A Much Wanted Walk...

One of these days, I’m gonna buy some new

Shoes. I’ll put on a pair of my favorite socks,

And lace those shoes up tight and nice. I’ll

Grab a bottle of water, and a handful of

Change, and I’m going to walk to you. I’m

Going to walk to you, no matter how far,

I’m going to walk to you, wherever you

Are. I’m going to walk to you, through the

Dark and the light, and maybe I’ll make it

By Saturday night. I’m going to walk to

You, with blistering feet, over brambles

And highways and city streets. I’m going

To walk to you through streams and bogs

And only stop briefly to answer the frogs.

I’m going to walk to you over trails

And thickets, stopping once in a while

To pick off the ticks. I’m going to walk

To you through heat and through rain,

Step after step, with you on my brain.

I’m going to walk to you with my

Arms open wide, to kiss you and

Hold you tight and nice, and maybe,

Just maybe, you’ll walk by my side,

In a pair of your favorite socks, and

A new pair of shoes, and we’ll never,

Ever, look back. One of these days,

I’m going to walk to you, with a bottle

of water, these lips and a handful

of change.

-Ildane

The Romeo Poem

There’s a place down by Buckeystown where the Monocacy Scenic River bends out to the east. It’s a bucolic environ where majestic Blue Herons and smaller noble birds perch on jutting logs as wind from the rushing water combs through their feathers. It’s the sort of place that lovers might converge for a tryst or two. And thoughts of Romeo and Juliet’s passions spring to mind as well as the beauty of their innocence. Their words echoing off the river banks and their smiles mirrored in the clouds. It’s a place that has inspired me to share the following with you.

It’s called…  Romeo, why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

Fuuuuuuuuck, Romeo.

Why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

I mean, the experience of a love so great should conquer any pain. Even when it really fucking hurts.

Romeo, Romeo, why for art thou such a putz, oh Romeo?

You’d think that such a lover would at least sleep next to his dead bride one last time before falling on his own knife. You would have woken to her kisses, you pucking futz.

Of course if we looked for fault, we could blame that damn messenger the friar sent who would never get a job working for Federal Express. I mean, inadvertently causing the death of star-crossed lovers is not something you want on your résumé. No, he didn’t get it there when it absolutely, positively had to fucking be there. But he didn't kill himself over it, now did he?

In truth, Romeo, it was your hand that plunged the knife, so to speak. We all know it was Kevorkian, the apothecary’s potion that stilled you. But it was the pain of your imagined loss that you could not live with. Not all such stories end this way, so why did you run, young Romeo? Had you the wherewithal to experience the pain that your love signed you up for, your reward would have been mine.

I’ll tell you who had balls enough to survive his own pain… Edward Scissorhands.

Edward Scissorhands didn’t kill himself when he realized that he’d have to live out his days without the love of his life. Edward had balls, and perhaps a bit of a martyr complex, but that’s beside the point. He didn’t puss out and fall on his fucking hands.

Next time, have some guts of your own, Romeo. Have some fucking guts of your own.

-Dag, November 2000

Hunter S. Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

Hunter Thompson's Muse Stops By to Commiserate On the Eve of Blake's Death As Told to Robert Service

It was in a moment dark, I couldn't see the sky
an angel hovered overhead, she was the reason why
She brought me hope of the returning of such fun
and a bottle of gin, and a loaded gun

With the .45 I shot the beefeater, and drank from the hole in his heart
so bitter like my own, but what a place to start!
Then Jose C came slurping by, with his girlfriend Margarita,
but I got sick of them after a while, and became a Technicolor repeater...

That Fat Bastard Shiraz, his redness stained the floor
irking my little angel, who showed him quick the door.
My Technicolor yawning was ever “abondanzo,”
I briefly felt, for one brief click, I was living my life gonzo!

We drank and shot, and shot and drank until the night was dawn
and passed out in the front yard after puking on the lawn.
Our bullet dreams chased doggie licks, aroused by the neighbor's barfeater,
when down came the curtain and the lights went out, thanks for watching misere theater!

Tonight's show was brought to you by pain and greed and loss
and the letters L and D, and some tacos that we tossed,
and by little shoulder angels, and the little guns they tote,
and a finger to pull a trigger, and that's all that she wrote.

The Wrong Poem

The Wrong Poem

I’m sorry.
In my haste to get here
Rushing around at the last minute
It seems I’ve brought
The wrong poem.
See I had this poem
That really would have worked
Right now.
Especially after that last reader…
You know the one I mean
It’s that poem that I do
The very utterance of which
Changes the course of rivers,
Increases glacial density,
And heals the ozone layer
But I’ve brought the wrong poem
You know it well
The one about clowns, monkeys
And surly banana peels.
But now I don’t want to read it.
I want to read that other poem
The words of which enlighten
Our otherwise dull and hollow politicians
Brings progress to congress
And balances the budget.
It’s that poem where I reach out
And caress the oyster
Of your soul
And heal its pearls
It’s that poem where I dig into
the silt of my own heart
and sift through the
roots and the mud
of me
until I reveal
my own lost diamonds
that sparkle brightly

it’s that poem that cures cancer
frees all would-be slaves
and reconnects the telepathy
Yeah, if you had gotten to hear
That poem of mine
It would have
Paid off your credit cards
Cleared up your skin
And then brought you to climax
(the women and the men)
But, you see,
I brought the wrong poem,
If I’d brought that other poem
That makes men cry
And women forgive
Brings peace and harmony
To all the continents
And archipelagos
Creates nirvana in samsara…
We all could’ve broken bread
Together, without fighting
About how light or dark
It should be toasted.

But I didn’t bring that poem,
I brought this poem,
The wrong poem.

Yet if this poem made you take a breath
And cry,
Or laugh,
Or smile,
Or just pause,
Then I can live with that.

Because, even though
It’s the wrong poem,
There must be a little something
Right with it
After all.

A Rosy Thorn

A Rosy Thorn


My love for you is the thorn
That perturbs my everyday.

I cannot build a new castle
Without its bubble bursting!

-Ildane

Cue to Verdant

Cue to Verdant

Rampant, yellow forsythia herald the breaking dawn
Of spring, while late daffodils sip coffee, and
Redbuds catch their by-a-nose breath.
Dogwoods bark in pink and white
I go outside to wake the sleeping myrtle.

-Ildane

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

People are always reading
Meaning
into every little
crease
like the wisdom of
fear-filled
superstition
must be heeded,
obeyed,
deferred to,
“just because.”
Like when you see
a banana peel
lying in the road
and you know that
you must,
you must,
you must write
a poem
about clowns
& monkeys
driving amok
through town
until that
errant banana peel
takes
them
down

unless, of course…

it’s a day like today
where that lack of banana peel
is an enigmatic
void filled
with a claxon’s call
a four-car funeral procession
& a jury of buzzards
in a Kodak moment
sitting on fenceposts
hoping,
hoping, hoping
one of those nearby cows succumbs
to the humidity.
Yet,
instead of attaching
to ominous portents
I
prefer to talk about
clowns and monkeys
& surly
banana peels
that just might be laying
threateningly
across your
path today…
or not.
Because life’s
just a salad
bar of ideas and
you can either load
up on garbanzo beans
(unless, of course, you
happen to call
them
chickpeas)
or
you can walk on by
and
believe
in something
else.


-Dag