Saturday, March 5, 2016

A Telling, of a Twice Told Tale (of a lad of eighteen)

The Poet at Eighteen

I tiptoed but not too shy, in my Donkeyland neighborhood—
Like a rude owl, and like the telltale rat, who has but one lament?
To ramp, and stomp, skip and jump, and have no barriers:
As girls rolled by, rode by, not shy: waiting, hesitating, thus,
I wooed whomever I wished with a wicked fiery stick, and eyes,
Eyes, dying for a drink and a welcome, and a flop on the matt:
If that!
The half-moon I loved and leaned upon, until dawn: hence, the
Sun’s rays waking me for the day, I paced and hummed…
Gathered together my thoughts, shook my head from the cool malt,
And John Barleycorn, the night before; only
To romp and stomp, like a one eyed-unicorn, looking for a new
And illuminating moon, soon, and poem to go along: this allowed me to:
Breathe, breed and grieve, to crisscross, to transverse, the cells in my brain, to pawn my wandering needs and dreams!

When I was a simmering lad of eighteen—mad and half white beast—
I walked and talked with salt, I watched and wondered of the world about!
Dying, always dying, for a deeper look, as my blood crept clotted
And cold in my veins, like vines sucking up the water out of dirt; like frosting on icicles dripping, slipping, always a bit shy and bitter
And always a bit in the wick, too tipsy to spit, having dried lips, I
Slept in a few midnight ditches with sizzling bitches, quick! Always
Quick, with my fists, always fiery fists, and temperament.

Now I am old, more like the rooster than the bold cock, and cooed in my room of books, with strong coffee and pineapple juice,
— Henceforward, I listen for the bells on my grandfather clock,
And those old 45-records of Rock and Roll, that tell twice told tales with a telltale twist, of my youth, back in the 50s and 60s, when Donkeyland was what it was, and where I lived, and let live.

Note: 3-5-2016/#5105