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Poems

Dill and Cole Roll the World’s Biggest Joint and Blow Themselves Up with Dynamite

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One day,
Dill and Cole decided to roll
The biggest joint in all of the world.

They thought it’d be funny
To pool all their money
And spend it on all the weed they could buy.
And they thought it’d be a fine joke
To watch their savings go up in smoke
As they blew puffy rings at the sky.

So they bought cartons of papers
For this magnificent caper
And a blowtorch to light the huge thing.
They invited their friends
Who invited their friends
And everyone brought all they could bring.

The people marched in quite happily,
Although not very snappily,
Because punctuality’s never been quite their suit.
But the folk were all smiles
And of a great many styles
And they brought everything from gummies to fruit!

Lily and Mary
Brought flowers and berries
Because they were two cool hippie girls.
They each wore their sandals
And they lit up some candles
And they prayed for peace throughout the whole world.

A guy who called himself, “King,”
And who could use a washing,
Began to build a low hut.
He said, “We’ll have here our prayers and our rituals,
Our moon-tithes and orbituals,
We’ll need peyote and blood from a cut.”

Wild Tom the Contractor
Showed up with his tractor
To help with lifting the weed.
Bright Jim “The Mad Scorch”
Showed up with an oxy acetylene torch
And dynamite in case of a need.

Well when they laid the weed out
It stretched ten yards just about,
And was as wide as an elephant’s ass!
They laid the weed on the prairie
And all comers felt merry
Contemplating the mass of the grass.

Well ole Dill and ole Cole
As they started to roll
Thought Jim’s dynamite should be a part of a plan.
For what if the joint’s lit
But then suddenly quit?
They’d need it to combust from within!

So ole Dill and ole Cole
Put dynamite in the roll
To be sure that the joint would stay fired.
Then Tom the Contractor
Rolled the joint with his tractor
Till it was as tight as the smokers required.

Then a teen named Colleen
Banged a tambourine
While a drummer, “Dragon,” joined in on some drums.
Tim the firebreather breathed fire,
Brit the slackrope walker walked wire,
And Jake the juggler juggled kiwis and plums.

Then Jim the Mad Scorch
Lit the joint up with his torch
As the festivities reached their climax.
And Dill and ole Cole who’d bought the green stuff
Let all of their friends have the first puff
And watched them all laugh and relax.

When the joint was half smoked
Dill and Cole approached it to toke
And they leaned down together, the two, that great pair.
And just at that moment the dynamite blew
Sending a fireball into the blue
And scorching the guys’ eyebrows and hair!

The blast rocked the whole place
And put surprise on each face
With a concussion each smoker felt to the core!
Then Dill said to Cole, as Cole looked at Dill,
“My man, my man! you look, my man, like a carbonized grill—
Let’s roll another, but next time with more!”

Categories
Poems

There Needs to be a Word for Laughing at Horror

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There needs to be a word for laughing at horror
When something’s so awful that you laugh in surprise
And you say, “I know it’s not funny…”
But there’s still a laughing look in your eyes.
Like when you hear of the man who was a quadriplegic for life
Falling down in the kitchen to land on a knife.
He would scream out in pain, but he can’t move his lips!
He’d get off the knife, but he can’t move his hips!
Still he’s not quite dead yet, the very poor dear—
Though he may wish he were, as he’s overtaken with fear—
For in the thin walls of his house, a bad electrical wire
Has found inflammable ground and started a fire!
And as the flames rise up, our victim’s consumed
By smoke and fire that blaze him to his doom.
Whoever it was that said Nature’s so sweet
Has never been chaff, has been only wheat.
But for a man like me who is often the chaff
When cruel tragedy happens, I have to weep as I laugh!
And I know it’s not funny to laugh at these things,
When the blades of life are cutting one’s wings,
And the depths of horror are so profound that you cry
Yet an inapt smile appears near the tear from your eye!
So what can you call it when you are laughing at horror?
It’s not quite “schadenfreude,” and not quite “sadistic;”
It’s certainly not “tasteless,” because that’s too simplistic.
I really believe that we must make a word
For a feeling that each of us has sometimes incurred.
I have no proposals, nor have I quaint dictum,
So, like all of you, I’ll just try to not be a victim.

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Poems

Clean Dean the Mighty Marine

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“Clean” Dean the mighty Marine
Couldn’t tell whom
He’d killed or he’d seen.
He was classified to be in many Black Ops
And his superiors referred to him as one of their “mops,”
Because Dean Ian the Cleaning Machine
Was able to leave no trace at a scene.
A contractor is working?
Now he’s working no more.
Disappeared forever to even a score.
Clean Dean the Careful Marine
Left the place looking like
His hit had never been.
One day Clean Dean left the Marines.
He stopped lifting weights;
He became long and lean.
He got into the horses;
He got into the tracks;
He read books about gardening
And espionage paperbacks.
Clean Dean the mighty Marine
Met a lady one day whose name was Colleen.
They got along smoothly,
And he bought her a ring.
He proposed in the fall,
And they were married in spring.
Clean Dean bought a car for the baby
A safe car with four doors
Because Collen was expecting.
The years passed by,
These Dean could not sweep away.
He lived through the seasons;
He lived through the days.
Clean Dean grew old and found God.
His babies had babies,
And he once thought how odd
It was to grow old,
When he’d been convinced he’d die young.
Clean Dean, however, lived till he was ninety-one,
And before he died, his doctor marveled at him
Said, “It must be good living that has kept you so trim.”
And Clean Dean the Ruthless Marine
Gave not a thought to the horrors that he had seen
To the corpses he’d made or the dark places he’d been,
But said with a smile,
“Doc, what’s fascinating,
Is how the world keeps on turning,
Without taking notice of you
It’s a sphere of green and of white and of blue,
And taken at a distance, like from the nearest star,
We folk are so very tiny, that no one knows who we are.”
And so Clean Dean the Mighty Marine
Died one day and Earth kept revolving,
Persisting in its course as it does for all men,
Going and going as if we’d never been.

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Poems

Shooting Beer Bottles Off the Tops of People’s Heads

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I met a fellow in the bar last night
Who thought he was William Tell
Wanted to shoot a beer can off my head
I told him to go to Hell.
But he gave me a look like the last buffalo
Dying out on the plains
So sad and lonely it made me act
Like I had forgotten all of my brains…
The barman told us to take it outside
But I told him that I liked where I was
Sitting in front of that big saloon mirror,
Listening to the neon lights buzz.
I took up a bottle of cold Miller Lite
And I set it on top of my head
But when the fellow stumbled ten paces off
I figured I’d soon end up dead.
He cocked back the hammer on his Colt three fifty-seven
And as I watched the cylinder turn
I froze up with my brain full of spiders,
And my stomach crawling with worms.
He closed one eye, and I saw the gun waving
Not a few inches upwards and down
And I cautiously asked him whether he meant
to shoot up the ceiling or into the ground?
The fellow slurred, “I used to do this when I’d hunt antelope
I’d calculate the angle, the distance, and slope.
I’d never miss then,
I’d put bullets through hearts,
For gunmanship is nothing but poise and practice and smarts,
And I possess each in equal parts!”
He stuck his tongue between his lips
And told me to stand very still
And as the barrel waved before my face
I turned a snake green, and I felt very ill.
The fellow slurred, “Whatcher eyes wide for?
I won’t do you no harm!”
Then he licked his lips and drooled a little spittle,
And then the fucker shot me—right in the arm!
The bullet knocked me back against the bar
And the patrons all screamed and ran
A tequila bottle shattered, my stool fell and clattered,
And I heard a shout of “Goddamn!”
Well I clutched my arm, and I started to stand
When I saw the fellow aiming again
I started a prayer, and I leapt out of there,
Talking fast on my way to, “Amen!”
He fired the gun, and the mirror blew out,
Shards of glass flew all over the place.
I poked my head up over a table
And found him aiming the gun at my face.
So I made myself scarce as the gun fired again
And destroyed a bottle of gin.
“Ceasefire, truce!” I shouted to him,
“The bottle’s broken—you win!
If you want me to tell folks you shot it first try,
By heaven, I’ll put it in song!”
“Can I count on you?” he slurred in a shout,
“I want ’em to know I don’t shoot wrong!”
“You can count on me till the end of your days,
From now until the end of all this!
By the time I’m done talking
The people will say, There goes the man who never once missed!”
“Well, I suppose that’s allright,” the drunk fellow said,
“My friend I’ll take up your word.”
Then he looked all around and he put the gun down,
And he said, “I’m sorry I shot up the bar.
But to see the mirror blow out
And hear folks scream and shout
Well that’s enough to make a man’s day.
And after all no one got hurt, just men being men,
Let me buy you a drink, my new friend.
This’ll all turn out right, the world’ll keep turning,
And we’ll all end the same in the end.”
I said I could use a beer and cigarette,
As I picked myself up off the floor.
“A cig?” he said, “I could shoot the cherry off it, I bet.”
And I took off running—right out the door!

Categories
Poems

Good Morning, Bella, How Did You Sleep?

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Good Morning, Bella, How Did You Sleep?

Hey bella how did you sleep?
Did you have dreams or nightmares?
Did the night give you a thought to keep
Or something soothing for your cares?

Hello my beauty how was your day?
I thought about you often beautiful girl
I hope your day went well or at least ok
I know sometimes it’s a very hard world.

Come here my angel come into my arms
I want to hold you and kiss your face
To keep you safe from all the world’s harms
And feel the warmth of your heavenly grace.