---

Been a long night come,
and several trains,
to bring me right back home again.
And in the frigid fallen air
I see two men
a-lying there –
both blend in with darkest night,
the left stands up
the one on right
cannot.
A wheelchair is his curbside throne
where he blurts a chilly groan
protesting Lefty’s aims for home
wherever that may be.
Their speech is English,
yet is not
as if two jawbreakers rolled
and lolled about precariously
in hungry cheeks –
tongues the only thing to chew
on this and many bitter nights.

Reloading my Oyster card,
I was approached
by the rolling man
and I knew what he wanted
though I failed to hear
through those exaggerated lips.
Pity cloaked,
tobogganed head,
olive coat, oiled and greased,
and -most of all-
that mobile shrine of suffering.
I gave him twenty pounds,
was blessed,
and hurried on my way.

But as I left Barnes Station
I forgot:
Did I tap my Oyster card a second time?
I returned with haste
in time
to see the crippled homeless man
scaling the stairs
wheelchair under his arm.
He passed me,
his head low,
as if I would forget the pathetic man
I gifted twenty pounds to.

It was then that I realized:
I’d been bambeggared.

---

---

‘Twas a hot summer day under the hot summer sun
As I wandered about, my vision beginning to fade.
I was perspiring, and at the moment desiring
An ice-cold can of crisp lemonade.

I found not what I sought, but yet
What I did find, sitting at a desk on the pavement,
A queer, slick can, the bottle all tanned,
So I ceased my search under that purple tent.

“Small little can,” pleaded I,
“Pray tell what your name might be?”
“Ignorant man,” scoffed the can,
“I am Root Beer, as you can clearly see!”
“Hm, of you I have not heard,”
I replied, blaming the heat for such a surprise.
“Alas, is that so? Then I must tell you more,”
Answered the drink, its voice flitting high.

“Answer me this; of what do you consist?”
At the moment, I was thinking aloud.
“Nutmeg and sarsaparilla, wintergreen and vanilla,
And of my variety of roots and more I am proud”

“Fair enough, but even so,
Were you originally meant for pleasure?”
“No, I was originally a tonic created by an American colonist,
Whose ingredients, exempting sassafras, were strong and sure.”

“Sassafras? Doesn’t sassafras include
A certain substance called safrole that causes immense pain?”
“You are correct; consuming safrole results in cancer, so today
I am created with sassafras extract in which safrole is not contained.”

“Good, very good; that is completely fine.
But, are you brimming with fizz? Don’t lie!”
“Quite so, for, at my birth, I was
Mercilessly pumped with carbon dioxide.”

“Now one last question, and then I’ll stop;
Am I one of the naive few who hasn’t heard of you?”
“Yes, and I’m exceedingly shocked that you haven’t.
For many companies have been founded for me alone to be brewed!”

“Well, I rest my case; I’ll give you a sip.”
I threw my head back and chugged the liquid down.
“Say! You’re not half bad! What a nice, refreshing feel!
And your taste, oh, your taste does astound!”
“That’s actually just me, I confess,”
Exclaimed the sugary drink with a sigh,
“Every Root Beer has a different flavor
Because our contents get tampered with from time to time.”

Not heeding these words at all,
As I was fully satisfied and left the drink seller their pay,
I tossed the can, much to its protest, in the trash,
And continued along my merry way.

---

---

A plane my chosen vessel be
To soar in comfort ‘cross the sea
Not at all did I expect to be
Antagonized.

A woman with her little mutt
Crowned my neighbor with her butt
And taking aisle space with her gut
Liberally.

Since the dog had no space for himself
(Designated for her psychiatric health),
Crawling across with very little stealth
He curled improbably
-Yet oh so promptly-

In my lap.

The old woman could not help but dote
Upon my looks and open heart,
Grant me advice from the Golden Coast –
A share of her philosophizing smarts.

I nod with mock enthusiasm
For, within, a chortling chorus
Points out the filth upon my lap
To deride her “conscientiousness.”

For I am not a fan of dogs –
Is that what I get for smiling
Saying I like them
As supposedly everyone does
When the beast is shedding all over
Having never been on a plane before
Nervous
As am I having a greasy creature
And knowing how hard it is to get the
And the smell!
Don’t get me started on the smell.

I listen to her tiring story
Of how tiresome ‘tis living sixty years
(With open smile and scornful heart
Because she burns my ears
And her dog, it burns my lap):

“Oh, the importance of traveling
When you’ve nothing else to live for…
You know, you’re a handsome boy,
I’m sure you will find a good girl,
Progressive and forward-thinking –
Awww, Charlie thinks so, too –
Come here, boy! Is he bothering you?
No? You’re such a good boy.
Sweet, too. My son was a good boy
But we never saw eye to eye
Especially in girls, I tell you!
There aren’t many women like me anymore, tee-hee.
You’ve got to make sure
She respects herself, and dresses like it,
And is good with kids, and pleased you.
I mean, you’ve had sex before;
You probably know what you want.
Oh, you haven’t? You really need to
To know what kind of girl you want.
How she is in bed is how she is in her head
Is what I like to say about them.
But how can you not have…
And you don’t drink? Such a sweet thing,
But you’re missing out on so much –
Oh! The plane’s descending!”

And not a moment too soon
As I, with dog in my lap
Clawing my groin
And dog at my side
Yapping into my ear
Were almost equally close
To shattering this pedestal of
Propriety.

The dog tuite suit removes itself
Unveiling a nest of fur
Woven into my jeans;
The old bag,
Unwilling to carry her own bags,
Slyly encourages me to do so.
I do so
And, as she leads me outside,
For my pains and sufferings,
Am offered a ten-dollar bill.
Though not really,
Since it was only sticking out of her bags.
But, encroach and be encroached upon,
Betrays not my obliging smile
To that flea-bitten mongrel
And her like-minded pet.

---

---

Hark! The bloated belly here:
Child of mine pleasure and guilt.
Tired grow I of such boisterous baggage –
The time is nigh I tighten such lilt!

Subject to starve, supplementing to stave
Any neglect that might beckon I crave;
Trimmer and slimmer, shrink and subside,
My new fit physique seems to be bona fide.

How be it so? my toil be but spoil
As I lower mine eyes to embonpoint thighs;
My breathless bearing bears facetious façade
Feeding lie after lie whilst I gained fifty-five.

---

---

Everywhere I go I see a friend –
Those I’ve met and those not yet –
But most I pass, even those I know,
Look down as they stroll by
And avert their shifty eyes
As if to keep me from asking why –
Aha! Egad!
Is this a fad
Brought from the far-off East?
To do as the Easterners do
And give a bow to follow through
A howdy-do to you-know-who
When you can’t stop in the least?
To stare at your shoes with inclined head
So your politenessness increase?
Then I shall do as the Easterners, too,
To see if you pause at least!

---

---

See her now, the homegrown Coiffure
Who seeks her hair’s perfection and poofs always to make sure
The product pricely purchased locks her locks behind a mure
Of hairspray fired eighty times a minute every five.

Smell it now, the woman’s scent,
Forcibly shoved up your nose with nowhere left to vent
The mousse that sapped the Coiffure of all she could have spent
On things of more importance than her sloppy, drab image.

It’s midnight now, upon the plain,
And still I hear the Coiffure’s comb coming ‘gainst the grain
And that hairspray bottle’s gas brings fever to my brain
As she sprays and sprays and sprays and remains just as plain
All the same.

Where is the Coiffure heading that requires so much pain
Between nowhere and midnight on this fume-infested train?

---

---

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.

---

---

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.

---

---

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.

---

---

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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