They say you should Never believe your eyes, But if your ears were more
Plausible as cauliflowers, I bet you would Eat your stinking hearts out.
Moderator’s comments: Might perhaps the reason behind Huuk’s long hiatus be because
he’s been feeling boxed in by conventional standards of behavior, especially
those dealing with politically correct/incorrect olfactory reactions to unsavory issues
that have always been so close to his heart? Now that that rather hard to swallow problem looks somewhat resolved by this poem, I hope he's at peace with himself and has finally decided
to let John Q. Public go to hell in a handcart driven by a host of crazed grotesques.
Cool it, mon frère— No one’s wondering What you’re up to These days and if anyone is So inclined, he or she Most certainly won’t be Concerned with what Your newest but long overdue Offering’s going to be about— Au contraire, more than likely They’ll be dying to hear how long Your latest deadly silence will last This time around.
Mine’s sixty-eight—I’ve been “Cooling my heels” over an hour And the priority slip I’m now using As a bookmark says my waiting Time should’ve been around nine Minutes; in the meantime, I’ve been Making do in the overworked air- Conditioned inner sanctum Of the nightmare
Institution which looks after My rapidly dwindling bantam Nest egg with all the care Of a crazed mother hen,
And reading a slender volume Of poems called Sleepwalker’s Songs, All the while thinking of what I could do If my nest egg were fatter, watching Customer after customer go up To the teller and walk out again
Onto a dazzling, searing asphalt so hot it could fry Enough dinosaur eggs to feed an onslaught Of famished, day-dreaming somnambulists Armed to the teeth with nothing But a slew of cool blank checks— I wonder what 69’s thinking of.
That old Greek he knew you Can’t step into the same River twice, for even If you could, you’d still find Yourself high and dry On the banks of certain Uncharted shit creek With nothing better To do save wait To pay a certain smart-ass Ferryman to paddle Your dumb ass across.
Straightaway as you Open wide the narrow blue Window shutters Of the old stone house By the sea, wave Upon wave of small white- Capped memories begin Spilling in, slowly Washing the grit That clings to the grey Walls clean—
Listen up, You know-it-all City-bred dandy Wordsmith—the poem You’re writing should end up Down-to-earth discriminating, Say a finely winnowed product Triggered by wave upon wave Of gulls lifting off From the nearest Harbor some thirty Miles away only To land here In the boondocks With the first light Of day, foraging For sustenance Amongst bales and bales Of—you got it—freshly cut Seedy hay.
I'm so Old I remember when I was A twelve-something Mister Cool thinking someone Fortyish was a stumbling fossil, And an octogenarian was A dodo on its last legs Attempting an emergency Landing with no landing gear.
It’s this way you see His ledger rife with minuses, Two plus two never making four, This good-for-nothing no-account Too poor to know the score he Put a double-barrel up his sinuses, Nothing made sense anymore.
—for my A and Ω, Eleni—who knows me better than I do myself
Why is it when I at last Give in and grudgingly promise To translate a few of my more "Knotty” avant-garde poems For you, my not-so-comfy with English Better half, half-way into them I get That nagging sense you think They were all Greek to me too, From their promising beginnings To nowhere in particular In the end.
His high mountain village So remote but still so near To his heart now Beating in the new World, he fancied he Heard the homing wind Clearly in the cypresses Ringing the cemetery, Shaping out of thin air Every breathless breath He took in.