There's a bum

singing "Gotta Get

You Into My Life"

as he cruises

up my block ahead

of his massive flotilla

of shopping carts.

He loves me

more today

than yesterday,

but not as much

as tomorrow.

An ocean of sycamore
leaves is breaking
on my bedroom window,
here -- morning's last moan
as the minute hand
ticks up toward twelve.

At noontime, to "laze"
becomes to "languish,"
so, to keep appearances afloat,
I will write a poem.
Let no one think me languishy.

And, when I've squeezed
into Tuesday evening,
and we are saying "so long"
to Sybil, my sycamores
will sweetly swish till my return,
when they will suspirate me
once more to sleep.

Four Faced Liar Three AM

SHAFER: What's your name, buddy?
ROCKY: (shaking hands) Rocky. What's yours?
SHAFER: I'm Shafer. Like the beer.
ROCKY: So do I.

'Twas the night before BCMF

Sing a song of six-gun,

a pocket full of hair.

If you hope to survive the night,

you'd better learn to swear:

"Play some fuckin' country!"

and scam another pie --

most of us have done this before.

The Guns have done it thrice.

Gather round us kiddos,

we'll keep you safe and warm;

slide the strings of a Telecaster guitar

and mind the swinging arms.