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
