Such Clear Eyes

I am the sole possessor of the secret key
that fits into the keyhole in the cage of the
golden goose that produces golden eggs,
so to speak. What this means precisely
remains to be seen, but this is clear:
that passed down through the ages,
passed down through a fairy tale, which
seemed innocent, which seemed benign-
which is exactly the type of conduit one
would want to secure such a message,
so that the dispersement is complete
and the concealment is unexpurgated-
Ah! The trickery! The trickery of it!
And the beauty! For now I see with such
clear eyes the shape of the key in my mind.
Yes! Within Jack and the Beanstalk-
do not laugh- do not break the spell-
is the Truth that verily, verily, I, the man
you behold standing before you, am he
who has been chosen, foreordained,
consecrated by angelic hands in an invisible
realm, unbeknownst to the clamoring masses
of every day who run about shopping
for buzz-buzz-buzzing electronic devices
in their decaying tabernacles of clay! Yes!
I am the sole possessor, in this last generation,
of the secret key that fits into the keyhole
in the cage of the golden goose that
produces golden eggs!

When I Wanted Women

When I wanted women in my youth

I was wicked.  That’s the truth.

I desired only that which pleased the eyes:

smooth thighs, breasts, grapefruit-sized-

large grapefruit.  I didn’t want a wife

or a worthwhile, humble family life

as much as I wanted a collection

of female body parts, formed to perfection

prominently displayed in a locked glass case

and my wicked desires drove met to chase

supermodels.  But they didn’t like me.

Eventually, I married Beverly.

I’ve lived with her long, long enough to tell

that common monogamy works out well

and though the sight of Beverly casts no spell

she’ll keep my spirit out of Hell.

Renewal

So you’ve squandered your musical potential,

flunked out of some fancy private school,

pawned an expensive Christmas present,

burned every book your father sent,

and here you are, sitting in this bar, trying to look tough.

You’re a prodigal son, but you’re not hungry enough

to head back home.  That’s what I think. 

Hey, buddy, can you buy me another drink?

Honestly, I wouldn’t go back to your parent’s place.

They sound like snobs.  You’ll always be a disgrace

to them.  Forget the reference to the prodigal son. 

I think you’re cool.  You wanna be an electrician?

Sitting on the Bench in my Front Yard

I’m at my house in San Tan Valley,
which is the suburb of a suburb of a suburb,
built over of fields of cotton, long since forgotten,
and which isn’t really a valley, technically,
and don’t ask me about “San," or “Tan,"
because I don’t have a clue
what they mean, nor do I know who
would know, or even care,
about such a thing.

But that’s what they named it,
so that’s what I call it. San Tan Valley.

If the name at first seems weird,
that’s normal. New haircuts, too,
seem unusual. They take a while
to grow on you. 

By the way, see this bench?
The neighbors left it when they moved away
so my wife and I brought it over one day.
I painted it purple. Do you like it?

And these are my daughters, Trudy and Greta,
digging with twigs in the gravel.

I used to think this town had no history,
that rows of tan stucco houses
somehow lacked authenticity,
but after five years of life in San Tan Valley,
I affirm that culture is
right here in my own front yard,
and that history is more than
cobblestone streets or
courthouses made of brick.

I Get Sad

I get sad when I look at the shelf

with my collection of journals, now numbering seventeen,

a set of books I’ve filled with ramblings about myself,

from 2001 all the way to 2014,

and think that no one will read it.

Not in its entirety, anyway. Even I 

won’t read it.  It’s too long.  Oh, perhaps a misfit

grandson may sneak away with my ramblings while

his cousins play outside, but he’ll only skim,

skipping from scene to scene, looking for sex,

but when I sit in the pew with Steve Elliot, or Kim,

or you, or you, or you, and sing, we break the hex

of isolation, of irrelevance, of obscurity, and we're happy.  

All we have to do is sing “Upon the Cross of Calvary,"

once to expose the absurdity, the outright lie, that the

author is the of sole owner of any intellectual property.

The way I sing it, that song is my song too.

This hymnbook is the best work I can offer to you.

Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker

for Wesley Willis

Three guys that hang around.
Three guys that really aggravate me.
Three guys that do not shut up.
Even if I break in an automobile windshield they still keep talking.

Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker

They don’t leave me alone when I eat at McDondalds.
They don’t leave me alone at Burger King.
They follow me into many other dining establishments.
They are evil people all the time.

Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker

I asked Gregory Howard if he saw them and he said no.
I asked other people that question also.
They all said no we cannot see them or hear them.
I want to crack open their heads but they are not physical.

Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker
Heartbreaker, Nerverwrecker, Meansucker

Rock over London.
Rock over Chicago.

Volkswagen. Drivers wanted.