August 14, 2003

  • I’m sitting on a hill


    contemplating the thrills


    that define a life I’d love to live.


     


    Chasing timid tornadoes, catching a buzz


    at an unhurried hurricane bash,
    hopping trains, living in the spirit


    of so many of the songs sung by Johnny Cash..


     


    I’d eat sausage and eggs, sunny-side up, every morning


    at a different diner—as long as there was a sociable waitress for chat.


    Then I’d haul on my Harley hog out into the country


    Just to be free, get lost, and not give a damn


    as to where I’m going or where I’m at.


     


    If I saw a good climbing tree, I’d stop and climb it. 


    And if I saw a good looking girl, I’d think of climbing her, too.


    I’d sing: ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your hair…


    The world is ours, it’s our affair.’


     


    Rapuda? Rapuda-buda?


    No!  I would never repudiate the Buddha.


    Foil, or epee, or saber the thought.


    (Though I would stab him if I saw him walking down the street.)


     


    I’d be Bojangles upon the sunset


    and a Werewolf from London upon the moonrise.


    And I’d let the stars stare down on me


    as I’d hop, and kick and, to no soul in particular,


    life’s meteor-frenzied fury rhapsodize.


     


    I’d transform into a raconteur of grandiose minutia


    If ever you asked me the time of day.


    And I’d sing the ‘Knoll of the Mummies’


    (a long lost song) the moment


    a foxy chick looked at me ‘that way’.


     


    I’d imprison anyone who hasn’t watched


    the sun either rise or unrise


    in a calendar year.


    (their sentence would be to rot in a cell


    until for Beauty’s sake, they’d cry a single tear).


     


    I’d scream ‘Bloody Murder’ everytime


    I wanted a Bloody Mary.


    And I’d scream ‘Typhoid Mary’ anytime


    the biliousness or organizational immensities


    served me up a plate of crap.


     


    And then I’d yap, no, I’d whisper ‘I love you.’


    As, indeed, I wishfully should.


    And tender your passion


    if  thus blessed, I could.


     


    And I’d wake up wondering


    the world who you are now becoming


    As you raced away beeping twice


    In your cryptically vanishing car.


     


    Still, it's strange awash thus in this waterfallfoam of life
    with an undying dream of someday meeting you. 
    Crossing pinkies.  Pressing lips. 


    Still sitting on the same cemetery hill
    watching the sunset where
    it seems I've known and loved you forever. 
    Still wishing you the best.

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