Long Jangling Poems
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For Dylon Song Tribute contest
Sponsor: Oliver Mckeithan
Written on: 05/22/2025
Inspired by Mr. Tambourine Man
The roads yawn in their speech,
on this uncharted path tonight.
Clocks hang on walls like ghosts,
their hands spinning aimlessly.
Somewhere,
beyond the velvet murmur of the lamp’s glow,
my feet shuffle like old leaves,
sashaying to an illusory jingle.
Its carefree melody swirling with the wind,
jangling the bones of my memory.
I follow not because need summons me,
but because idleness has become a deafening sound,
since I am a stranger to sleep,
and the restless heartbeat keeps asking.
Guide me to the edge of oblivion,
where the horizon unstitches,
and the future pours into the present.
Transport me beyond reason,
where untethered thoughts can float,
mid the whispers of the tide.
I want to be in the in-between of music notes,
on the cusp before the sound,
at the pause before the waves break.
And then,
when the day begins to rust,
and the tide teases apart my shape
Let me wade behind you,
ankle deep in a strange joy
still wandering….
dubious churning benevolent altruism
this anonymous beastie boy boilerplate endeavors:
(instagramming literary maven) questing user yawps
critically griping knowing personal tidbits xeroxed blithely,
freely jeopardized nuggets (revealed vital), zealously doled
heftily linkedin private treasure trove, (Xfiles breached
flagrant junction mandating righteous validating zero
divulgence heaves lamentable ploy, tellingly xing bald
felonious figurative joyriding, nonchalantly revealing
valuable (Ziegfeld bomb crackling) debacle, heralding
litigious proven, X-rated, basic foolhardy (Laurel) jack
knifed, networked, rapaciously villainous, zealously dubious,
horrendously lowball practices, thru (Cambridge Analytica)
xy zealots, asininely execrable, intolerantly malignant,
quintessentially ugly, yawningly dastardly, horrendously
lamentable, pathetically treasonous, xtra blameworthy,
fiendishly jawboning, mindlessly paradigm quaking,
unethical yahoo careless gross injustice jangling kow
towing, pleasing the Xmen, banefully Facebook friggin
jerky maliciously narcissistically opprobrious predacious
quisling underhandedly yo-yoing cello glomming kik off
preachiness spar!
Hour hands clock back sixty minutes of Autumn
Round about this same of month every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as hoe hum
fortunate, this chronological seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kempf cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and booring into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea – gram ma mother earth glum
where live yikyak wired vanguard trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down behavioral sink went – me mum
bling bloviation, once worth matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset, when athwart pilot rum
man strait ting and bickering with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans defiantly thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got high-jacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs, which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace, resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis space/time continuum did devour.
Black hole event horizon indeed kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted to oppose this minute accord.
2200 E High Street
Pottstown, PA 19464
Upon making a purchase,
yours truly murmurs bonjour
to the man/woman clerk
manning cash register,
(perhaps another day)
maybe soon as tomorrow
January twenty four -
two thousand and twenty,
I will explore
Moonlight madness sale
fifty percent off all merchandise
across the expansive floor
after getting weary and footsore
snagging garments for near future
return home to stock wardrobe (mine)
satisfied with basement bargains galore,
aye attest bang for buck heretofore
wearables specially bought with difficulty,
née impossible mission finding clothing
to fit this hunchback named Igor.
Rather than pay top dollar i.e.
as prestigious patrician wag
hashtagged with extremely
high price tag
(think chic boutiques)
uninviting to token
garden variety scalawag
(i.e. namely yours truly),
who feels more at home
attiring himself courtesy ragtag
garments, particularly scant legal tender
jangling within me threadbare moneybag
plus deformity drawing
less stares when I lollygag
(matter of fact many "Zerns people")
populate said very affordable - egad
even amiable animals
amble along to stash their feedbag.
Impact on very limited budget
affords me more bang for buck
upon locating rare find,
I feel analogous to lucky duck
quacking and fluffing tail feathers
scouting around for usable goods
another shopper did finish
with thence did huck.
Adhesive hearts
Outstretched to meet
The forming of the day;
Peel our stories
Page by page,
Cast to vacuums
Sucking all we say.
Replacing choice
With fear,
Replacing youth
With age.
We live beneath
The chiclets now,
Where juices
Form conclusions
Of their own.
It is here
We all write
Different verses
Of the same poem
Wearing our time
As frazzled garments
Worn out
Quickly, ending us:
Winos burping
All we own
Hollow logs
Rolling down a hill
With no control.
What separates us
From our dream,
A many colored rain
That we call love.
I have no eye
Of Rembrandt
For your
Jangling bracelets’
Twinkling;
Within this time,
Before adhesive hearts
Can learn to fly.
You can always hear the jangling sound,
Of the organ grinder as he makes his way around.
He's out there in the rain or sun,
And everyone looks and seems to have fun.
He is a funny looking man with an old battered hat,
Which he holds out for people to put their pennies in, but sometimes there are buttons and other bits of this and that.
He seems very old and is stooped and bent,
Pulling that old organ around just to get enough to pay his rent.
He hasn't been around lately, perhaps he is to old to turn the stiff organ winder,
It's been a long time now, so it seems we have seen the last of that old organ grinder.
the heat presses down like a drunk cop’s boot,
metal fences shiver in the sticky Florida sun,
concrete walls spit their old secrets at you,
black mildew crawls across everything,
like it's alive and goddamn winning.
men with broken teeth laugh in corners,
playing cards with cigarette ashes and dreams,
the guards walk slow, like they own death,
keys jangling like a bad symphony,
boots scuffing, breaking the silence open.
sweat pools in the cracks of your skin,
rats wiser than the wardens,
paint peels in long strips, like shedding snakes,
you hear screams, sometimes,
but mostly you hear the waiting.
somewhere far off, a dog barks—
but not for you, not for you.
There was a time, not long ago,
I’m sure this won’t seem strange,
When I would never leave my house
Without a pile of change.
My wallet would be fit to burst
Or pockets would be jangling
With all the quarters that from every source
I had been wrangling.
The parking meters ate them up.
The bus was just as greedy;
And every pay phone (once a dime)
For quarters seemed quite needy.
The laundry room had its machines
Equipped so they would take
As many quarters as they could
Before we’d bellyache.
I needed quarters in the car
For paying all the tolls;
And in arcades, a two-bit coin
Bestowed you the controls.
But now technology’s advanced
With cards of many types.
Some radar reads your E-Z Pass;
You board the bus with swipes.
I’ve plastic for the wash and dry,
The subway and to park.
A quarter proffered would be met
With shrug as question mark.
I miss my quarter harvest
Though I really must confess
I’m better off today because
My wallet weighs much less!
MINUSCULE PSYCHOLOGISTS
those bars, those bars…
they screech and scream
and scare us little girls
the spots, the stripes...
of leopards and tigers
confined with jangling keys
and legs of chairs…
the circus feature
of our prayers
we hear, we hear…
the whispers of grown men
who snarl and sneer
closed in, closed in…
with legal pad, we query
the escapee’s sin
the whorl, the world...
minuscule psychologists
open up pandora’s box
shoulder to shoulder…
the dynamic duo ink blot
a list of truth and lies
empirical lessons...
not forgotten but tweaked
in the dendrites of my mind
those bars, those bars…
separate the pandemic cells
held in subconscious time
4/15/2018
Like Cool Hand Luke
They put me inside the Box.
Like Cool Hand Luke, they did.
A long night inside the Box in the dark;
Off yonder I can hear the hounds a baying.
Ostracized from the inside group,
The inclusive cool cloud of friends, and rightly so.
They put me inside the Box for having a backbone.
Like Cool Hand Luke, they did.
Treating me like a dead man,
With no memory, heartbeat or name,
Just a dead dude, cast away like a detested rock,
Thrown to the dark part of the back garden,
To make clear for the new trees, and rightly so.
They put me inside the Box, for having a backbone.
Like Cool Hand Luke, they did.
I sit alone and pray now,
And wait for the approaching footsteps,
And the jangling of certain keys outside my locked door.
Have pity on me Boss! I promise not to talk no more!
They put me inside the Box.
Like Cool Hand Luke, they did.
A long night inside the Box in the dark.
Off yonder I can hear the hounds a baying.