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The Olympics are a marvelous sport
A marvelous showing of sports
After a long haul from Las Vegas
While eating at the Bass Pro Shop
A bowl of Gator Mac n’ Cheese
And some curious bread
Curiously coated in sugar.

The female gymnasts are something
Something entirely else
Something worth watching and admiring
For their skill and their strength
And their –

“Shit, man, that’s one sexy ass.”
Ah?
“You’re crazy, man, that girl can’t be more than sixteen.”
“I’m just sayin’, just sayin’.”

Further down the bar they sat
A pair of Hispanic brothers
Not much older than I, but rougher
With blank eyes and mumbling throat
That mixed English action with Spanish expletive –

“That one. That one would be great in bed.”
“Nah, man, her rack would get in the way.”
“Idiot!”
“Gymnasts are supposed to be flexible. How she balance with those tits?”
“You’re just sayin’ that because she not sixteen.”
“Fuck you, man!”

Their argument proceeds unhindered
By consciousness of conscience
Or that they’re in a public place
Or that the bartender is a woman
Or that I am a professional eavesdropper-

Ah?
So it seems they are conscious
Of the bartender being a woman
As they eye her plump thighs
When her back is turned
But then shake their heads
And return to the gymnasts

“Hey, what position is a gymnast best at?”
“Que?”
“Fucking, man. What position?”
“They’re gymnasts, bro, they’re probably sick in all of them.”
And so the banter back and forth
Continued on and on
As I ate my Gator Mac n’ Cheese
And wondered if the male athletes
Receive the same kind of attention –
Then realized the only conscious thought
You have while seeing the Olympics,
Never watching,
Is probably the same these brothers have-
For who else really watches?

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What am I doing?
Why –
Can’t you see?
I’m raising awareness so you can see
That being aware is the best you can be
Since being aware makes you totally free!

I mean…

Sure you’re aware of the nastiest things
That would make your Momma ashamed;
Sure you’re aware of most one-sided schemes
While you dance like a puppet on jangling strings,
Bound to squawk like a parrot now taking to wing
And repeat your awareness to value your name –

But, Hey! You’re aware! Be glad that you are!
No matter what made you aware from the start,
Whether born from within or from some distant star –
Because you! You are the star!
No matter how deep in the crowd you’ve been tarred.
With empathy, # or poem, complaint or a shout,
Talk long enough so there’s no room for doubt –
Raise awareness to make them aware
And they’ll all be aware that you are!

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A simple, sharp hello
Does little more than show
Acknowledgment.

A sporadic shout of hey
Exchanged for, any day,
Whatever.

The graveling, drowsy yo
Is, of uninhibited flow,
Disinterest.

The extended energy of hi
Betrays as quick to buy
Excitement.

To ask what’s up, but not
Stop to listen, you’ve got
Business.

To jerk your hand skyward
Like some breed of fly bird:
Arrogance.

But to tilt your head in consideration
With a bright smile, eyelids shut,
Laying claim to no one’s time
Yet simultaneously respecting;
You have just performed
The proper greeting.

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Ha ha hee,
I might just scream.
Hee hee ho,
Would you please go?
Hyuk hyuk harr,
That’s not yet far.
Hack hack hyup,
I’d pay to shut you up!
Your cackling resembles
A parrot prattling on;
My eardrums might not heal
Though you be swiftly gone.
You wouldn’t hurt so bad
If it were warranted,
But since you’ve lost your voice,
Why, I shall laugh instead!

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Damned if you do,
Damned if you don’t –
The cars speed forward
Though the drivers won’t
Over bridge too small
To go nowhere that far
When the tires are slashed
And the steering wheels robbed –
But the road’s not paved,
The lanes ain’t scrawled,
So it’s better to sit
And do nothing at all
On the corner of Holpe and Rune.

Past the outskirts of Sin City,
That wasteland deserving of pity,
A Man of the Day met a Lady of Night –
Their heads full of booze
Their hearts full of spite
And a perishing thirst to pour their lost plight
Under a freeway flickering,
Hidden from drivers snickering,
On the corner of Holpe and Rune.

They sat
Observed
Thought what to say
Considered again
And began:

“You look at me, a Harlot,”
Murmured the woman embittered
“With my sexy red dress
I seem a hot mess,
But I’d prefer a real rocket instead.
I’d ride it far
And shoot for the stars
Somewhere across the sea
Where I’d write for the kids
With the money I get
Doing the maximum jobs for their fees –
But since a drug bust
I’m reduced to lust
Since no one will hire me.
My body’s as good as I’ve got,
But my mind falls apart by the day –
I wish I could leave
This trash behind me
To become more than the empty man’s prey.”

“I might not seem a Lawyer,”
Laughed the man with a snort,
“Exercising my vice in a roll of the dice,
Where I lose half my winnings from court.
My wife left five years today,
And my child chose not to stay –
The courts failed me so
Why don’t I go?
There’s no sense in the job that you do
If it’s done only for you,
So I came here with dreams
Of the nightliving scene
And can’t count the days as they go
Through my pockets picked clean –
Now, I’ve started to yearn
I yearn for return
To the countryside –
To the home that I left in disdainful pride
Where I can suck out legalities that kill me inside.”

Their complaints were voiced in tune,
Drowning one another –
So, when all’s said and done,
It could be said neither one
Heard what was said by the other.

“Excuse me,
Did you say you were a Harlot?”

“I’m sorry,
Did you say you were a Lawyer?”

And so, shake hands,
Sellers of men
To prisons of two kinds!
A pact is made:
The man gets laid
To free her of courts and fines.
Arm in arm they sulk away
To waste their very souls away
Since there is no other way
But underneath that highway
At the corner of Holpe and Rune.

One was deaf to the other
While the other ignored the one –
For what can be said
When your dreams are all dead
‘Less you drag someone down in your stead?
By dismissing that voice in your head
Who says “Listen!”
Listen!

Though you drown him out, too, for what time have you
When your legs will not move
And your thoughts stick like glue
Or the gum on your shoe?
Thoughts covered in dust
With that Crook and his Slut
For the cars with slashed tires to come crashing soon
Through that corner near nowhere, between Holpe and Rune.

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A queue is what you call
A line in Great Britain,
Though lines there aren’t at all
Since waiting’s not the plan;
The plan is just to walk
Until you reach the front,
Refusing halt to balk
For those you might affront.
Lines or Queues,
Cue the crudes –
Do they exist, or just for prudes?
I cough when cut, to not offend
Those who force the order bend,
But, regardless, end up at the end.

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I never understood why the sex
Swearing has so firmly struck
In the minds of every illiterate sap
And the mouths of each ill-tempered schmuck.

Why this poop?
What of it?
Does not the English language
Provide better words to fit?

Why would a dog call their fella a penis
If he bites at her nerves like a tick?
Wouldn’t that be a compliment
For a man all the ladies would pick?

It urinates me off
To deal with nonsense such as this –
A cluster of fools whose grammatical skills
Ignore their clear remiss.

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All along the Isis
That part of Thames claimed by Oxford
Is a small dirt path.
You think it used
For practical purposes, or bedazzling show?
No.
Instead it is a naval graveyard –
A procession of garbage barges –
A regular Junk Row.

All along this Junk Row,
The dejected tenants line politely, bow to stern,
Covered in dead leaves
Browner than the rust on their bellies
And the dirt on their roofs.
But take their word, and not my own –
Besides my word
Will prob’ly be denied
By those lovely Oxford scholars
And the boats’ owners, who wish to stay port.

“My name is Lady Ethel,
And I’m rather smartly dressed:
Cracked headlamps lit
By pigeon shit
And holes borne ‘long my breast.”

“They hail me Captain’s Rat
Since jealousy ensnares –
Considering
That everything
I own they claim was theirs.”

“Here Comes Trouble is my name,
Sailing stoned-out is my game.
My clogged engine,
Peeling green skin,
And dank steam have gained me fame.”

“Behold, I be the Magick!
Though there’s nothing grand about –
The only trick
You’ll see me stick
Is how I can stay afloat.”

“Sir! I’m the stout Commando!
I always stay covert!
Food, leaves, and crap
(And sticky tree sap)
Keep me from a just desert!”

“I might be called the Doghouse,
But don’t let that name fool you:
My master’s pet
Might be master yet
Since both’ve marked my inside through.”

“I’m the Midnight Fairyman,
And I implore, please stay away –
I’ll try to hide
The lads inside,
But my rocking does betray.”

“Aye, they known me as Scott Free
Since Scott Free is what I am –
The lad in charge
Lives free of charge
Since hey’s quite the famly man.”

“Shloop is written on my belly,
Quite a simple, silly title.
It’s no wonder
Since that blunder
Does not consider college vital.”

“Africana – but say it soft!
Driver’s cruel in thoughts of fun.
Still, I don’t blame
His bondage game
Since young charges scream and run.”

There you have but ten Junkies
Along that cursed Junk Row
There are many more,
Many, many more,
But do you want to hear more
Trash from trash?
Wouldn’t it be better to let them rot?
Sit there until they sink
From the weight of leaves or secrets
Rather than make a fuss
And uproot that soiled soil?

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Bored:
‘Tis what I am
Since what I was
Required a certain aptitude
To rely on humanity’s fancy
And aggravated whim.

People-listening was my game
And, boy! Was it a gas
To hear the personal
The provincial
The scandalous
Schemes borne from those
To whom privacy comes last.

And now: Hark here!
A newer conversation
Fills the rooms with pedantic drivel
As the modern man looks outward
To things that hardly concern him
And ends his winded lectures
With feigned moral aggravation.

They pretend they are the experts
Of their collective truth
But, really, they are just bland
And kind of unoriginal –
Simply, boring –
As they recite the talking points
Gathered throughout the day.

“Relevant this, relevant that –
She probably did so,
But everyone knows he did so –
How do I know? How can I tell?
‘Cause everyone’s saying it
So there’s some proof in it
Or else what I’m saying
Isn’t worth much at all –
But I can’t believe that
By virtue of it’s what I find interesting.”

Fools like this
Go on and on
Whether dates with loves or business friends
Permit jabbering on for endless ends
Without realizing it’s been said before
Or refusing to believe it
Or else lose individuality.

Well, I say, they’ve lost it –
And I’ve affirmed that man is a bore
Since the women and men sound off as one
Just to hear their complaints echo over the floor
Until eavesdroppers like me, who chose – but now can’t help it –
Turn around to shush their drivel
Because our own thoughts are suddenly more fun.

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For Christ’s sake, could you sit still?
Tapping your fingers
On your knee, unrhythmically,
Foot beating a different one
After the legs bounce and cross –
Once, twice, three times a second –
God grant me patience!
What is that rubbing?
That frantic forearm rubbing
Like a flint sparking the fires
Of my annoyance?

And you, fanning the flames with
Loud, uneven puffs from your flaring nostrils –
Cannot seem to behave like an adult.
Your daughter pleads for silence
As you trumpet like a damn elephant,
But you chide her and urge her to shout.
She’s a good girl
And you are more the child.
Finally, you take out your phone
Which might occupy your
Disgraceful, fidgeting self.
Oh, for crying out loud,
Will you plug some headphones in?
I am trying to talk
On the phone,
If you hadn’t noticed.

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