the man and the moon

A fellow left this earth one day
To visit the moon, and maybe to stay
And to eat the cheese he would surely find
Until all that was left was the waxy green rind.

He reached the moon just an hour or two
After he left the sky so blue.
In fact, the air was still coming out
Of the hole he poked in the sky with his snout.

When he landed, he looked all around in dismay,
For the cheese that was there had all gone away!
In its place all he saw were rocks piled into hills,
No easier to eat than a porcupine’s quills.

“Why is it that my cheese always disappears?”
The man asked quite sorrowfully while wiping his tears.
He then dusted a rock with his red checkered shirt,
And Behold! There the cheese was! Right under the dirt!

The man, then rejoicing because of his find
Ate all of the cheese, but left the green rind.
And that (with the dirt) is the only thing there
That’s left of the moon floating up in the air.

75-76

elusion 1

A glimpse through trees of an enemy
The paths will meet; a fast heartbeat
Silent flight along the road
To reach the crossing first unseen.
Merge into the undergrowth
Deepest darkness, still as stone
The steps of Death approach, then turn
Back down the road from whence we came.

76-80

elusion 2

In the halls without a pass,
Beat the teacher to the class.
Into the room, across the floor;
Teacher passes by the door,
Disappearing down the same
Hall from which the outlaw came.

76-80

dreams of the body innocent

I just want to be held and forget
my dreams of the body innocent
I dream of seeing and feeling
my skin, my flesh, my body
burned and sterilized by political discord
My mama didn’t care for me
just so governments could poison me,
like a roach in the kitchen.
My body, bathed in golden years of summers
is to be baked like a bird.
A gambling chip of the smallest order
to be traded between powers
in games of war.
Pride, greed and patriotism
make them blind to natural things
like the skin, and flesh, and dreams
of the body innocent.

76-80

interface

All day I try to bargain with a beige box
molded in plastic of a fine texture.
Its angles are pleasant; its glass face polite.
I speak to it through touch,
and give it small flat items to read —
it smiles and hums aimless little tunes
as it tries to comprehend,
responding in pictures with words inside
and bell tones
and flashes of graphics

Finally its face lights up as it grasps my intent.
It offers me shapes and patterns
which I roll around
sometimes squinting up, eye to eye,
in an attempt at accuracy
until they meet up in the way that I want
I invoke magical commands, like
“Reduce to Fit”
and destroy evil with the little finger of one hand.

After regarding the results from afar,
we append them to the current reading matter
I request a copy — usually it complies,
unless it gets distracted,
sometimes reciting bits of poetry or prose of its own —
irregular and widely spaced —
which I cannot understand

Occasionally it becomes cross and yells,
or does nothing but argue in circles,
making unreasonable demands, and
I have to put it under
so it will forget what I did to annoy it,
and give me a second chance.
I imagine if it could
It would do the same to me.

86

evenings eighty seven, san b.

When pretzel As have wings to fly,
But astronauts slip from perceptive skies,
We will dine under glass in gardens of silk,
And then engage in a mortal embrace
As black jets slowly circle the sky.

87

nuclear

blanket

up airward
duck down
heat’s on
hhhhhhh
hot breath
warm mug
hearthstone
glowing cloud
sleep tight
under our
nuclear
blanket

5/90

lost words

…lost words wrapped around eraser dust

86-87

mixed media

words to music
forms to color
rhythm repeating
slow smooth lines
swing in and out
twirling and dancing
waves and leaves
float in the wind
poetry and portrait

9/90