---

Flailing.
Just…Flailing.
How the coming generation
Believes that it can dance
Perplexes me, considering
It only involves hands.
An elbowed twist,
A seizured jerk,
All standing in one place.
Some wooden tilts
At ten degrees –
The only change of pace.
What happened to that jazzy swing
Where the dance took up the floor?
Now the crowd must circle round
To make dancers seem more.
What ever happened to the ballroom,
Graceful conversation, body and soul?
Reduced to intimacy in a bounce
With hopes of making bed less cold.
Was it the music?
Was it the steps?
What made dance not what it used to be?
I’ve come to think
It’s tiring
To move the frame with tiny gears
Spun by a well-oiled crank.
Imagination is that crank,
And effort is its springs –
Which makes sense, considering
The newer age prefers a fling
Over a crafted, lasting thing
Because they are flailing.
Just…flailing.

---

---

Blessed with easy birth
Yet cursed to fall on deaf brains
Similar to poems

---

---

Twenty-four months have done passed
Since I saw my dancer’s sweet ass;
And now I’ve returned
With a heart not-so burned
And more geared towards fun in excess.

Still I thought I’d write a similar plot
About love that more often than not
Was but a dream
For my fruitless scheme
But have decided it not worth its snot.

You see, I fell in love with a dancer
Twice, and can’t help but fancy her
Cute London voice,
Quirky by choice,
Short, sweet, with bubbly demeanor.

I wanted to get her attention
So I attended every attraction –
I danced and I sang
With such unique bang
That I quickly became a sensation.

I won trophies for my showmanship
And folks all over the ship
Took pictures with me
And said, honestly,
That I was the highlight of their trip.

My name became known ‘cross the deck
So I had to keep my ego in check
As I was called out
In games and to flout
On the radio for a quick morning sec.

I met Catherine more than one time,
Impressed her with my dance line –
Met all her cast,
Got friendly real fast,
Which convinced me of being in prime.

I fell in love with a dancer, it’s true,
Obsessed with her throughout the cruise,
But now, looking back,
It doesn’t mean smack
When compared with my stand-up debut.

Because, when taken into hindsight,
It mattered so little, my plight,
Since one lousy week
Is less than I seek
To form fantasy and form it right.

These dancers were simply a crush,
For love cannot handle the rush
Of playing a game
Where there is no aim
But the moment soon gone with a brush.

So ends my high at high seas
Like a pleasant but short-winded breeze –
When those waves come again
The point’s not to win
But to ride them just as you please.

---

---

Plate on the waves,
Plate in the sea,
bobbing and swirling effortlessly
though which side is up Shrimp cannot plainly see
Because of the glare
On fine platterware
And the calcified ripple of tablecloth foam.

Spoon in the sea,
Spoon of the deep,
lodged in the coral of Moray Eel’s keep
where rust and disuse climactically heap
within hidden fold
until time is old
And the ravels run out of tablecloth foam.

Knife of the deep,
Kife on the sand,
hurtling swift ‘cross the vast sunken land
to conquer what Orca and Squid both command
and take them as well
for pleasures to sell
Cast up from the bosom of tablecloth foam.

Man from the sand,
Man on his ship,
fortuitous you should take such a trip
and adhere plate to spoon to knife in your slip
to use what is there,
though some mourn the pare
While fizzling to nothing but tablecloth foam.

---

---

through the clouds
floats Londontown
With smoggy brow
‘neath mottled crown
of stacked suburbs
‘long liquid gown
flowing down
cracked Londontown.

nicotine
reigns Lord supreme
in whiskey scene
with slurrèd sheen
as Britons green
rough feathers preen
to flockmates glean
learned Londontown

the nicest pubs
and social hubs
put to shame
the business scrubs
with domiciles
of cement shrubs;
typical snubs
of Londontown

Londontown,
dank Londontown,
what’s your attraction on the ground?
I wonder
as I hover –
Will my observations still remain
once the plane is safely down?

---

---

Twas a week in the middle of June
Cruising under a full blue moon
On a stage of eight
One dancer had Fate
Designed bait me into a swoon.

This blonde, nimble angel of white
With butt, tummy, leotard tight,
Smooth slender thighs,
Strong legs and deep eyes
Sapped my hot heart of its might.

As she twirled and shook it on stage,
My blood boiled blue beyond gauge
To plow my prow fast
Twixt the sails of her mast –
Navigation that would not be sage.

Four nights I was lured by her grace,
Each show a downwards-sloped race
Not but for stars,
Especially Miss Mars
Waging war on my heart with cold face.

Seven whole days I scoured the ship –
Searching, beseeching, pursuing a tip
That might reveal
Some minute appeal
Unveiling a trail towards her far tender lip.

The night of finale, their very last show,
The worst yet, yet the finest she’d glow;
With spunky cha-chas
She jiggled her ta-tas
Towards my dopey grin down center row.

Thus marks the end of my spurious love,
Bound to be cursed by heaven above;
The following cruise,
My sparkling fuse
Was doused to hear of that migrated dove.

Still, what foolish thoughts did I conceive?
To seek her for my lonesome reprieve?
No contentment attained
From a stranger obtained
On ships, the fantastical heart falsely reaves.

---

---

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?

---

---

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!

---

---

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.

---

---

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!

---