Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

If i knew all the characters
in my head were like conversations
in all Shakespeare' s sub plotz

i would cry mercy me, or murder me, or
or marry me, or fancy free, or i would find
you in the little passageway of some
stanza, some dark figure caught

in hundred pages of a thousand books
not quite horrendous enough to qualify
as this one meditating on skulls
in the next to the final act, or that one
contemplating jazz, as it were

my knowledge of the language used
in not so refined as to as to have passed
this way, this time as a scholar of the
great pen's man of the hoary plume

great kingdoms gained and lost in a last grain
in the hourglass, ere the twist of the dagger
or the flicker of a errant eyelash shall pass
thrice in the quiet just for the witching
moment crosseth the noble number high
marked in the sun's darkened shaft

thou, Harlot of Humpty Dumpty, thou frowst
about for grand plans Faustian fraught for naught
this poem is worth in word not more nor less
then thine's last confession doth protest too much
but never enough revealed or consented to, thou
poker face of saints least of thee constraints
alas, this dye is cast this purple is past the mast

oh white of the eye, oh, thrashing of much nothing to do
one flow, or one flew, or tall tell tell so fell so pell mell

Ishmael hath walked the plank more then he sank
or the gut rot he drank in written leaves of fire
yet even so the Katrina in a fortune teller's tea cup
hath the effect of smelling salts the eye rolling lizzy
making this leaf frolic in the cup runneth bottom
make like dizzy, or Bix in inky dinky

ere, the myth maker bargained for Rahsaan Roland
got jack be quicker the crow flies with the Jezebel
when tainted saints at last march in the well, well

shake that spear
harlem hamlet, felt cha ophelia
no, Iago, die, fie, oh Richard
a twelfth night embargo,
standing room only, a joke, a lark
a history gone histrionic
fodder for freud, junk for jung
too much too great that bard of olde
a thee and a thine, too fine
sonnets gone wondrous
soft cheeks of maidens fair
do i dare admit to shakespeare read?
alas, my romeo, for romeo's dead

brow twitch, tick, twixt, fixed, and nixed
brow slight raised, phased, dazed
brow lower, slower
brow a jaunt, a flaunt, a cocked, locked,
brow now level if only that caterpillar would
stand still, looking for all a world as if is about
to butterfly away
oh, brow furrowed, treasure of Serra Madre'
burroed, Burroughsed, or that gold dust on
the wind, no stinking badges, no hedges
no bets, on his real identity, maybe rode
with Pancho Via maybe pen leaked Daffy Duck

brow stuck, bucked, Mexican stand offed, no luck
no shuck, no jive, brow about to dive, dive , dive
Pound down, that Li Po a thousand bottles of moon
on the dream house, far away flourish brow drawn

down like the shade, Hemingway , made lemon aide
three cherries brow, calls a blind man's bluff, rough
a dead man's hand across this land is mine is yours
eights and aces, reflected in a Sitting Bull's eye
eye of nude, descending the stairs
this brow, this poison taken on a dare

browbeaten strumpet
codspiece spoken ale
guinness for all
World's Record!
hit the hammer
ring the bell
back to our corners
diagonal stasis
tilt-a-whirl
spilt milk world
dripping over the edge of the plane
gathering moss
stoned, to death
deaf ears ponder signs
tic-tac-toe
been there, hung round here
your move

my unmoved mover
of course, this game
same time no blame
was invented by spinner
the top down bottom up
no loser no winner the wiser

behold the next geyser, thar
she blows your lil lilly all silly
spin the dervish willy nil gilly
some unfolding fan flash her pan

a flood of riddles fiddles their fiddles
and minds their middle burner middles
burst the hi diddle a poppy becomes a
rose as the low low stomp and twang
release the psychopomp in a drop of red

oh how it goes straight to the head they said
how the master and ring fit to the T come C
fitted the curse to the cure thine blood trine
Neptune's palace all a whirl divine mad
rolling balls of colored glass beads

oh this paradise game all a flame with lost
the fruit was loaded the apple was dropped
the heaven's were drunk on that spilt milk
what's your zeal what's your ilk sink it to the hilt
all a pearly gated all the street walked waited
there in the wan light neon almost faded

tossed, bossed, flossed, rooked, spooked, goosed
the ruse of thee, Proust, goaded, roaded, rained on
parade, played old maid, checkers with the left
not knowing what the right one do, better go fish
sweet heart Magda, sister of the sun, passing message

to the disguised beggar on the razor edge of town
one down, two for tea, these are the most beautiful
things, on the outskirts of the city of light, gypsies
sing, make notes flung from strange musics once
automatically recalling the funny names hard sung
you ring, i rung way down on the ninth woke down