Excessive Phantasms
(an inert blow-by-blow)
holy hercules
my might bites—
all day and what
to do to soften the
blow? go go go?!
no no no! any
excuse to stall
(like the doctor
didn’t call at 8am
like i’d been told),
like i’m old? have
i not retired? “has
he not retired?” i
wonder if anyone
i ever knew (al
most all of whom
don’t talk to me
anymore, so how
would i ever know?)
wonders at such.
about me. me?
oh, i don’t know.
wonders never
cease, they say.
but who’d wonder,
really? nobody, i
presume. which
has me down, as
well as stalling
just mulling over
such nonsense.
what was next?
oh, a little inter
view for a tiny
gig, which, lo
and behold (!!)
i’ve supposedly
nabbed. when
at the desk at
this mere 8-day
job is when i’ll
believe it. such
has been my luck
for a baker’s dozen
years. i could be
almost sitting,
zazen, but really
i’m just cross-
legged here in
the hole where
my head goes
at the top of
my bed, tap-
tap-tapping
at my laptop
just to say i
did but one
thing at least,
or two—there
was that lovely
interview, after
all. why, i should
be celebrating!
but how, since i
haven’t a dime
to my name. my
name, should any
one want to recall,
is drowning in a
cesspool some
where with the
last of my mojo.
jojo? you mofo!
he’s the gogo
dancer in my
head, which
might also be
a reason for
my sheer del
inquency. yo,
jo, might you
jump in the
sewer to re
trieve but a
smidge of my
mojo, my dear
gogo? then,
perhaps, might
you be game
for a little show?
i’d like to say
there’d be a
little something
in it for you, oh
jojo my gogo my...
well, that certainly
didn’t work. he’s
already out with
a slam of the do’.
oh, well, oh, woe.
