When she was six,

The girl was enrolled in private school.

They issued a blouse, white,


A tee-shirt with a school logo,

And a pleated, plaid skirt.


They reissue the socks,

And the blouse, white,

And the tee-shirt with a school logo

Every year.


The skirt is made of sterner stuff.


When the girl first wore it,

It fell below her knees.


Each year the girl grows

And the skirt creeps up,

And up,

And up,


And up,



In the way of the world,

Concealment becomes its opposite.


There is no equivalent

For school boys.


The injustice of this

Has so far

Gone unnoticed.






She walks with quick, little steps,

Arms stiff,

Wooden, as if

Fearful of calamity.


Her breasts, however,

Parting the world before her,

They have a life of their own,

And she,

She is walking them,

As she would an unleashed


Nervously aware

Of the danger they present.



The Old Ram Rod

I am told,

As I push 70,

That I should show some subtlety,

Some finesse,

Be less obvious,

That it is somehow wrong,

Even unbecoming,

At my age, or any other,

To write of sweet curves

Welcoming thighs,

Glistening lips…

To write of the misdeeds

Of that old, bald-headed rogue,

Who always grins his

You can’t fuck flowers motif.


While that billy still butts,

I’ll give the birds,

And the bees,

And the cigarette trees,

Lovely blossoms waving in the breeze,

And tired old Decency, itself

A bye.



(after  about hearing advice about how I could finally get with that novel if I found some models to inspire me)


I like to use models for writing;

Tall, fair, with well-defined buttocks.

A Dark Lady will do in a pinch;

I am not prejudiced.


(Somehow, I do not think my well-meaning advisors had that in mind)

Pepsodent Smile

Some time ago, I posted “Lambs”, about a beauty parlour for little little girls.  The girl in this piece could be a survivor of that.


Little girl, straight from 1955;

Striped summer frock, cardigan,

White shoes, bare legs, and

Elegantly coiffed.


Mother to the woman,

She will stand beside her walk-in closet,

And say, “Tah-dah!”


Or just maybe,

She is a spy in the house of convention,

Lying in wait with her Pepsodent smile.



Car Hood

This is a little piece of flash fiction.  The events are true….from long ago.  Car hood



I drink French brandy, and can hardly

Speak a word of the language.


I am the same about Norse sagas;

I can’t order a beer in Icelandic.


I would like to go to the Black Forest,

Even if it is full of white people.

I am not prejudiced;  they are German-speaking,

When they are not Turkish.


I bought mexi-fries from Latin Americans,

But they spoke Spanish to each other.

Why would they not speak Latin?

Is it because it is a dead language?


Is there a special place in the bardo

For dead languages, a place full

Of obscure phonemes and glottal stops,

Where the languages converse in Tibetan,

(Not itself dead, but much beset)

While they wait for rebirth among speakers.


Is Manx waiting there?





My brain hurts from this linguistic cogitation;

I find languages stupefying.


I am, however, deliriously happy

That despite all this, I can drink French brandy.

I have even learned a word of gratitude:


Isn’t that nice!


Balthusian’s first love was nine years old;

All others have been measured against her;

She was taller than he.


In the way of children, he did not so much as kiss her.

She went off with a boy taller than she was.

Then she went off with one still taller.


She married that one;

She discovered he could not have children.


In her disappointment, she at length

Returned to Balthusian.  She said:


“What do you think, Balthusian,

Should I have waited?”


He realized that she was simply curious;

He hung on her every word,


Until he became quite short of breath,

Even tho he was now taller.


He loosened his collar,

And did not think of priests.

Macbeth Does Not Remind Me of Pasta

I walked 40 minutes to stand in line for a coffee and confetti

sprung to my mind.

I never think about confetti, or spaghetti, or yeti;.

Perhaps it is the last two syllables…

An unusual allergy for which there is no remedy.

No remedy for love, or lust, either, one of them most of all.  Ah,

Those things for which there’ll be no remedy, no cure, no surcease,

Until the last two syllables of recorded time…for instance,

That enchanting young girl with the big shoes,

It is the shoes which cause despair, all else

Endurable if it were not for them.

To live is to embrace what you cannot endure, and, therefore,

Tread water frantically,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing.

I think that, unfortunately, a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars,  just as

I can no longer use a three-hole punch…

The little bits all look like confetti,

Impossible to vacuum—thus, I avoid weddings.

Yet, (or yeti) all things being unequal in nature,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables

Just in case, recorded somewhere on mp3 or granite

Desperately twirling the spaghetti about the great fork of existence,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a vagrant noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing…

I think a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars.

Nor can I use a three-hole punch,

The little bits all look like confetti.

I spurn weddings, therefore.

Yet, or yeti, all things being somewhat unequal,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables,

Of time, recorded on mp3 or granite slabs on Sinai,

Just in case the end of the world is spaghetti;

I must, therefore, devise a sauce.


Almost baba rumdummy

The Leonard Cohen verse about “when you’ve done a line or two”…reminded me of one notable occasion with a dollar rolled into a tube.


I did a couple of lines

listening to Be Here Now,

and I was there, then.

Everything is profound

when you breath through a dollar.

I never noticed it cease is weightiness.

Perhaps that is significant.

See!  despite all

I have not rid myself of perhaps.

So, just


I never snorted those lines at all,



it was just icing sugar

and I am thinking as through a layer cake,

or perhaps,

my brain has become Turkish delight

and,  damn it! damn it!

I cannot determine

if I am lemon or rosewater.

But I take heart

that if it is indeed frosted over

I am protected from inedibility

by the words of Baba

filtered through a cloud of unknowing

by that line of whatever it was,

it was,

and thank karma there were two.