I’ll tell you this much: as far as
penguins go, he was elementary.
And you should have heard him
singing Hare Krishna. And you
COULD hear him, too, because
he was always way the hell up there
on the very top of the freakin Eiffel Tower,
hangin out with (believe it or not)
Semolina freakin’ Pilchard,
the both of them kicking the crap
out of old Edgar Poe. I mean,
you can believe me or not, y’know?
What the hell do I know; I’m just
the freakin egg man after all.
Goo goo ga joob, eh?
Oh, by the way:
yer knickers is slippin.
alone on the porch
a man welcomes the morning
Spanish cedar flute
The free, online Issue #56 of Haiku Journal, a product of Prolific Press, was released about a week ago, and the (decidedly NOT free) print version was released today. I’m happy that my submission was included.
I wrote it during the summer. I still play that particular flute (one of my faves, among the dozen or so I own) on an almost daily basis but–these days–I’m looking out the window, not sitting on the deck.
(Not me playing, but this will give you some idea why I love this particular flute)
All the slow students
visit the farm on Tuesdays
tell llamas their names.
They open and close the gate.
The llamas teach them who’s who.
“Nice web,” she said, inching
closer, settling her wings.
“Mind if I hang out here awhile?”
“Be my guest,” said the spider;
“Make yourself comfortable.
I’ll get dinner started.”
The morning surf at Ogunquit,
like surf everywhere, I guess,
never shuts the fuck up, never
stops—even for one blessed
moment at its highest high point
or its ebbest ebb. No.
It just keeps surfing away,
tidal static in the background
of what could otherwise be a
beautiful, silent Sunday sunrise.
I’m Not The Real Ron. Lavalette
No; the real Ron. Lavalette goes to bed at a reasonable hour, watches TV until he dozes off twice, then puts on his favorite Pandora lullaby channel and successfully completes his quest for a minimum of six-to-eight hours of unbroken, restful, healthy sleep.
No, wait; that’s not true. That never happens. Most nights, what really happens is that the real Ron. Lavalette always stays up more-than-a-little too late, hoping that exhaustion will drive him to sleep quickly (which never happens) and then he watches TV until he can no longer count the incidences of pre-sleep dozing. Then he puts on his favorite Pandora lullaby channel and hopes it coaxes him into at least a reasonable excuse for a few scant hours of uneasy, sketchy napping.
No, not tonight though. Tonight the real Ron. Lavalette is nowhere near his bedroom. Instead, he sits sullenly at his insomniac keyboard hoping for inspiration and instructs me, his sleep-deprived alter-ego, to sit close by and nudge him if it looks like he might drift off.
I gotta find me somebody else to be.
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