Chilling with Longfellow
If a body meet a body
in Mount Auburn Cemetery,
that’s probably not a good thing.
But coyotes aren’t a big threat
regardless of the springing dash
of a tan jackrabbit into bushy cover,
making a break right before
Longfellow’s crypt looms up to the left
of the leafy-lined Indian Ridge Path.
Dead men don’t care what I wear
or how much I weigh the pros and cons
of coupling over this blissful solitude.
I’m sorta hoping Emerson drops by to shoot
the breeze. Melville might bring flowers with
Hawthorne, wrinkling his handsome brow.
I love you still, no matter what they say
about you now. Still born, still dead,
you do indeed tell many tales.
The Lot of Us
Oh, man, if Hemingway were here
there wouldn’t be
enough booze for everybody, but we
wouldn’t mind sharing.
A few more ice cubes
would probably do the lot of us a world of good.
When were nachos invented?
No matter, historical accuracy isn’t
all it’s cracked-up to be. That wasn’t
a Fitzgerald joke, poor chap.
For that story alone—
the one about a solitary traveler
putting his shoes out
in the hotel hallway to be polished,
noting all the other rooms
had two pair of shoes outside:
a big square male duo
and a smaller, pumped female
that story alone
makes me forgive ol’ Ernest for shooting
all those lovely tigers.
Man, at a pub I do not want to hear writers
whining about being
screwed-up by mothers who stopped
breastfeeding too soon
or made them do too many chores.
Oh, God, if Hemingway were here!
Drink up, writers. Talk about the war on love.
Removed for publication–will post the link when it’s up!
Tim told me not to drink the water
’til after, but, hell, it was about a hundred
degrees in Salem’s Athenaeum. Poor Nathaniel
was practically running off the painting
in the well-shelved tiny room where
I read Raggedy books while Tim
checked out the snazzy old “washroom.”
The raspberry water was cold and yummy.
Besides, I didn’t look through books
for famous signatures while the author
was reading. That would be rude, indeed.
But some people will rifle through stuff
while listening to a story, if left unchecked.
Lo’s No Witch
Salem’s famous for witches, so Lo’s
gonna have a poetry reading there
in October. Now that came out wrong.
–Don’t mean Lo’s a witch. She’s a musician-
poet who can’t sit still at readings, like me,
when Mike plays his drum, hum, hum.
I’ll be there too, in a Salem cafe
keeping score with Dracula of all
the necks I’ve nibbled. We’ll try not
to act too batty, this ol’ gang of poets,
blending right in with various spooks,
just children of rhythms and the night.