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Down the damp dank hills of Dover
I took a plunge, went tumbling over,
Because of horse dung on the stairs
I chose to disregard awares
And try my hand at mud-slope-skiing
Just to find myself fast-tumbling
Down the hills of Dover.

Silence borne from shocking clue
That rain has made the ground like poo
As feet beneath me skitter-skat
As I lurch forward, plop backflat,
And slide ten meters, stand upright,
Then fall back down continued flight
‘Cross shit-stained Dover.

Damn these hills! I’ve yet seen less
Than I reduced to muddy mess –
Dirt-streaks, grass, rabbit pellets,
All across my coat’s suede velvet –
Blue jeans brown-stained beyond repair
On knees and thighs and derrière.
And the sight of White Cliffs
Will fade from my mind
When I recall those foul trips
That soiled my poor behind.

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Look yonder! do you see?
A floating mountain in the sky, specked with willow trees?
Flocked by graceful dolphin-birds soaring through the sea?
Trailing Mediterranean castle of an exotic king and queen?
Such antique beauty! such high splendor!
But yet is more to be.

Come with me! witness this:
The castle folds to spaceship, maze of machinery?
The queen gives garbled order, to blast beyond the Milky Way!
Spiraling through a sea of stars, searching for new galaxies…
How wonderful! how awesome
To unlock infinite possibility.

Look behind! here they come:
Inimical forces arrive to halt our progress,
But, with prince piloting mechs, there’s no need for distress!
With a blinding tractor beam, he blasts them to a mess!
What thrills! what chills!
Who on Earth could settle for less?

Say now…what’s this?
At the end of epic journey, we find no great treasure.
This outcome is confusing and affords us little pleasure.
Rather, the characters’ psyches we are made to measure.
Where’s the climax? is this the end?
Of what definite story are we sure?

Hold your horses! sheathe your swords!
Whatever remained of our budget, the producers carelessly cut.
With no sufficient funds to speak of, our show is in a rut.
Yet still we will draw, dare not leave you wondering, “What?”
Unsatisfied? disquieted?
Patience: a reboot soon abut.

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It’s nice to be a man
Whose stumps recede his hands –
For the hands’ less-thereness receives awareness
That demands less company-bareness.

In other terms, two stumps in turn
Sprout Friends in compensation.

I have Friends who sign my checks
For Friends who buy my food;
Friends who shave my pecs
For Friends who snap my nudes.
I have Friends who wash my back
And Friends who bow my hair,
Friends who fluff my sack –
Friends who wipe my derrière
While Friends who feed me soups
As other Friends play chimes
Watch Friends who shoot my hoops
Near Friends who pick my limes.

It’s nice to be a chap
As handily capped as I
Since loneliness desists at the end of my wrists
And begins with others’ fine fists.

So let their hands meet my demands
In Charity’s selfish bliss!

I have Friends that scratch my back
As my weight rides on theirs;
Friends who build my couch
Though I burn their chairs;
Friends who mow my lawn
While I piss in their pool
When Friends who write my papers
Don’t comprehend they’re tools.
But the Friends who please me true
Praise me as one select
From handless birth, honored to
Deify my defect.

Still I confess
I’ve seen ailments born from less –
And from that vantage they take advantage
Of even more than I profess.

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Humility in the face of glaring shortcomings
With the pride to act like they don’t mean a thing –
Gratitude for a gift, whether earned or not,
Though envy ensures they can get it themselves –
Charity for those crippled by themselves or the world
Feeds greed for security, that your legs buckle, but break not-
Chastity in the face of fruitless temptations
But a lust to remain ever-active, thirsting for production –
Temperance in resting the busy mind
While gluttony for fullness gives cause to rise –
Diligence clears the head in times of strenuous pressure
Until lets sloth lie them on the grass and enjoy it, too –
Deal with patience the man not born to lead
But with wrath should he claim to hold that mantle still-

For the leader is the best and worst of us
So that they know the best and worst of us
And lead us equally, without blindness
In these times of willful gouging –
Though let us be honest, nowadays
Who knows who they really are or are among –
Even a leader?
And so the flaws are scattered, exaggerated,
Praised rather than controlled –
And the sheep run wild with horns like spears
And pierce the sides of friend or foe –
Whomever they fear be a leader.

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Evnin’, Frank!
Whaddya think we ought to
Talk about today?
I say, I say, I’m bored somethin’ awful
And want somethin’ better ta do.

Well, how ‘bout a nice lil’ chat
On this nice desert night
Down the ole I-40
Striped cross Arizonian country,
Fredd-ma-friendo?

But, Frank, how do ya know
When the conversation
Has reached the point of bein’ nice?
Is there some way to qualify
And quantify
The meaning of our words?

Not just the words, Fred,
But how they are arranged and disarranged
Lends themselves to greater worth
Than diction on its lonesome –
There’s more art in there
When madness has a method.

Quotin’ Shakespeare on me,
Or some perverse Frankspeare?
Huy-huck! Tell me true
And stop skirtin’ ‘round the question
With yo’ politician’s rhetoric:
What makes a conversation good?

I’ll tell ya, some say worth is made
On scales of subjectivity
Or in depths of genuine emotive whats-its
Or dependin’ the circumstantials of sitiations…
But I think it’s the principle of the ordeal.

The principle, huh? Fine and dandy
Considerin’ the principles of the persons involved
Might as well sit on opposite sides
Of the Grand Canyon isself
And shout at each other that the other
Ought to hurryitup and jump the gap.

No, the principle of conversation I mean.
What would it be like if you and I –
Lone men on a long road –
Kept our radio silent and stared
At what lies ahead and not who
We might find. The road would become
Dry, lifeless, bare, and boring.

Yeh, when yur right, yur right. And
Yur right. Maybe it’s better to
Be right or wrong than without neither,
Both judged and judging,
Than to isolate ourselves and form
One world of one mind
With no purpose other than making noise.

Exacitally, Freddo ma friendo. It’s
All one can do to remember they’re alive
On this bleak road, at this stiff wheel,
And I’m glad I’ve got
A philosophizer like you
On the other end.

Likewise, Frank. Likewise, but I must say
That you’re the philisophier
I think. And now I bid you evening,
For I’ve got a small drive
And a Big Mac
That’ll hopefully take me all the way.

To hear you doing fine, in your
Tone and in your lines, is just
Jim-cracking dandy-do.
But keep your ear pressed to the com
For another question I press to you:
Why do we drive?

Whaddya mean?

Why do we drive these trucks cross-country
For little more than cash
To sustain us in-between
Neglected nights and dreary days
Just so we can get behind the wheel again?

I don’t know, Frank. I
Don’t know. I don’t think I want to.
But I do know this –
When we’re in the seat,
Better to sit, than stand
And tumble out.

True thing – if everyone stood up,
There’d be no one left to drive the truck
But that just begs
Us to ask which matters more:
The truck or the driver?

But you cannot argue that,
To man and his business,
The truck makes the driver
Though the driver moves the truck
And both are worth less
Than the cargo itself.

I cannot, I cannot, you’re right ‘bout that.
But it’s better to have
A truck to drive
And a cargo to carry
Than neither at all.
Isn’t that right?
Am I right?

Frank, old buddy,
I’ve got to go.
Another sun is rising
And I’ve got plains to go before I catch it.

Ah, well, take care of yourself,
Freddo ma Friendo.
And remember that the moon
Is a worthwhile object, too.

Copy. Signing off.

Signing out.

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Starting and Stopping
Stapping and Storting
Stopping and Starting

You cannot stop until you start
But the Starting’s still the Stopping’s part
For you don’t know you’ve started until you have stopped
In the lane where the Starters stop for your start
When with a puff and a start you stop all the same
And the Starters’ stop lands square as your blame
Though you never started to stop –
You set out to start –
But a Stopper is what you started out as
And are stuck no matter how much you start
Or stop, keeping time with the Starters
Now that they’ve swept you up in a Starter’s heap
You’re a Stopper until you give up your feet.

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Bowls of nothing every morning,
Bowls of nothing every night –
To eat anything but air
Is to forget the human plight:
That no matter what you put in you
You’re worth no more than shite –
Born as nothing into mourning
That you’ll die as nil by night!

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Look at all them bouncin’ bout –
Jingle Jingle janglejing!
A bunch o silly-lookin’ dolls
Strangled up in knotted strings.
They love those strings of theirs, them dolls,
And try to hold the nylon dear;
But don’t they know it’s all just thread
That hoists them high by heavy rears?

Jangle-krinkle, tinklewink –
They try to kiss the skinning threads
That jerk them, shirk them, yank their heads,
And still with them they’d make their beds
Because it’s wood throughout their heads.
What a pointless, thoughtless lot
That lets their strings jerk where they ought –
But if they sense, they’d certainly not,
Were they aware the Puppeteer’s plot.

The Puppeteer, he ain’t a man
But a autonomy o’ beliefs
Latched to puppets by their strings
(And them to him by griefs)
Made of wounded misconceptions
And thoughts they hope are real –
They jumble up the other puppets
And choke them out with zeal.
The Marionettes keep on a-yankin’
The Puppeteer around,
Though they’ve become so entangled
Up can’t be told from down.

Jingly-tingly jinglejang –
They ring for audience.
But lookee here! Silly we!
The strings have made the dolls immobile;
Their heads hold the only dance.

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I run my bony fingers
Sensitively across the sharkskin serrated surface of
A Brick Wall:
Rough and red
The blood of sweat
Slipping down its cemented hodgepodge
Between the grooves –
Filling the cracks –
Sticky
Warm
The cold of artificial stone
Falsely coated in a
Living crimson that renders it
Human
To the untrained heart.

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Abrupt beginning, abrupt end
I come from light, to darkness, to light again.
All the same, play the game;
Hold back love, hold back spite,
Try to make it through each night,
Each curtain call, each pawn fall –
Every piece must give their all.
The King and Queen each take their space
And thus begins the endless race.

Until the game concludes
Only eagerness exudes.

The board is set, the pieces play
All the same, every day.
The bishop slides to snag a knight,
But that knight’s spite puts up a fight.
Hell is raised, God is praised,
Lesser pieces shocked and dazed.
Their vision scarred, yet no holds barred;
Strategy a mess, moves amiss,
Vitality fades with fatal hiss.

Until the game concludes
Only ignorance exudes.

The King, he slides to take a pawn
But in a mere five moves his Queen is gone.
Duty skewed, anger renewed,
His Highness knows not what to do.
Knight’s L hop, Bishop’s diagonal slide,
Each move the King he takes in stride
‘Till every piece will disappear
And he be left behind in fear.
Begin again.

Until the game concludes
Only weariness exudes.

Blankness, darkness, emptiness,
The game reset, pieces returned,
And just what has the mighty King learned?
Quite a bit, to say the least.
But what to gain?
Sorrow upon sorrow, pain upon pain.
A King, superior in every way,
Grows tired of playing the same old game.
When did it start?
He does not know
It was far too long a life ago.

Until the game concludes…

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