Squirming thought-worms writhe
Licking cranial insides:
Outwardly normal.
9/100
Midday haiku
Whatever shall I wear?
I didn’t post yesterday’s poem for which I feel profoundly guilty since my intent had been to post two poems. The day intruded and at 5 p.m. I decided a beer with my wife took precedence over composing the final two lines…and then dinner…and the Home Run Derby… Still trying to catch up to the date: maybe #30 on the 30th? With a two-week vacation coming up, I fear I’ll fall behind again.
Whatever shall I wear today?
I've far too many clothes to play
This game on ev'ry waking morn.
Perhaps something already worn
On days just past; but then again,
I'll think that they'll remember when,
(Though I've no thought for theirs).
This 'problem' stems from when I pay
To 'fix' some fashion gone astray.
Perhaps more neutrals? Then I'd mourn
Outfits bold which would adorn
My daily jeans I've donned since when
They came bell-bottomed—way back then—
And I still had my hairs...
9/100
Every day a poem
Every day a poem:
Dawn's introductory stanza
Sets me up—better, worse, or
In-between. By Breakfast's lines
Attitude starts setting, casting
Today's foundation. Theme, style,
music, tone, harmony, dissonance,
all proscribed by this early start.
Takes composer's interference to
Change this line, this development.
Afternoon either resolves all notes,
or abandons them to dissipate into
"well there's always tomorrow."
8/100
Between the boards
In my childhood we peered between
[FCC: public airways belong to everyone.]
slatted media-control fences, won-
[We cannot allow any but market forces to]
dering where these LP's we saw came
[dictate who will get licenses, who will be]
from, artists we'd never heard, never seen
[allowed to own a broadcast station, what]
over our airwaves. Sometimes these fen-
[those stations will play. If young people]
ces presented themselves as white, snowy
[represent compelling market demogra-]
static on those TV channels which deli-
[phics, market dynamics will act as incentives]
vered no signals. We scoured back
[to serve them.] [Record exec: one cannot]
pages in magazines, looking for 'just one
[suppose your average teenager knows]
more' to satisfy our latent curios-
[good music from bad. We don't truly get]
ity. Our comics straddled two worlds to sur-
[this so-called music ourselves, you un-]
vive. Real good ones, 'too offensive,' hid in
[derstand; certain performers make]
head shops near bongs, fringed
[better stars than others. We help main-]
leather jackets, patchouli oil. Even shows
[tain morality, give kids something to do,]
we liked fenced us this way, making us
[keep them from getting into trouble.]
endure dog acts, plate spinners,
[Sure, we pay to get our records on]
Borscht Belt comedians to catch
[the air. Capitalism's the name of the]
three minutes from "Today's Latest
[game, baby, how the world works.]
Greatest Group, the..." Yardbirds.
[You don't mind if I light this cigar?]
Troggs. Beatles. Elvis. Lovin' Spoonful.
[Your local politician: Zoning laws]
Car radios came with buttons, we
[can be used creatively to keep this]
thought, to facilitate quick-punch-
[craziness in check. If you really don't]
ing from 'that awful song by...'
[want your child to listen to this...stuff,]
only to hear it anyway on our city's only
[don't let them buy it. It's how Ameri-]
other pop music station. We saw fences
[ca works, donchaknow? {wink}]
everywhere: Midwest, small towns, the
[Now remember to vote for me next month!]
South, anywhere without "a scene".
We chipped at, kicked at, hammered
at, pulled at those fences. Bit by
bit those slatted boundaries fell.
[Where ya bin'? I've sang these words]
Ninety-minute TV concerts at
[every day. Never saw you here before.]
midnight. Imports in our record stores.
[Listen to me. This ain't jazz, it ain't classi-]
Lyrics about living, loving, dying, in-
[cal, it ain't nutthin' but music, dude!]
stead of "wake up little Susie" or
[Ya payin' attention? Hey! I'm talking]
"Tell Laura I love her...", we heard
[here! Ah, forget it. You don't get it.]
Woodstock's Fish chant. We cheered
Making up nickel bags. We sang
"let's spend the night together."
We gave Peace a Chance. We
looked around suddenly, re-
alizing those fences were gone, but
we'd changed—we've fenced ourselves
in, we've fenced those who come after.
7/100
The Project Manager
"I used my best project
management skills! I had
sub-projects, dependent
tasks, timelines, mileposts! And
deliverables? My God!
I had 'em comin' out
My ass! But scope creep
blew it up. Mileposts changed.
Life wanted new measures,
new deliverables. I
couldn't make sense of it.
I adapted, changed, tried
to be successful, but
when my project finished
I'd delivered someone
else's project entirely.
Now I'm just confused:
Am I a success or did
I fail miserably?"
6/100
No Poem Today
No poem today
My rhyme's away
I've nothing to say:
No! Poem! Today!
5/100
Laurels
How to rest on one's laurels?
Lie down gently, carefully, not disturbing
Leaves painstakingly crafted long ago?
Stare lovingly into one's past, enamored,
About as useful as Lot's wife leaving Sodom? Or,
Drop this poem onto them as one
Eagerly pushes a new lover onto covers
Which right now don't mean a damn thing?
Poem 4/100
Poem three: Business
Written back when I dwelt in corporate trenches.
Business Poetry 101
Listen,
We strategists need trends,
Data telling us where we stand.
Then you'll require our touch.
Without pictures, we're flying blind.
We cannot simply adhere to "The
Way We Did It Before"—that's
Corporate death, corporate
Deafness.
Right
Equals a certain point in
Space and Time. Standing
In place, in Space, without
Consideration of Time
Will make us
Wrong.
Therefore
We're desperate! Quick! Give
Us data, our picture for
Where Everything's At,
So we can tell you
Where Everything's Going.
Wherefore...
That's why we're bugging you.
If we can get that,
Our Archimedean Place To Stand
Will have arrived, and
We will move the world.
Seattle, 1953
Mostly to show a friend. My grandfather took these at what I presume is the annual Seafair Parade in Seattle. I snagged all of his slides when they landed at my parents’ house, and I’ve digitized about 25% of them. And when I went looking for a photo from the parade, I find I’ve posted one once before. Better go find it…
Poem two: a limerick
Nearing a week together, our band of 15 travelers, one guide (Jacky), and one bus driver (Janos), drove country lanes wide enough (maybe) for our medium-sized bus. Unfortunately, these were two-way lanes which couldn’t accommodate on oncoming car plus our bus. A lot of jockeying around occurred, leading many of us to marvel at the driving prowess of our driver. Guide Jacky asked us all to participate in a limerick contest. I did not win, a travesty I’m still wounded o’er, but I console myself that the judging was lax. (The winner claimed the top prize because he totally ignored the rhyme scheme of a limerick!)
R.O.C.K. in the ol’ U.K.
The Beatles had nothing on us
Nor The Who with its Magic Bus.
Led on by guide Jacky,
We’ve grown rather wacky,
As we’re driven by the good kind Janos!
all the voices in my head 