What to do with dew-drenched days

squished by the pressure of our pains?

Morning, as seen

from the inside pane,
Scolds anoche’s wine

who regrets

making the acquaintance

of whiskey and

networking with tequila

who tickled Hestia

into the Hulk.

Morning light, you ever-eager retriever,
the nature of a hangover is not to nurture,

so sit and pant with those puppy eyes;

I am not taking you for a walk.

 

At heart, I am a dualist.

One half sorta like John Denver

whose foil sees

no issue with bastardizing the river dance

while singing in that misled Australian accent.

Rise resting one and seek your Tylenol

like last night you sought tail.

Beyond the bed the world is

a reenactment of the stations of the cross.

The ninth station, noon: Luke falls for the third time,

tripping over the guitar in the hall,

face first onto inexplicably moist carpet

wet from who knows

what kind of capers

Mr. Hyde has blessed Dr. Jekyll with.

 

As a child you once

prophesized in pampers

that one day you would be an adult

who drives a red car

and half of your prophesies have come true.

Now, those pampers carefully nestled on

the island of garbage the size of Texas

looming somewhere in the Pacific,

you are still the greatest prophet in the land

and you predict your future will entail

sea-bounded woods where

the sparrow-led music has no bass to dub the step,

yet women still wild, unmade up, as chary as

the deer and the buffalo who are your bros,

their silence more substantive than

universal bar banter

years and beers in the ummaking.
Children, choose between nights of days’

unmarooned mornings left by ships of late night sailors.

Decades after the run of rum rations

you are to be placed in the playpen of twittering lake trails,

where a hunt for the perfect skipping stone heats up

with the clay of day which warms the melt that gurgles in rills

like poetry clinging to the wisdom of the prophetic pine cones

you choose to use as the toilet paper substitute

you have read it was

and

still is.