Should I drop u a note
naturally, l am eating alone
waiting on a bowl of gumbo.
Ur a no-show
screwing in the shadows
likely doing the three famous maestros
Larry, Curly, and I hope
U choke
on Moe.
I'm sorry but feeling pretty low
I'm losing my Piedmont pillow
I remember u long ago
u tried to corner the market playing the blues on a banjo
Made sense maybe since lock-in a cellar sits a dusty jazz piano
Then lockjaw denies u fame and fortune blowing
the piccolo
always known for ur solos
this was before wearing out ur welcome on the cello,
Started as a joke
writing "Ode
to The Twilight Zone"
staring the fallen saint, Billie Joe
the story goes
before fleeing on rails like a hobo
down Mt. Kilimanjaro
she had an episode
losing her halo
slipping from her dome
while dipping her bent toe
into the dark cosmos
but caught the eye of fire breathing hippo
in mid-pounce feasting on a giant translucent minnow.
yet the halo plunged like an oscillating dildo
topping the speed of light (what did Einstein know),
when heading for ground zero
but caught on film in slow-mo.
Oddly snatched up by a swooping sparrow,
but dropped like a dirty ho
on seeing a dancing scarecrow
doing the tango
with a Hispanic hallucinating gringo.
Never scare off any black feather bedfellows
Each of them has a mind of their own
Scavengers are at home
grilling up some squirming lizard toads.
on the sunbaked back roads,
like on US 95 thru Mosco
not in Russia but Idaho
and yet the halo continued to roll
for years though God only knows
till it finally landed in Chicago
on the Antiques Roadshow
shown off by an old crone
or was it Saint Billie Joe
incognito
sporting a big nose
who lived alone
making a cameo?
Drooling over its host
a fat sweaty long fellow
who smelled like pork roast.
Sampled his ear lobe
on milk buttered toast
out doing Van Gogh
mesmerized by horizons aglow
but tripping on too much ginkgo.
Anyway, my hat off to those
poor blokes,
seeing nothing that doesn't show
dreaming of giving up the ghost
depending on the cash flow
soon on the back of an icy slope
surfing down the hills of Glasgow
yet these days at end of their rope
with necktie yokes
now a foot off the flo,
swinging low
to the tune of Desperado
fading in/out on solid-state radio.
Again, the Silent Telephone
landmines another mofo!