The Driver In Front of You
Entry for 2016-12-07

Excerpted from The Hippo in the Fast Lane
He proceeds at the pace of a glacier, blocking your path, holding up all traffic in what used to be called the "fast lane" of the freeway. He wallows in the shadow of a livestock truck in the other lane, side by side, so that neither you nor anyone else can get by.
He is a hippopotamus. He belongs on the Serengeti Plain, where there is room to pass.
Once you have exhausted your catalogue of profanity, scatology, and blasphemy, you fall silent and begin to wonder: who is this person? Where will I meet him again? Will he turn out to be the plumber I call when the pipes break and the water is rising toward the fuse box? Will he be the brain surgeon called on to "rush" to the hospital and control my cerebral hemorrhaging caused by this traffic jam or the next one?

The Little People
Entry for 2016-12-05

All dwarfs,
please report to the wharf.
Monday through Thursday, all gnomes
must remain at home.

control yourselves

listen here. Anyone found
in the tall grass without a pass
will have to disappear

Legends and lives of little people abound.
As long as the brooder peeps,
     we egg hatchers of average stature
can count on having someone to boss around

Executive Committeefolk Dickens, Tolkien,
Melville and the like deploy
and supervise their scattered seed,
their various Pips, their small charges,
through dragonweed jungles, voyages
of lily pad princes on oakleaf barges,
on mythical trips to fasten the fancy on.
Leered on by large witches and small Morlocks,
cheered on by merry Munchkins and Eloi,
go Chicken Little, Red Riding Hood, Tom Thumb,
Bilbo, Frodo, Pinnochio, Tiny Tim,
the wee folk and the hollow tree folk,
elves of the Lilliputian pantheon,
people of P.S. 9 and the brothers Grimm,
those stunted devils and runt angels
who teach each other little lessons
on small virtues and flyspeck dangers,
terribly tiny tragic flaws and taints
such as, eek, speaking to strangers,
strike large poses since everyone knows
those are the prize sizes
the trumpeter blows and the painter paints

Big Miss Muffet sits on a throne
eating whatever she damn well pleases,
including whoever sits down beside her.
The spider leaves her alone.

One Education
Entry for 2016-12-03

I was told I was important.
I was told I had a soul.

I was taught it is required
to have poetry in one's soul.

I was taught there is no soul.

I was told one is admired
if his poetry has soul.

I was taught there is no poetry.

There is nothing, I was told,
but to age and then to die.

I have learned that teachers lie.

I have learned I am important.
I have pictures of my soul.

I believe I live forever.

I am very young and gullible,
I believe all I am told,
I've amassed a hoard of theories,

I have written many poems
and marveled at how quickly
they grow old

The Secretive Cat
Entry for 2016-12-01

Where are you going, cat?

Now what kind of answer is that?
Watching you slide,
low following silhouette,
slowing, sparing of tailroom,
I know how you hide
secrets in narrowing eyes.
Where are you going, cat?

There's mischief afoot.
Somewhere beneath
the cellar, you're growing
mushrooms, imprisoning gnomes,
cross-breeding bats,
trysting behind the broom.
Where are you going, cat?

The Passionate Parent
Entry for 2016-11-29

What classic love, what high romance
can launder offspring underpants?
What epic ecstasies ignite
when siblings cholic in the night?

Ah children, you are dear indeed,
beloved bewilderment of seed
so quickly sown, so slowly reaped,
so cull that great, assorted heap
of favors lavished on your youth.
We love you, but to tell the truth,
unravished, we're a trifle glum,
yes, somewhat jealous of your thumbs

Children, cling like rose to trellis,
cherished, but can someone tell us,
Did Juliet have one of these?
Did Abelard? Did Heloise?