to my little drummer girl,
she taught me sex wasn’t a violent thing.
but sweet and loving.
she came to my house
‘someone needs to show you how to make love,
I’m in between boyfriends.
so I’ll come by for awhile and teach you.’
I was 19, 20, 21, don’t remember the age
I might’ve been 22
those years kind of go together for me.
it was a month maybe two
but I learned I have sex to a sixteenth beat.
I smile when I think about this.
then one day she came by
and told me she met someone
and have kids now
but to her I have to say
it was one of the most sweetest things any person has done for me.
The phone rings,
your name prints up,
black bold Chicago letters
accompanied by your number.
I’ve weighed the matter in ounces and grams,
pints and half pints,
through minutes, hours, months, years,
even a millennium
before my hand reached out to grip the phone;
securing the call, before the answering machine.
Via microwave and long optical fibers,
strung up on crucifixes which parallel the tar river
in rack and file.
Your voice prattles in my ear:
a fog which blanketed the slumbering fields,
crystals of light bouncing about the leaves;
then a coyote sticks his head out. Yaps.
You wanted me to see,
without using the word karma or slut.
I swore to myself,
I would see,
however, I failed.
My focus was too feeble.
You are restless.
You wanted to tell me
how you felt inside.
You wanted me to listen,
yet not be reminded of the dense fermentation
of inescapable memories which permeated the air.
You talk as if you cared.
I’ve listened close,
walking about the house
cradling the battered black cordless phone,
tightly between Ear and Collarbone.
What can I tell my bones?
Trying to become godesque,
is far from becoming god.
The frames of the film pass through the gate
transparent enough for the sun to peer through the clouds.
Keep your distance.
Don’t tell me you care.
Just let me close my eyes & sleep.
Please let me Dream.
I could only understand
by hoisting knives and tongs
establishing myself once more
in front of Stainless Steel,
Heat Lamps & Cutting-boards.
with a french stove burning my soul.
“Working makes you feel better.”
Replied Grandfather Chef,
as he deboned a Gini Hen with his machete.
The tomatoes reduced to paste upon roasting bones.
I pull ‘em out of the oven,
Plop ‘em in the stock pot.
Placing the roasting pans on the stove,
deglazing with red wine
and scrapping the fond off with a spatula
from the bottom of the pan.
The rain washed the air;
everything which had been mistakenly cast-off
now stained the ground bright lemon-pollen yellow.
I no longer grieve,…nor dream of the dead.
I observe the beef stock boiling,
contemplating how much seasoning
should impinge the soup once it had reduced.
However, when the time comes,
the words make their own way out.
They didn’t need my silly input.
I will not explain you away with a book,
as I have done before.
Salt to Pepper, Garlic to Basil,
over this damp grave,
I speak my last words of love.
and stir it all in the soup.
walking down the road
feeling mighty mean
got a switch blade knife
in my pocket you see
cut you mighty quick
cut you mighty clean
tried of hearing your lies
and a digging your holes
Rabbit’s got a fast jet-set life
BMW, credit card style
digging his hole
all he knows is take take take
It’s not my place
it’s not my way
It’s not my face
It’s not my problem
My head is a spinning
and holding my ground
walking down the street
going where I can’t be found
ain’t gonna sit
ain’t gonna dig
that troubling hole you should know
Turtle going mighty stoned
at least he knows which way he go
at least he’s not digging a hole
I’m a walking and a thinking
thinking about the day
never had a head on my shoulders anyway
you can’t hold it up
and don’t want it round
Little Peter’s running and he can’t be found
little bitty brain’s working over time
holding up my body and making me
whine whine whine
Little bitty rabbit is a digging mighty fast
putting himself away from ole coyote
The turtle keeps a going though mighty stoned
at least he’s not a digging a hole
Holding my head it’s getting mighty tired
no one can tell me where I’ve been
don’t even remember last night’s drunk.
Ole rabbit done dug his hole
and the turtle keeps moving
holding his head, looking kind of mean
knows he’s got some plan be seen
Then comes along the big bad wolf
digging a hole what does he see
hum hum hum
With a Pale Widow Smile.