Sitting naked beside the road,
stripped of all I'd once owned.
I see a flower stare at me,
and recall being stoned.
The painful thumps upon my flesh,
the cracks internal heard,
the racing breath, the anxious feel
as my sight slowly blurred.
What crime is madness, I wonder?
What is it to be free?
A slap to faces of all those
tied to the old birch tree?
Our lives are blobs that melt away.
You may not sense the drips.
It happens slowly; you may never
hear burbled blips.
You may not feel that it's lighter,
or that it's lost some girth.
Because you've shed it gently each
and every day since birth.
And when you feel the withering,
will you take it as loss?
A good loss like becoming lean --
a skimming of the dross?
Or like a vicious theft of the
best parts of one's being:
like time has grabbed the valuables
and taken to fleeing?
The melt will continue onward
until there is no more.
So, think yourself experience rich
though you are time poor.
There is an angry beast inside
who shakes at me sometimes.
It gives me mean and violent thoughts.
It draws no moral lines.
It'd kill them all in vicious ways
without heartfelt remorse.
This fever of being must be,
until it's run its course.
Then I can be civil again,
and my blood can cool.
And I can play my normal role:
-n- be done playing the fool.
I don't mean to cast aspersions,
but it would seem to me
parents shouldn't give a child stabby
things 'fore the age of three.
I don't know whether this household
has a pup or kitty,
but if the kid can spear the floor
the pets ain't look'n pretty.
Saying a babe shouldn't have a spear,
you'll call me "left-wing nut,"
but I don't like dog-on-a-stick:
even if it's a mutt.
Adrift at sea for days and days,
who knows how it will end?
Your body sloshes like the waves,
but as your mind descends.
Your mouth is dry; your body pruned.
In thirst, the water taunts.
But - ever wet - your skin sloughs off.
When soaked, the water haunts.
The sun burns hot. Then fog rolls in,
and senses are deprived.
And washing up on vacant shores,
you find that you've arrived.
You know not where - but feel relief.
Land monsters can't be worse
than those that grab you by the mind
while high seas you traverse.
In caverns below the city
lives a beast, reviled.
It's fierce and ancient and patient
-n- won't come up unless riled.
When you read of disappearance:
kidnapped or ran away?
It might be neither one, rather,
it's breached the light of day.
So, if this beast is not one you
wish to look in the face,
When you take to song and dance:
don't stomp or over-Bass!
I see so many statues of
The winged serpents pierced by a lance
conjures up such a thrill.
But there're no dragons, never were.
So, what were they slaying.
Dinos went extinct before our time
is all that I'm saying.
So, were they killing geckos, or
maybe a rock lizard?
Maybe chickens, given the wings?
Struck right through the gizzard!
Could it be St. George liked to drink
or was tripping ergot?
To earn so many statues, he'd
a publicist, I bet.
"The dragons were metaphorical!"
OK, that's really swell,
but shouldn't George's heroism
be figurative as well?
One day I passed a gray monkey,
and something made me turn.
I caught the primate in the act
of issuing a burn.
Its eyes were closed; its tongue stuck out.
Its head twisted to tease.
And when it saw me seeing it,
for a sec, it did freeze.
As if not a thing had happened,
and it was not to blame.
Before I could make my rebuke
it multiplied my shame.
by blowing me a raspberry
followed by a big smirk.
Then it scrambled away before
I went truly berserk.
A sign that hangs on down the street
proclaims to one and all
that coming soon there will be
a Lonely-Hearts Club Ball.
A dance of manic turbulence
where singles 're all & none.
You can come all by yourself, but
you'll never leave as one.
You'll be swept into unity
with undulating hoards.
Bound by bindings you'll feel, not see;
you'll never cut these cords.
So, welcome to the end of you,
as only you can know.
And welcome to the beginning
of the everlasting flow.
For an end is a beginning
of something bold and new.
And a beginning is an end:
'cause we're just passing through.
The Monkey King with magic staff
outmatched monsters and gods,
defying the Jade Emperor's
edicts against all odds.
He erased himself from out of
The Book of Life and Death,
and lived through the Crucible --
nearly holding his breath.
Finally, the gods called Buddha,
though some had their qualms,
but the one thing Monkey couldn't do
was leap from Buddha's palm.