Epic
I feel good in versache
I feel good in top man jeans
I feel good in pajamas
I feel good in all of my means
I feel good in a meteor storm
I feel good eating heinz baked beans
I feel good in the bahamas
I feel good oh god I,m in love with beatrice
I feel good just looking at you what are human beings
I once was apprentice to heaven’s top man
His blackboard showed humans were still just a plan
He’d outlined this thing he was calling a tongue
And sketched all the teeth it would nestle among
Although I was scared it could cost me my job
I told him you can’t put that thing in their gob
‘Why not?’ said the Lord as he put down his chalk
So I said, ‘It’s obvious… people will talk.’
love the game
play with my balls all the time
top man on the green
Days of tribulation ,days of persecution;
Days I wish not to remember;
The day I lost two precious jewels-mum and dad,
I became an orphan and a nobody,
Soon after, I lost my aunt to a careless ‘hit and run’ dude,
My sorrow multiplied; I was speechless for days.
Many days I went to bed without food;
I battled with cold at night ,
Strive to survive and to become somebody;
Which I did…..
But the aura of sorrow encompassed me ;
Chained me like a wild beast ,
And today I suppose to be celebrating
my promotion as the top man, but…..
I celebrate or sorrowbrate the burial of my LOVE….
DATE:5-2-2015
"There are those to whom place is unimportant,
But this place, where sea and fresh water meet,
Is important ---"
From "The Rose", by Theodore Roethke
Chilly late October;
thin morning fog banks
the roadside, cloaks
a trickling bayou...
in the thickets of dense trees,
the wispy tufts
top man-high
goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace,
dried-out thistle stalks...
A school bus, solitary,
yellow, passes on
skinny black asphalt
where wet spots reflect
the newly risen sun.
Rustles of high,
green cane fields and
intermittent bird songs
interrupt pervasive quiet...
Timelessness, and solace --
calming, soothing --
a Louisiana bayou:
Bayou Sale.
The Top Man, the Cock of the Walk,
He loved being the head of the flock.
With the first faint ray of morning light,
He cocka-doodled with all his might.
The farmer was deep in a farmer like dream,
When he was wakened by a terrible scream.
The crowing his wife could no longer stand,
So the cooking fire flames she started to fan.
She'd do away with this feathery clock,
Planning to make her own chicken stock.
Our Avian friend managed to flee his abode,
Now we know why the chicken crossed the road.
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