not wounds but urge itches
a scratch wanting a few stitches
a weekend pass from the place
of thunder so far away and quiet.

Twenty Love Poems: 17

How do I love thee? Let’s not count the ways and days.
To the bottom of the blue ocean where the octopus lies
in purple wait to perpetuate the mythical form below.
The soul’s something to do with it – what I don’t know.
Actually, now I think about it, things don’t divide evenly,
and days after days pass like the beach tides loose over
the rocky pools, sandbars now seen now drowned deep.
That’s how love is: under water, how the starfish spreads
wings, and how the sea anemones attach and attract
moist quiet almost silent prey. Not to be flippant, but
to lie in wait seems unengaged in this era of existential
pandering, but I don’t know of what use passion when
the tide goes out and all my bugs exposed. Men strive
for one thing, and that’s not right while you go for free
or broke time after time, for romance beats the mundane.
Consider the saints who crazy with love sacrifice all even
their love for something abstract we can never count on.
Carry on, my love, blitz me with your supine indifference.