Deathless Drama

Drama never dies a natural death,
but resuscitates at the drop,
rising again to eat the scenery on-stage,
without cue
in woodchipper expediency
like some theatrical Lady Lazarus
slobbering rabidly
and throwing up
in the audience’s faces all of the
paint chips and other
pregnancy cravings
she has devoured,
having poisoned herself with
histrionics
and sprawling out to her own dirge,
flailing arms and legs and shouting wild
accusations and rapid-fire monologue gossip
about her own murder,
about her own resurrection,
never happy with life
and never settling down to a
permanent death.
The only way to properly kill drama
is to ignore her
and walk out from the theater.
Do not even ask for a refund.
Much Ado About Nothing
should always be a play
and never a way of life
or death.

By The Light Of Diogenes

I would not flinch at sullen light
should we meet on a darkened street
nor would I dare to bark or bite
and run like dogs, on hands and feet,
to gain favor with one clever
as to prefer dogs to Mankind,
for I know he would not ever
be but of a contrary mind.
In the halo of his candle
I would try to be quite honest—
honest of whatever scandal
weighed heavy upon my own chest
and invite him to see the soul
of one who knows his share of shames
and ask to be judged as a whole
and not only by his bynames.
Perhaps we could reflect in turns
with a mirror that truly sees
so by glass and by light that burns
he might judge, too, Diogenes
and come away enlightened
to see himself so much clearer,
both of our souls thereby brightened
in the candle and the mirror.

Come Away With Me

Come away with me— let us ride
far from this withered, cold countryside
upon our fleet-flown phantom steeds
unknown among all earthy breeds
with flowing manes of tidal froth
and hide as soft as pillow cloth
and come away on floating hoofs
over moors and valleys and roofs,
and let us journey on, yonder,
from the mundane to so wander
where the mists of dreams may dawn—
to the isle of lost Avalon.
Away we go, to farthest shore
that borders truth and love and lore;
where a moonlit wave never breaks
except for when a dreamer wakes
to rub the sand from groggy eyes
and dispel dreams with woeful sighs,
but not us, oh not so, not we
as we gallop most silently
over a coast of broken glass
where all the hourglasses amass
and spill in vain their futile sand
on the coast of that timeless land
known and unknown as Never-Not
where still there stands grand Camelot
as a dream within a glass globe
beneath a wizard’s twilit robe,
protected, apart, kept away
from the forces that rust and fray;
a refuge where when we are old
we may yet live in youthful mold
as children in Spring’s fresh ascent
without wondering where youth went;
when spine was not so crooked yet
and mind did not so soon forget,
but kept its joys and loves and sense
like a flower its fresh fragrance,
and eyes could see as keen the hawk
and heart leapt at each other’s talk,
whereas now we wilt, growing frail
with later years that wound and ail,
waking life but nightmare itself
conjured by Time, that witchy elf
who delights in dissolving lives
in her cauldron, which naught survives,
so let us go where Merlin waits:
that Isle of Apples, lest the Fates
destine us for mortal sorrows
that take all our hopeful morrows.

More Poems For My Blahhhhg.

Chatty Insect
Chittering on and on like cicadas at dusk,
yet empty on the inside, like a molted husk.

Bitter And Sweet
Failing to grow any tantalizing fruits
the eldest girl settled for some bitter roots.
“Don’t you worry yourself none,” her mother said,
“Roots are good for your eyes, your heart, and your head.”
“But, momma, the bitterness!” the young girl cried,
to which the mother patted her head and sighed.
“As you age, girl, it’ll be all you can taste,
so you might as well learn now,” she said, stern-faced.
The girl wept. “None’s gonna take me as a wife!
What’s the point of this damn fruitless, lonely life?!”
The mother snorted and thought long and hard, then.
“I guess to diversify God’s great garden
and to make grateful those who’re better blessed.”
The daughter screamed out loud and beat her breast.
“I’d rather be a goddamned chokeweed!” she wailed,
“than be that what’s never loved or touched or held!
I’d rather be what tangles up in their roots
and withers ‘em all: their blooms and leaves and shoots!”
Her mother listened, quiet, to her cussing,
then said, “Weeds are also to His purposing!”

Salt The Earth
Below a baleful Summer’s light
she kneels and works the stubborn soil,
sweat like hot tears, salty and bright,
on her forehead while her hard toil
lines dirt beneath her fingernails
and hair gray beneath her straw hat,
halfway deaf while her sight, too, fails;
her voice is coarse and dull and flat.
“Grow, you goddamn brats, or I’ll salt
this heathen soil like Gomorrah.”
She scowls and wonders who’s at fault
for her barren patch of flora.
Long ago she bloomed with a smile
and was a flower all her own,
but now she must plant seeds erstwhile
she wilts and sags upon the bone.
“Nothin’ pretty ever lasts long,
nor the happiness of it much.”
She tries to sing a happy song
of when she fancied such and such,
but the song withers in the air
like a garden of stillborn seeds,
so she wrings the sweat from her hair
to salt the garden and its weeds.

Word Salad

There are cockroaches scurrying
in the jumbled salad bowl
of the midnight special,
unashamed within the neon light
of this downtown diner.
Do not try to persuade me
that they are almonds
as the other patrons praise the chef
and vomit profusely on the counter.

Carried Away With Oneself

The townsfolk worried when the river would crest,
knowing it would flood their precious farmlands
and ruin crops before the Summer harvest,
all so fearful it was out of their hands—
that is, all except Donnie, the local fool
who lived in a white house all fading fast
and didn’t know how to discern a plain mule
from a jackass, or from a looking glass.
Anyhow, Donnie had it in his dense head
that he would save the town from the great flood.
“Give me all your buckets,” Donnie loudly said,
“and I will reduce that river to mud.”
Townsfolk thought this a hell of a hoot, all right,
and so they gave him every bucket,
and so Donnie took them to pail, day and night,
at the river, walking far to chuck it
away from the river, out toward the swamp,
where he fancied he made a difference,
even as the locals would laugh and would stomp
to see him so taken with such nonsense.
By and by, the river crested and then ebbed
as the floodwaters flowed farther on South
to the tributaries, watersheds, all webbed
until the river ran dry at the mouth.
The townsfolk were amazed to see such a thing
and praised Donnie for his supposed feat.
“If you are so grateful,” he said, “make me king!”
The townsfolk all knelt down to kiss his feet.
Thereafter Donnie saw to the floodwaters
whenever the rains fell in a torrent,
and he had much to eat, and many daughters
from the townsfolk, though it was abhorrent.
Each year the river rose, Donnie would bear it
with buckets, scooping it by the liters
as proof of his practice and pledge and merit
as the river rose, or fell, by meters.
But then came a year with such heavy rains
that they feared a forty-day flood was nigh
while the river swelled and broke over the plains,
the current swift, the whitewater crest high.
“Donnie! King! Save us!” they all cried out in woe.
Donnie scoffed at the river, wide and vast.
“I’ll right it,” he said, his orange cheeks aglow.
“You just wait and you’ll see! I’ll fix it fast!”
And so he took up his bucket, and his crown,
and he went to the rabid riverside
where he dipped his big, greedy buckets down
into that roaring, racing river tide.
For days he bailed at the river, growing tired,
yet the river only swelled larger still,
the farmlands and the town becoming but mired
in the bloat of that Leviathan swill.
“You are a fraud!” the townsfolk said to their king,
but he never lost faith, too much the fool
to ever doubt himself in any one thing
as he sought to solidify his rule.
And so Donnie worked at his usual pace,
which is to say, slow…lazy…no swifter
than the Hare when sleeping in the fabled race
against the tortoise, that steady drifter.
But the river was both the tortoise and hare,
for it ran swift while staying in its bed,
or else moved steadily outward, here and there;
whichever way its swelling excess led.
And Donnie waded out in the deep, thinking
he needed to get to the river’s heart
to pail out the most, although he was sinking
to his neck—yet still thinking himself smart.
“You won’t ever beat me, river,” Donnie yelled,
choking on whitewater as it tumbled
like the frothy fury of millions that swelled
until Donnie tripped and gagged and fumbled.
And, at a blink, Donnie was swallowed from sight
beneath the currents he thought he mastered—
his crown and buckets were found the next night:
the river will always have the last word.