Hula Blue

i lost my heart to a wahine
down at the hala-kahiki bar
the way she flips my beanie
to the beat of slack guitar
she’s a kanaka maoli
from across the sea
makes me feel so hau ‘oli
hips that rock and roll me
shakes my oblongata medulla
when she does that blue hula
she does that blue, blue hula
just for me.

hula blue
hula blue
ain’t the way the missionaries do
they gave their admonition
ya’ll better adopt a new position
don’t keep on with your messin’ hula blue

it drives the kanes quite papule
down at the hala-kahiki bar
she strokes that ukulele
in a posture most bizarre
it’s a sensual sensation
grass skirt bur-le-que
and it gives me inspiration
to see that hula blue
shakes my oblongata medulla
when she does that blue hula
she does that blue, blue hula
just for me.

hula blue
hula blue
ain’t the way the missionaries do
they gave their admonition
ya’ll better adopt a new position
don’t keep on with your messin’ hula blue

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Morning Reminder

It’s always socks before your boots
Don your skivvies before the suit.
Make sure it’s all secured away,
before goin’ out to face the day.

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Anthem for Doomed Lovers

It ain’t natural they say
for love to last the years.
All lovers are doomed to stray,
lose interest and end in tears.
I don’t care if the way we
live don’t match their lie.
Without you baby
I’d be a cloud without a sky,
a tree without a ground,
a sea without a shore,
an ear without a sound,
a foot without a floor,
a lost that’s never found,
a singer without a note . . .
If love’s end ever seems true,
please recall lines here wrote:
I will love the dickens out of you,
as I have from the start,
every day more and more so
until my cold deceased heart
has left my torso.

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Prayer for the Lost Boys

When you were only children
this boy might have been a friend.
Now that you have grown to men
lost memories of youth will rend.
Souls lost Satan enjoys.
On street corners they stand.
You’ll find a host of Lost Boys,
who never found their Neverland.

Do you feel indignation
to see him out on the street
asking for a donation
to get him back on his feet?
He’ll soon be sauced with joy.
Could you lend him a hand?
He’s just another Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Would you call him a hobo?
A generation that’s beat?
Homeless freegan au go go?
Another bum or old freak?
He can really annoy,
with his constant demand:
“Can you help out a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland?”

Peter Pan, Peter Pan,
grown up to be worthless man.
Nothin’ to do to keep him livin’
but beg what’s free and freely given.
Did he chose to live this way?
Does he chose to live this way?

He ain’t no Woody Guthrie
and don’t live by Thoreau’s pond.
Pursuing philosophy
is not part of his monde.
There’s no art to employ
that explains such a brand.
Reaching out is a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Don’t forget there is danger
from those with nothing to lose
when you help out a stranger
with problems likely a ruse.
But if a hand you deploy,
one way to understand:
Call it a gift to a Lost Boy,
who never found his Neverland.

Say a prayer for the Lost Boys,
who never found their Neverland.

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Siddhartha Gautama

Siddhartha Gautama was a human being who sat beneath a tree holding a sign that read: “Will Meditate for Food.” He was as successful at that as it is possible to be.

Word is he died fat and happy. Accounts of his death otherwise lack intelligibility.

Siddhartha liked to rap a lot about various subjects. Many people follow his ideas religiously. They call him Buddha, which means a dude who knows a lot about what it’s all about.

There are those who argue that Buddhism is merely a system of beliefs. But to the casual observer, Buddhists seem to worship Siddhartha as God. The temples, priests, monks, nuns, and whatnot leave that impression.

The followers of Jerry Garcia’s wisdom are called “Dead Heads.” Jerry also died fat and happy and liked to rap a lot about various subjects. I don’t know at what point guys like this become deities. Jerry isn’t there yet, although his fans’ behavior certainly borders on worship at times.

I believe Jerry’s problem is living after the advent of pants. Once it is established these are donned one leg at a time by the wearer, it’s hard to make the leap to divinity. Even though Jerry eventually grew too big for his britches, he bought bigger ones and put them on just like the rest of us. If only he had switched to kilts, who knows?

If Gautama and Garcia were both drowning and you could only save one of them, that would be a tough call. After all, nobody has ever heard Buddha play the Blues.

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Wa of Barbeque

It’s a quiet night at Earl’s Barbeque. Patrons watch the game and calmly enjoy their meals. The waitress smiles and takes our order. Cares of the day dissolve in anticipation of spicy comfort food.

A glow settles behind houses to the West as the sun takes a last peek over the horizon. It’s going to be a cool Oklahoma night.

Cerveza with lime will go down good with an order of ribs. Fried okra on the side.

At the table are people I love most and they’re smiling at me.

The man in the corner booth doesn’t appear a bit like trouble. Clean, conservative, model citizen by the look of him. When all the world is swirling towards doom, such a man might bring deliverance.

On this occasion, he has a sermon to deliver. It is not specifically directed to those at his table. The message reverberates the room like pulpit prophecy.

Attention must be paid: “I will give that sonabitch 60 seconds to get out of my sight before I start shootin’!”

Everyone must pay: “I’ve got the right to defend myself! Anybody don’t believe it? I’m countin’ to 10! Then, I don’t care who they are! If they’re still there, I’m blowin’ their heads off! That’s it!”

Checks are paid. The corner booth empties. Something heavy sags in a small bag the man carries by a draw string. He wearily exits to the parking lot. Streetlights flicker on as his vehicle accelerates out of sight

Spicy comfort food arrives. The ones I love most smile.

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Shakespearean Riddle

If an infinite number of monkeys sat at an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite number of years typing at random, it is a mathematical certainty they would produce inconceivable amounts of simian shit.

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Wild Man of Borneo:

I have an obscure fantasy:
Waltzing bare with a bone through my nose
along the shores of the Banda Sea
as a feral freak free of woes.

I would not join a carnival
and do a drooling dance in a cage.
In the back country I’d rather loll,
than gnaw live poultry in a rage.

I’d reject the world that we know
as a hermit by any standard.
Call me the Wild Man of Borneo!
I’d be the ultimate dastard.

Not one of those poncy pirates
serves such terror to those they might host.
Forget about escaping inmates.
The untamed scare the public most.

Free as a rich aristocrat,
like Howard Hughes with a wild ass stare.
I’d throw dust and sticks and kick your cat
and tight wedgie your underwear.

Bandits can be most alarming.
They’ll rob you and shoot off a big gun.
But wild men seem so much less charming.
They’re dudes who just want you to run.

What glee I would feel unfettered
without saddle or hobble or bit.
Caked with mud and prancing all feathered,
under Borneo’s moon I’d flit.

But the traffic light is changing.
My wife pokes my arm and shouts: “It’s green!”
Reality is rearranging
and brings me back here on the scene.

Daydreams will follow as we go
through our lives that can feel quite inane.
Maybe that Wild Man of Borneo
keeps my brain this side of insane.

Oogah! Boogah!
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