I Should Have Played The Piccolo



For years

I never thought

Myself a poet—

I didn’t understand

Most of the poetry I’d read

Or care to decode it—

That convoluted

Cryptic high-dollar lingo

I needed Webster

To help me plow through

And still never knew

What the fuck

Was going on—

I couldn’t unwind

The syntactical mysteries

I’d find at every turn

Of phrase—another puzzle

And intriguing when I was a kid

When everything was a mystery to me

Like the sound of my tongue

Liquidy and clippity in my mouth

Articulating whispered

Gibberish and words

Against my teeth and lips

The roof of my mouth

A foreign music to echo

In the ear of the soul

That queer landscape

Inside my head—an edgy fear

Of the unknown

The universe of the mind

Like prayer—our search

For a reason to go on

Playing along in this game

We’ve evolved into buying

The belief in the significance

Of our particular

Existence having meaning

Believing those stories

Of myth or religion

Or science—the chatter

To support a collective mission

A unified awareness

That we must sacrifice

The glories of individual ego

And work like ants

For a better tomorrow

For a true day of reckoning

A day of understanding—

When the answer will arrive

Like a golden key

Gleaming on a purple pillow

Along with the secret knowledge

Of which door we need

To open to find

Universal peace and love

The big Why—

And if we buy into that notion

Of our ability to know

We give ourselves way more

Power than we know

We can have—and I want

You to know that I know

I don’t know shit

And don’t care to pretend

I do—I know today is

Upon me—and coyote will be

Back—where is the trickster

In the Christian-corporate model

There is no silliness in the boardroom

No laughter at the gates of Hell

I’ll take wily Old Coyote

Losing his ass again and again—

That roadrunner, oblivion

Is too quick for me—give me

Beauty or give me head

And fuck the rest of it

Men have been the managers

The progressive masters of fear

So let’s give women a chance

To screw it up some more

See what they might do

With this cursed boys’ camp

Of indentured servitude

Maybe trade a little tenderness

For drudgery or despair—give me

Free love and saddle shoes

I bet the Buddha was a gay blade

Who played the piccolo—

A poet and a Mommas’ boy

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