Nonsense in Quatrains
When you’re beat—
On the street—
Take a seat—
Pound your meat.
Watch the girl—
Do a twirl—
Suggest a whirl—
Make her hurl.
Sing the song—
Hit the bong—
Won’t be long—
Prove them wrong.
Hear the noise—
Over-grown boys—
Jews and Goys—
Fight over toys.
Throw a ball—
Jump the wall—
Watch them fall—
That is all.
Nowhere to Wind
Rushing and running
racing and romping—
riding a jitney
bus of the mind.
Passing downtown
buildings, with the
time to appreciate.
Facades of Diego
Rivera against a
Jackson Pollack sky—
reflecting off a
surface of Monet.
The faces of
uptown are from
John Singer Sargent—
while downtown remains
a menagerie of
Delcroix faced whores.
Women who whirl
wildly to Offenbach…
teasing Toulouse Lautrec
Littered are Edward
Hopper loners in
diners, ignoring all.
Nowhere to stop…
unwind…wind…regroup.
Got to grab
the colors as
they appear, lest—
they be gone.
Whirlwind
(A decade or so ago)
Last minute decision—
(Left up to my wifey)
L.A. for Thanksgiving!
A whirlwind tour.
Budget tighter than
a vestal virgin.
No rental car—
Taking wifey’s—
Gas money only…
with few exceptions:
Pocket change for
coffee at Dutton’s,
(No books!) and twenty
for the poker game.
(If I get fat there,
maybe, Hollywood Park).
We will eat courtesy
of friends and relatives,
stay gratis at Mumsey’s,
and my wifey has
vowed not to make
a purchase on Black Friday.
No Jazz Bakery
with Tom & Crawford,
or even lunch
on the pier.
Maybe a midnight
bus ride to downtown—
Hang among the fellow destitute.
Spend the night drinking
wine in the gutter,
and writing poetry
no one will hear.
No worries about being
hit up for change…
anyone there will have
more on them than I.
Ride the bus back
in the morning hours,
disappointed and sober,
even though I swear
I saw the ghost of
‘Chinaski’ among the ruins.
Renewed or not,
back on the
road come Saturday.
Back to the
reclusive mind state…
I call home.
No comments:
Post a Comment