Writings

Poem in A-Flat
...Or Was It a Bungalow?

By Steve Gerber
(Circa 1971)

My thinking must be channelled,
My mind it must be stopped.
I find that I am thinking
Of things that can't be mopped
Up.

I try to stop this mind-race.
I try to quell my head.
Instead I find I'm thinking
Of horny oppressors
Dead.
Duck.

I just can't believe
That what you say is true.
If horned toads eat digressions,
Then who ate my shoe?
Up.

Alone I sit and ponder
And worry all day long
About the arms and missiles,
About the legs and guns.
Over.

Upon my gum I ploughshare
And try to make some rhyme.
I give her two nickels.
She gives me back a dime.
Slime.

I think of law and larder
And Nixon in his den
And Agnew in the parlor,
Counting up to ten.
Dime.

I can't stop this dreaming.
I try I try I try.
I dream of lizards steaming
And knots they will untie.
Itzik Bendo.

I hobnob with the rich pigs,
I shoot things at the poor,
I vomit on my wifey,
And she cries out for more.
Up.

I learn the latest dances.
I learn to read and write.
I learn how much is six and five
And then get in a fight.
Frab.

I demonstrate with vigor
And then perform on Joe,
But vigor cannot stop me.
I know where I must go.
Up.
Endocrine path shining.
FIRE ALL MISSILES!
Unto. Unto.
Unto three four.

I laugh at Lyndon Johnson,
I cry for Ewing Perl.
I giggle for tomorrow
And tickle Murray's earl.
Up.

Can you identify the
Code-name of the living
Dead man inscribed in
Faint blue on the church door
Of your mind?

Once I respected the Pope.
Now I just think he's a dope.
Why mope?
Have hope?
Hang a rat on a rope.
See him in your telescope.
Grope.
At your friend.
The end?
Not hardly, it's a start.
Did you?
Him what did it did not tell.
Swell. Bell. Ring.
Do your own thing.
Be trite. Be free.
Be revolution airy.
Do you think I care?
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Junga-woppa-loop-bop-zing-bam frud.

 

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Text Copyright © 2001 Steve Gerber. All rights reserved.