Monday, March 29, 2010

gonna be his moon
jimmymankind © 07/07
She knew she wasn’t ever gonna be his moon.
‘cause the things he did to her were dumber than a loon.
He’d promise her the worl’,
then she’d find him
chattin’ up some other grrl.
He’d tell her he’d be goin’
and she’d see him in the mall.
(You could tell he wasn’t that enthrall’d.)
And she’d hear...he’d been seen
rubbing faces with some...ditzy human bein’,
While Jojo languored cooked up
instead of hooked up
somewhere on the softer side of
You here,’s the hold-on
grrrl, you, me, the good man at your side.
These bright wondrous days are for when we love.
Life–y’all–boils down to a few salient days:
the ones when we are love.
You who make me laugh.
You here, me.
The rest be chaff.
Yesterday afternoon
I was sitting/in my car/in the safeway/Sparkling lot
Listening to the snooze upon the radio.
My car’s burnin’ oil just like the nation
(tryin’ to stay ahead of China and Big Oil’s constipation.)
And I’m Thinking,
angry. romantic, and dangerously lost ! ,
of Starting up
Some sort of "Don’t Tread On Me"
to make the Boss man even more angry.
Like me:
romantic, and dangerously lost.
He be some kinda foo’! Man!
He turn my brown ass blue.
She knew she wasn’t ever gonna be his moon.
Because the things he did to her were dumber than a loon.
He promise her the whirl,
then she find him in the mall
chattin’ up some other grrrl.
He tell her he be goin’
and how he got aroun’.
She hear he been seen
rubbing faces
with some ditzy free for all
Latina human bean-a.
While Jojo languored all cooked up
and broke-up
like some defunct...
No where she’d be seen.
It was a day for the audacity of hopes
I had the newspaper open to the Sun.
Cuppa coffee on the dash–this was some kinda fun.
I was counting the dead as best I could,
Until the numbers turned to oatmeal
In my head. Or vice versa.
I dug into the billions wasted, stolen, lost...out upon the sea...under desert rocks... bad peephole’s pockettes.
Burnt. Manured somewhere. Or forgotten like squirrels lose nuts.
I got all confused.
That led me to a-dreamin’ ‘bout the more manageable simple number
of wars per century, and if ours was not the worst of all the bad...
ones viewed from this late perspective,
from this point of human evo- devo- or our reso-solution.
On sun-dried killing fields where there was only one army
not at home
whose jones was blowing
up no one’s
homes Or homes unknown,
So that was not a war...exactly. (If you don’t know who you killin’.)
Like unintended murders have unintended consequences w/o intent
–these gloves fit all sizes.
When my eye caught something all weird and fluttery ‘cross the street
high up on the tarry old telephone pole–slash–dead tree:
y’all be darned if they wasn’t a couple a coupling
California Blue Jays up there high above it all,
Kali-forni-cating’ they (dumb little) brains out.
"Omigod! Omigod!" she seemed to squawk,
squashed down upon their/her polestand. "Omigawd!"
As her old man pounded, "Uhnt. Uhnt-uhnt!"
And–finally, "Uhnt...! Squawk. Caw!"
Just like any man would sound if smaller,
and with wings in feather.
One more Spring.
Oh. Joy,
I thought:
High hopes.
You here,’s the hold-on,
grrrl, you, me, the good man at your side.
This bright or gray, illuminated day, when we love.
Life boils down to a few salient witnessings:
the ones when we are love.
You here, me.
The rest be chaff.
High hopes.

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