| Aladdin on a Divan Overshadowed by Herr Doktor Freud
Spot the lamp.
Ogle it.
Then ease into
the tent's roomy gloom...
Now try your memory.
Start where the oasis
stands at the foot
of the horizon,
highlighted by half a sun
going under
while you're bent on
sipping spring water
well before darkness.
When it comes
fallen palm fronds
make a mattress
soft enough
for slumbering
under a sheet of stars.
Later, a dream shows up.
It looks like an empty tent
with only a lamp
dangling from the ceiling.
You're told to enter
through a voice
without a head or tail.
It's a genie's,
openly spouting off
about what's his rub,
and why he wants a stroking.
That's where you come in,
a child of the desert
with sand in your ears,
armed with a helping hand.
So far, are we in sync, Mr.Aladdin?
Furthermore, was backtracking
the right way
to run today's session?
Once upon a time
you were gifted with granted wishes
which, in this case,
paired your youth
into before and after.
As such, the latter's become
a no lad's land.
Until you're man enough
to tell the difference,
I'll sit in for the genie--
grow a grey goatee.
A Trial by Fire and Brimstone
1
Admit you did it, scorpion.
Now tell why.
Our case shows
that late last night
on a deserted
desert floor
the tumbleweeds
took up dancing.
Partners shook loose.
Down and around they bounced,
backwards and so forth.
And as the sands
shifted, a stand
of cacti started whistling.
2
We have witnesses
who wouldn't lie.
They overheard
your cayote cronnies
crooning along.
Likewise they listened
to holed up rattlers
joining in underground.
A hot beat sounded
from their shaky tails.
Then their heads
surfaced all around,
like metronomes.
3
As our only suspect
where were you
when shooting stars
singed the sky?
At sunrise,
the sheriff pinched you
red handed
rummaging thru his boots.
Still, you swear
that the wicked wind
blew you there
after the brimstone
downed our town.
Doom it.
An alibi like that
ain't worth a dime.
We're just wasting time.
Anyway, unwritten laws'll
have the last word.
With squashing on the spot
a sure sentence.
Underlying Foundations
The blind watchman bets
its picky termites.
That there are nibblers at heart
on the rise haunts him
as he taps his hickory stick.
Tick tacks feed back
off a stone floor.
So, what's eating him?
More doors than before
hiding hallways?
Too much touch and go
meanwhile...
He's also faced
with flighty stairs.
Above all, bugged ones.
Those relishing downfalls.
As it stands
his sixth sense is plagued
by ticklish moments,
each as unnerving as the next.
Yes, the creeps are closing in...
No longer does he feel
at home in his house of darkness.
His living premises have narrowed
down to where they won't
let him grope along, alone. |