Day Fifty-eight

Today's words:

Dance

Violin

Wolf

Cat

Diary

Orange

It's like an awkward dance,

Done to an out-of-tune violin,

Or a wolf

Set upon by a cat.

What's written in this diary,

In orange

Ink, makes no sense. In orange

Skirts I dance

To a tune in the diary

Of my mind. Meanwhile, on the violin,

It's hey diddle diddle, the cat

And the fiddle. But there's no cow, only a wolf.

A ravening wolf

Come to prey on the orange

Cat.

But still I dance

To the music of the violin

And tell secrets to my diary.

It's what's in that diary

That the wolf

Is really after. You put down the violin

And pour yourself a glass of orange

Juice as I go to dance

With the cat.

I've written about that cat

In my diary

But not about the dance

I did with the wolf.

Its eyes were orange

And the violin

Was out of tune. I used to take violin

Lessons. My cat

Would howl when I practiced. I wrote in my orange-

Covered diary

That I'd rather wrestle with a wolf

Than have to dance

To someone elses's violin. Where is that diary

Now? Who knows? But I know the cat and the wolf

With orange eyes can dance.

Day Fifty-seven

Today's words:

Duck

Mustard

Tea bag

Taxi

Plaster

Pebble

Dinner was a failure: duck

In a mustard

Sauce. Afterwards, I sat dunking my tea bag

As I contemplated taking a taxi

Home. That yummy sauce had congealed into plaster

And I felt like I had a pebble

In my throat. A pebble,

Or maybe a bone from the duck, 

Or just the plaster

Of that sauce. I'll take a mustard-

Yellow taxi

Home and break out another tea bag.

I tossed the used tea bag

In the trash and threw a pebble

At the retreating taxi.

The next time I make duck

With mustard

Sauce it won't turn to plaster.

I think it was too much flour in the sauce that turned it to plaster.

And maybe I'll soak a tea bag

With the mustard

Before whisking it all together. And only a pebble

Of flour. The duck

Itself had been fine. I stared out the taxi

Window. We arrived and I paid the taxi

Driver. As soon as I got in the house, a chunk of plaster

Fell from the ceiling. I didn't even have time to duck.

It wasn't much bigger than a tea bag

Or a large pebble

And it was the color of mustard

At the edges. Not the same mustard

As the taxi

But a brownish one. I picked up the pebble

Of plaster

And got out a tea bag

As I planned my next attempt at duck

With mustard sauce, to avoid it turning to plaster.

I'll call a taxi once I've steeped my tea bag

And put a pebble in my pocket to remind me about the duck.

Day Fifty-six

Today's words:

Pile

Worry

Drug

Table

Badge

Metal detector

I left my dirty clothes in a pile

When I went to bed last night. But why worry?

It's not like anyone will see. The drug-

Sniffing dogs aren't interested and the table

Is clear. That's my badge

Of honor - that and the metal detector.

"Why a metal detector?"

You ask. How else to find my jewelry in that pile

Of clothes thrown on the floor? The policeman flashed his badge

At me as he went by and said I didn't have to worry,

They would take care of everything. I sat at the table,

Wishing for a new drug.

I want a drug

That works like a metal detector,

Finding the table

Of stability under the pile

Of worry

That is my life. I feel like I'm wearing a badge

That lets everyone know I'm crazy. A badge

Of shame if you will. There must be a drug

To take care of all this worry,

Searching like a metal detector

On a beach, searching through a pile

Of sand. Let's table

This discussion for the moment. I'll lay my cards on the table:

I'm not here wearing a badge,

And I'm not looking for a pile

Of money. Just tell me where the drug

Is, before I pull out the metal detector

And cause us both a lot of worry.

So don't worry.

I'm just here, sitting at the table.

The metal detector

Is just leaning against the wall. My badge

Isn't out. So where is the drug?

Don't make me pile

Cares on you. Don't worry, and don't make me take out my badge.

Just put it on the table. I want that drug.

I don't want to use the metal detector on that pile.

Day Fifty-five

Today's words:
Moth
Iron
Hymn
Moon
Color
Trousers

A moth

Is batting its wings against the screen as I iron

The clothes. I hum a hymn

To the moon.

The color

Of these trousers

Has faded. I fold the faded trousers

And move on. The moth

Is the color

Of iron

And the moon

Is red. It's a hymn

To nature, a hymn

To serenity. Folded trousers,

A full moon,

And a moth,

While I iron.

The color

Of the scene is muted. It's an absence of color.

But the warriors sing a different hymn,

One to iron

Turned to weapons. These trousers

Have been nibbled by a moth.

It's not asking for the moon

To wish for peace. The moon

Is now the color

Of a dream, or that of a moth

Singing a hymn.

They say the dictator's trousers

Were made of iron.

Certainly his ruled with an iron

Fist, and would be quick to exile you to the moon

If he didn't like the cut of your trousers,

Or their color.

Still he's remembered in a hymn

And we're drawn like a moth

To a flame to worship iron and its color.

Meanwhile, on the moon, the exiles sing a hymn

To trousers eaten by a moth.

Day Fifty-four

Today's words:

Nose

Injury

Beetle

General

Soap

Cupboard

I had a friend with a crooked nose,

The result of an injury

In a car accident involving a Volkswagen Beetle.

But now it's time for a general

Cleaning. I'll get the soap

Down from the cupboard.

Opening the cupboard,

I stick my nose

In. The smell of soap

Is evident. Is it covering up an injury,

Or just a general

Fragrance? He pulled up in his Beetle.

And put the Beetle

In park, as I came out of the cupboard.

"What are you doing, exactly, in general?

"Why are you putting your nose

"Where it doesn't belong? What injury

"Is making you soft-soap

"The problem?" A bar of soap

Can repel a beetle
And prevent injury.
But in a cupboard
The nose
Can't find the general

Location. That's the general
Theory, anyway. So take the soap,
Hold it to your nose,
And sniff. A beetle

In the cupboard

Can lead to an injury.

And the prospect of an injury

Can lead, in general,

To hiding in the cupboard

Behind a box of soap

Flakes. You can beetle

Your brows and wrinkle your nose

But that won't stop the injury. Take the soap

And clean. In general, a beetle

In the cupboard can't be found with your nose.

Day Fifty-three

Today's words;

Star

Hammer

Desert

Decoy

Saddle

Worry

I know you're a star,

You don't need to hammer

It into my head. Compared to yours, my life is a desert.

Or is that just another decoy

To keep me working and in the saddle

As your hanger-on and worry-

Wart. Well, don't worry.

I know how to star 

In my own play as well. Don't saddle

Me with your problems, or threaten me with a hammer.

I'm thinking of my duck decoy

Collection, useless in this desert.

I won't desert you,

You needn't worry about that.

It was just a decoy,

To distract you from always playng the star.

My head feels like it's being hit with a hammer.

Like putting a saddle

On an unbroken horse, I fought when you tried to saddle

Me with your responsibilities. Whose fault is it we're in this desert

Anyway? I'll hammer

That idea home, until worry

Becomes the star

Of this play, with fear as a decoy.

Just as a decoy

Lures unsuspecting birds, so the saddle

Of time can dim the luster of a star.

Lost in the desert,

Shaking with worry,

Smashing rocks with a hammer

Out of frustration. I used a hammer

To crush that decoy.

That's the end of one worry

Then, sitting tall in the saddle,

In the middle of this desert

I lassoed a star.

With my hammer hanging from a loop on my saddle,

I used a decoy to attract prey in this desert,

Hoping that worry could be erased by wishing on a star.

Day Fifty-two

Today's words:

Bull

Lunatic

Poker

Fad

Flashbulb

Picnic

So here we are: I'm tired of you behaving like a bull

In the china shop of my life. Acting like a lunatic

Is boring, as so is this game of poker

We play endlessly. It's not a fad,

It's an obsession with you, but you're like a spent flashbulb,

Or rain on a picnic.

And just like ants attracted to a picnic

So I was caught up in your bull.

But no more. That flashbulb

Has popped. I'm not a lunatic.

I know better than to succumb to a passing fad.

It's like trying to beat the house at poker.

And I can't keep this poker

Face much longer. It's no picnic

Living with you. If it were just a fad

That would be one thing. But it's not, and that's no bull -

I've had it. Call me a lunatic

All you want, just smile for the flashbulb

When they take your mug shot. The flashbulb

Will pop, but just pretend it's another poker

Game, with the cards dealt by a lunatic

(That's you). I keep saying it's no picnic

With you, and that's no bull.

Oh, if only you were just a fad.

A fad

Is harmless, like the light from a flashbulb,

But you are more like a raging, wounded bull,

Tearing up all around you. I can't play poker

With this. You've got to go. I'm going out for a picnic.

Be gone when I get back, or I'll turn into a lunatic.

I've decided you are a lunatic.

Your behavior isn't merely a fad; 

It's who you are. Even a simple picnic

Becomes a drama with you, and woe if a flashbulb

Pops in your face. As for losing at poker,

I know that would kill you, like a bull

Stabbed by a lunatic matador, while the flashbulb

Captures it all. It's a new fad, like poker

And frat boys, or a picnic in plain view of a mad bull.

Day Fifty-one

Today's words:

Album

Squid

Toffee

Judge

Frame

Hour

When I was in college, I'd clean pot on the White Album.

It was the best for that. Afterwards, we'd eat squid

(Calamari) at Arturo's and maybe finish up with a toffee.

Today it comes all clean, in lucite boxes. I can't judge

Today's smokers; it's no longer my frame

Of reference. Once I spent many an hour

Getting high, but it's been decades since an hour

Of my time went to that. In the album

Of my life that song is done. It's an old picture in a frame,

One that I hardly look at. But the squid

At Arturo's is still good, and I think I'm a good judge

Of fried calamari, though I never follow it with toffee.

Not that I don't love a good sticky toffee

Pudding, but only an hour

Or so after dinner. And I'm no judge

Of music, but the White Album

Isn't too bad. Better to leave the squid

For another night however. These days the frame

Of my life is a more rigid frame,

With the occasional toffee

And squid

(Though never together). I bill by the hour

And deliver an album

Of the proposed project for you to judge.

I hope you will judge

It on its own merits, and not frame

It as a gesture for old times' sake, like an album

Of old snapshots, or a toffee

Found forgotten in a coat pocket. If you've got an hour

Or two to spare, we could get some of that squid

At Arturo's. You don't care for squid?

Well, who am I to judge?

I see the hour

Is growing late. I've got to go pick a new frame

For a painting I've had for a while. I'm looking for a toffee

Color, something to match the album

Cover. Afterwards I'll get that squid, as I head home with my frame.

Don't judge me too harshly if I don't take any toffee;

At this late hour I think I'll just look through that old album.

Day Fifty

Today's words:

Metal detector

Eating

Haystack

Oil

Earth

Cat

An old man scoured the beach with a metal detector

As we sat nearby, eating

A picnic lunch. The dune looked like a haystack,

And I massaged sunscreen oil

Into your back. It was a wonderful day and it was Earth

Day. You stretched like a cat

And got up. "I wonder if that old cat

"Is finding anything of value with that metal detector?"

You wondered, "Why on Earth

"Do people waste time with that?" I went back to eating

Lunch, and asked you to put more oil

On my back, but you were already beyond the next haystack-

Dune. Love is the proverbial needle in a haystack,

Isn't it? And you can be so cruel, like a cat

With a mouse. Just as you won't find oil

With a metal detector,

So eating

Ice cream won't find you love on this Earth.

I've combed the Earth

Looking for that haystack

Needle, and eating

My share of ice cream. I did find a cat,

That I loved, but never tried a metal detector

To discover oil.

I had an uncle who struck oil

And became one of the richest men on Earth,

Or so it seemed. He bought himself a metal detector

Afterwards. We'd jump into the haystack

In his field. In his barn I once saw a cat

Eating

A bird. It stopped me eating

Chicken for a while. Mother gave me cod liver oil

To make up for lost protein, while the cat

Continued to rule the Earth,

Or so it thought. To find that haystack

Needle now I'd use a metal detector.

Just as we were commemorating Earth

Day, oil erupted from the haystack,

And a cat strode by waving a metal detector.

Day Forty-nine

Today's words:

Butter

Justice

Gears

Galley

Trapeze

King

You can butter

Him up as much as you like, but justice

Isn't a guaranteed outcome. I know those gears

Are turning in your head, but in the gallery

Of portraits, yours is absent. You can swing on the trapeze,

But that doesn't make you king.

And if I were king

I'd outlaw butter

And make everyone take trapeze

Lessons. Justice?

You can talk to the peanut gallery 
About that. And the gears

Are frozen. Those gears

So beloved of the King.

He installed them in a gallery,

Lubricated them with butter,

All in hopes of finding justice

On the flying trapeze.

It's not like hanging from a trapeze,

Or the turning of gears - 

Justice

Is simpler than that. The King

Knows it too, but butter

Wouldn't melt in his mouth. Let's stroll the gallery.

I always think better walking the gallery.

I'm no dare-devil, swinging on the trapeze.

I'll put some butter

On those gears,

Hoping to move the King

To justice.

And so, chasing justice

In the gallery,

I came upon the King,

Working out on the trapeze.

The gears

Unfrozen after he'd applied butter.

Justice is like an acrobat on a trapeze,

Swinging in a gallery of gears,

While the King works at churning butter.

Day Forty-eight

Today's words:

Novice

Herald

Judge

Exile

Song

Reform

I'm a bit of a novice

At this sort of thing, although I've read about it in the Herald.

But who am I to judge?

It's either conform or go into exile,

Singing a lonely song

While waiting for reform.

Remember the Vatican II reform?

My teacher at the time was a novice

Sister, and she said it promised great things. She even wrote a song

About it. It seemed like the herald

Of a new era. Perhaps those in self-imposed exile

Would return, and a new judge

Would preside. A judge

Committed to reform,

Opposed to exile,

Accessible to novice

And senior alike. Let the herald

Announce his arrival with a song.

But I guess my song

Wasn't pleasing to the judge.

He had the herald

Escort me out, as part of his reform.

He replaced me with a novice

And I went into exile.

And here I remain, in exile

With no company except my song.

Meanwhile the novice

And the judge

Continue their reform

Which didn't, after all, herald

A new day. I hear the old herald

Is in exile

Now too. Such a brutal reform

And all for a song

That he didn't judge

Adequate, preferring one sung by a novice.

Just as the herald begins his song

Of exile, the judge

Decides to reform the code of the novice.

Day Forty-seven

Today's words:

Queen

Shoes

Sack

Turtle

Shorts

Picture

You can always tell a Queen

By her shoes.

Whether made of sack

Cloth and ashes, as they say, or turtle

Skin (totally illegal) she wears them the same way. Shorts

Are out of the question here, and no picture,

Please. I once took a picture

Of the Queen.

I was wearing shorts

But she wasn't (thank goodness). But her shoes,

Of course, were amazing. Her train moved slowly, like a turtle,

Or someone in a sack

Race. Afterwards, my dad got the sack,

Because I had taken that picture.

Even though they moved slow as a turtle,

It seems the Queen

Didn't like people photographing her shoes,

Especially if they're wearing shorts

When they do. There's a shorts

Program at the cinema tonight. Just throw on any old sack -

No-one will notice. And your shoes

Won't be in the picture.

It's not like you're the Queen

Or anything. Leave the turtle

Home though. I don't think a turtle

Has any interest in shorts.

I'll be the Queen

Of this party. Bring a sack

To the picture

Show so I can put my shoes

In it. Why are cute shoes

Always painful? They make me walk slow as a turtle.

Each step hurts. Don't take my picture,

And certainly don't show me in shorts - 

No thigh gap there! My body's like a sack.

And to think I used to be Queen.

Shoes and shorts

Are all the rage now, but I'm shaped like a turtle or a sack.

Not worthy of a picture or a visit with the Queen. 

Day Forty-six

Today's words:

Fact

Resting

Button

Steering wheel

Storm

Decay

"I'm beat, and that's a fact,"

He said, resting

His head on the seat back. I pushed the button

To start the car and put my hands on the steering wheel.

"There's a storm

"Coming; we'll have to try to outrun it. Otherwise it's all decay

"Around here."

It was the kind of pervasive decay

That settles in around abandoned suburbs. It's a fact

That those who grew up here have fled, escaping the storm

Of boredom that was their childhood. I spent mine resting

In the car, my head on the steering wheel,

Too bored to even button

My blouse.  It's as if someone pressed a button

And my will to live was gone, as decay

Set in. So I grabbed the steering wheel.

We'll escape now, before the fact

Of relentless suburban boredom comes and finds us resting,

Vulnerable to the storm.

"That's right, storm

"Off as usual, like every time you come here." "Don't press that button.

"I warn you. You may think it's just resting,

"But it's not, and it will get you too. The decay

"Will eat your soul, and that's a fact."

I turned the steering wheel,

Easing us out of the cul-de-sac. I'll lash myself to the steering wheel,

Like the captain of a boat riding out a storm.

There's no fact

That can save us if we stay here, only the button

Of sure decay

Resting

On the dining-room table, resting

On the steering wheel.

Decay 

The would unleash a storm

Just by pushing a button.

It's not a fact

That resting will bring on the storm,

But why tempt fate? Hands on the steering wheel, a button

Clenched in your teeth, knowing that decay is the only fact.

Day Forty-five

Today's words:

Comedy

Tooth

Taxi

Spaghetti

Bingo

Cellar

Is life a comedy

Or a tragedy?  That's the tooth

Of the question. Like trying to hail a taxi

In the rain. Or making spaghetti

For one. Kind of useless. Or like playing bingo

In the church cellar

With the other old ladies.  Down in another cellar

A different comedy

Is playing out. It's like a game of bingo

Or a child losing a tooth.

Start the water for the spaghetti;

The guests will be here soon - they're taking a taxi.

I get out of the taxi

And go down to the wine cellar

To look for a  bottle to go with the spaghetti,

As the comedy

That is our life goes on. Tomorrow I'll go to the dentist; I've got a tooth

That needs to be looked at. Oh, and it's also bingo

Night at the church. "Bingo?

"Now that's a new one. I didn't think you played. Can you call a taxi?

"I should head home. Good luck with that tooth."

I guess I'll head back down to the cellar

For another bottle to finish myself as I contemplate the comedy

Of my life as I wash the spaghetti

Dishes. Tomorrow's dinner will be leftover spaghetti

After bingo.

I hear there's a new comedy

At the cinema. We can take a taxi

There. They've turned the cellar

Into another screening room.  Maybe I'll go after having my tooth

Checked.  I hope there's nothing wrong with that tooth.

I finished cleaning up after the spaghetti

Dinner and brought the big pot back down to the cellar.

Maybe I'll skip bingo.

There's something ineffably sad about taking a taxi

At night. You never see that in a comedy.

In the end, my tooth was OK. I went to bingo

And then came home and ate spaghetti. I didn't take a taxi

Though, and I stayed out of the cellar. I want this to be a comedy.

Day Forty-four

Today's words:

Noun

Planet

Thief

Cape

Brass

Kidney

A collective noun

Is hard to grasp. Meanwhile, elsewhere on the planet,

A thief

Wearing a cape

And sporting a set of brass

Knuckles punched a store owner in the kidney.

"I don't want your kidney,"

He shouted. "It's another noun

"I'm after. I'm going for the brass

"Ring this time. I've had it with this planet!"

With that, he swirled his cape

And made off, as they say, like a thief

In the night. As opposed to a thief

In broad daylight? Whatever. We're having steak and kidney

Pie for dinner. Superman's cape,

Without Superman, would be just another noun:

Limp and discarded. And on another planet

Everyone's teeth are brass.

But let's get down to brass

Tacks. What thief

Would try to steal the whole planet?

It's not like it's a kidney

Or some other easily-transportable noun

That you can hide under your cape.

I'm going back to Cape

Cod, where they ring a brass

Bell to let everyone know the boats are in. A noun 

Can be safe there. No thief

Is going to get my kidney,

Not on this planet

Or any other planet.

I need a longer cape,

To cover my kidney,

And maybe with a brass

Panel to protect it from the thief

Who sneaks in like a passive-aggressive noun.

On this planet the moon is made of brass.

Wrapped in his cape, the thief

Hardly notices, as he tries to trade a kidney for a proper noun.

Day Forty-three

Today's words:

Finance

Stamina

Stadium

Commander

Key

Vinegar

In finance,

Like in many things in life, stamina

Is important. Can you run the circuit of the stadium

Under the watchful eye of the Commander?

He's got the key

To the cave, where there's wine that doesn't taste like vinegar.

Otherwise you'd think you were drinking vinegar.

I don't know how they finance

The good wine, but I'd imagine the key

Lies somewhere in the stamina

Shown by our commander,

As he stands, ramrod straight in the stadium.

The other soldiers in the stadium

Look like they've tasted vinegar.

They know that for the Commander

To finance

Some good wine they'll need to prove their stamina;

He'll not give up the key

That easily. So getting on his good side is key.

If he can stand in the stadium

All day showing off his stamina

Well we can too. We won't have the vinegar

Kicked out of us, even though the finance

Here appears to be controlled by the Commander. 

There goes the Commander

Now, swinging his key.

I've hear there's a millionaire going to finance

Construction of a new stadium.

But first have a shot of vinegar - 

It builds stamina.

And it's stamina

You'll need to go up against the Commander.

He's full of piss and vinegar

And holds the key
To the stadium.

He knows more about finance

Than any of us, but it's his stamina that's key.

And as I watch the Commander strut about the stadium,

My mouth tastes of vinegar, and I wish I'd studied finance.

Day Forty-two

Today's words:

Food

Binge

Snail

Bank

Lamp

Doughnut

I have a complex relationship with food

It's binge

Then purge, while everything else goes by slow as a snail.

I think about it all the time - in line at the bank,

Or outside, under a street lamp:

"I could really go for a doughnut."

But it's not just a doughnut;

I crave all types of food.

Someone should shine a lamp

On that. And it is a binge,

Because you can't save it, like money in a bank

To be used later, or like a snail

Builds its shell. I'd like to hide like a snail

Retreats in its shell, but I guess I'll have a doughnut

Instead. Then I'll go to the bank

To get money to buy more food.

Time for the next binge.

I'll put out the lamp

So I can't be seen. That lamp

Shaped like the shell of a snail.

I'll start the binge 

With a doughnut

And then move on to other types of food.

I'm not going to bank

On there being more tomorrow. No bank

Can light a lamp

Bright enough to show all the food.

And the snail

Can't have any. This is my doughnut

And my binge.

Like a alcoholic on a drinking binge,

You can take to the bank

My promise to the doughnut:

I'll put out the lamp

To hide you from the snail

Who wants to steal my food.

Next binge I'll remember to light the lamp.

The line at this bank moves like a snail,

And who says a doughnut isn't food?

Day Forty-one

Today's words:

Loft

Saxophone

Needle

Skateboard

Midwife

Ring

I once shared a SoHo loft

With a well-known saxophone

Player, who unfortunately had a fondness for the needle.

The place was so big you could skateboard

In it. I saw myself then as midwife

To his art, and expected nothing; certainly not a ring.

And when the telephone would ring

I'd run from wherever in the loft

I happened to be. Part of being a midwife

Was also being a receptionist. The saxophone

Player couldn't be disturbed, unless he was on his skateboard

Or communing with the needle.

Sometimes my friends would needle

Me about this life, but I thought their words didn't ring

True. Besides, I got to skateboard

From one end of the loft

To the other, with wonderful saxophone

Music as accompaniment. Being an artist's midwife

Was worth it, I thought. He needed a midwife

Like he needed the needle.

We both helped him use his saxophone

To express his art, as he sped in a ring

Around the loft

On his skateboard.

One day I was sick of it. I picked up my skateboard.

"I'm tired of being your midwife."

I shouted, "and of sitting around this loft

"While you make love to that needle.

"I'm not asking for a ring,

"Just some attention." He grunted, and picked up his saxophone.

One day there was silence. No saxophone

Played. The skateboard

Was abandoned. I'd had to ring

For a doctor, not a midwife,

When I found him with the needle

In his arm. That's when I left the loft.

So I was a saxophone player's midwife,

While he played with a skateboard and the needle,

And in the end I got nothing; not a ring, and certainly not the loft.