Songs

if the world is made

if the world is made
of stone and wood,
then the world grows
defiantly, as it should—
slowly, surely, the world
grows as it should.

if the world is made
of cloud and sky, then
life will pass us by, sigh
by sigh, each cloud pass
us by, as sure as the world
is made of cloud and sky.

if the world is made
of water, endless plane
that conquers all; tranquil,
eternal at rest, shattered upon
storm’s crest, then the world will
never be at rest, never be at rest.

if the world is made
of fire, then man is a candle
in a choir of flame, each name
a moment that radiant exclaims,
“the world is, as it could, for the
world IS, when should, becomes

would.”

7

7 splines make a globe
7 minds twice, Niobe lost but one
7 winds of the old wristwatch
7 grinds makes pepper grate
7 lives of a coal black cat
7 lines your hexagram is a wavicle
7 times I told you, consider it fact

airplane

Above me in the cloudy night,
delta winking, shine so bright,
if I may, if I might, let me fly
with you through clouds tonight.

Are you real? You twinkle so fast.
Arrive so soon, then you’re past.
What’s it like to soar above?
Does it feel like long lost love?

We who stand by gravity,
live with both innocence, depravity;
you fly into sight, promise so much more,
but then you’re gone and all we get is roar.

A Killer and a Scholar

He had a blue spider web tattoo on his elbow,
a holograph of an eye on his lapel,
his complexion was smooth and uneven,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

No, you wouldn’t want to make his acquaintance,
and you wouldn’t want to fall under his spell,
his sweet breath both stinking and hypnotic,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

Oh, some men spend their lives in solid homes,
some spend their days drinking the finest wines,
some men dream to live the stories they tell,
while other men beg before dying.

His hair was black, his head clean shaven,
one eye rose, while the other eye fell.
He was ugly, but still quite appealing,
a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

He kept a little book with a list of names,
and each victim his name he would spell,
and when he crossed that name off his list—
another sinner would await him in Hell—

a killer and a scholar, you could tell.

In memory of George the cat

George “scat!” pitter pat
was what he called himself,
and as cats go he wasn’t half bad
mainly because half wasn’t there.

He lost one life and
an ear to a carving knife.
The second went with a tip
of his tail to a block of cement.

His third life was spent
dying in a basement,
a bag of bones that pooped
and peesed whenever he sneezed —
he looked like he’d die
if you stroked, or squeez’d him.

Whether fourth, fifth or sixth is truly moot,
the next life George lost took off with his foot.
Hence his name — no pitter patter
just pitter pat (and an uncomfortable pause).

How many lives followed, attended by bits and tatters,
is known only by George, the parts don’t really matter.
He was singular — in almost every limb —
popular — he’s been all over the place —
at one with the world — it was as if he gave
everyone who knew him a little piece of himself.

So let us remember him as he was:
1) a cat with an eye out for you
2) always willing to lend a friend an ear
3) A paw you could count to three on
4) a tail half told
5) no worries regarding unexpected paternity suits
6) a smile that said, “I’ve had extensive dental work”
7) a nostril, a cheek, turned into one unspeakable orifice
8) three legs make it easy to curl up and nap this way — you should try it sometime

And so nine he died,
nine could not be denied.
His great heart tried
but this world he left behind.

Skit scat pitter pat,
George was not just half a cat,
he was much more than that.
George “scat!” pitter pat was always
greater than the sum of his parts.