you may, facing east

you may,
facing east,
late at night,
think
(not that I might)

a crow in the long run
is more apt to fly
than bite,

and if the roads were flowers
all trips would be timed to bloom,

and if things weren’t as they are
you’d be in another room.

Ted Nugent, Where Are You When I Need You?

Ted Nugent, where are you
when I need you?

I am two blocks from my house,
being robbed by a man holding a knife,
and I am stalling for time,
telling him all about my heart condition,
and my pacemaker,
and my poetry blog,
and that I am a Virgo,
and how I recently got a new wallet
because my old wallet was too big,
like an old man wallet,
and how ironic it is that this new wallet
is somehow stickier in my jeans,
if I can use that word – “stickier” -
to refer to the straight out silly length of time
it is taking me to perform the simple act
of pulling my wallet out of my jeans
at knifepoint, jeans which are tighter than
they used to be, I tell him, because they closed
the entrance to my favorite running trail,
and I’m finding it hard to adjust to the new route,
so I tend to just skip my runs anymore,
and this has lead me to put on weight,
which makes it more difficult to remove my wallet -
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah – but I can
only stall so long Ted Nugent!
My robber grows impatient!

*        *        *        *        *

And I’m waiting for you Ted Nugent
to come around the corner of 22nd and Summer St.
majestically riding a four-wheeled ATV,
holding your bow cocked with your
pure and certain arrow of death, you resembling
a Greek warrior in his chariot, if Greek
warriors wore feathered cowboy hats
and leather vests and their chariots ran on loud
gas engines.

And I’m waiting here, stalling, so I can make eye
contact with you when you appear,
and give a brief nod of my head,
and say in a cool, even tone,
a tone which suggests we have done this
so many times before that it has become
almost routine – “Take him.”
And as the robber turns to face you,
you’ve already let your arrow fly
and time slows as the arrow comes
closer and closer then pierces straight through
his Adam’s Apple and out the back of his neck
spraying me with the blood of my foe,
most likely ruining my prized white
EPSN 2002 fantasy football league champion
t-shirt, but that’s OK, for I have been saved by Ted Nugent -
I can triumphantly and thankfully wipe the blood spatter
off of my face and say, “Ted Nugent! Dude, that was
fuckin’ awesome! Let’s go to Cherry St. Tavern
and let me buy you a beer!”

*        *        *        *        *

But where are you Ted Nugent?
Where are you as I say for the fifth time
to my robber how it is my sincere and
honest intention to cooperate with him
in every way possible as rapidly as possible
to the best of my ability to expedite this robbery
in as quickly and efficiently
a manner as is humanly possible -
even though I am thinking that still
somehow, against all odds you may appear,
which is why I am now in the process of faking a severe
back spasm (“Sorry, but I get these sometimes…
running keeps my back loose, but as you know
I haven’t been running as much as I used to lately…)
still hoping you will come.

*        *        *        *        *

Ted Nugent, why have you refused to
ride the streets of the our cities on your
four-wheeled ATV fighting injustice
with your powerful bow?

Ted Nugent, why you have failed to formed an army of
urban warrior vigilantes based on the Guardian Angels,
but tons more bad ass because they would
ride four-wheeled ATV’s and kill people with
high-powered hunting bows,
and be even more bad ass from a simple sartorial POV
because they would all dress like you,
eschewing the effeminate (i.e. French)
look of the red beret in favor of
cowboy hats with long ostrich plumes
and leather vests, and wearing blond wigs,
specifically formulated to correspond
with a picture of you in the May 1975 edition of Cream,
and Ted Nugent masks, so no one would know
who the real Ted Nugent is, increasing the fear -
but, thinking about it now, no, I guess
the primary reason they’d be more bad ass than
the Guardian angels really does come down to
the use of gas-powered four-wheeled ATVs
in an urban environment and the group’s
stated intent to dispense vigilante justice
in the form of an arrow through the neck.

*        *        *        *        *

Ted Nugent, I need you Ted Nugent to move from
70’s guitar hero turned right-wing nutcase
to 70’s guitar hero turned right-wing nutcase THEN
turned urban vigilante crime-fighter.

Because if not you, Ted Nugent, who?
Steve Howe? Brian May?
They’re all on tour. They still have (sort of)
music careers. And do you really think
they know a fucking thing about putting
an arrow through the neck of an evil-doer
(or doe) at 50 yards while riding a Black King Quad 700
no-handed while moving at 30 MPH.
No. They’d use their guitars and be slaughtered
like pigs. Steve Howe wouldn’t even have
the sense to use an electric guitar, but would enter
his doomed encounter sporting a 12-string acoustic guitar,
and middle-aged men like me would no longer
be able to attend (sort of) “Yes” and (sort of)”Queen” concerts
and imagine that even though Freddie Mercury
is dead and Jon Anderson insists on touring
as himself, that, as long as we don’t look too closely
at the fake Freddie Mercury and Jon Anderson
fronting the bands, that this really is Yes or Queen.

*        *        *        *        *

Ted Nugent, you could be glorious!
Why must you hunt deer like every other
typical run-of-the-mill boring bow-hunter
in the safety of the far-off woods
when there is so much injustice in the
urban jungle that needs an arrow through the neck?

*        *        *        *        *

Ted Nugent, I have grown tired of waiting.
I have given my wallet over.

Unbeknownst to my robber,
the folded $50 bill tucked in
the left side of the billfold
triggers a booby-trap
which will release a small cloud
of custom-formulated nerve agent
which will cause a catastrophic
cerebral hemorrhage. I am tracking him
now and, if like most robbers,
he removes the contents of the wallet
within a four-block radius
I have only another block to follow him
before he’s down and I can retrieve
my wallet and head home.

But in comparison to what could have been,
me and you Ted Nugent gazing triumphantly
down over the corpse of a would-be urban robber,
his head resting is a growing pool of blood,
the feathers of the arrow through his neck
fluttering in the gentle breeze of the night
– can you understand how this feels so unsatisfactory?

take a pack of wolves

take two nights
and call it a single dark morning

take two halos
bend them a little
add a touch of red paint
and lies
and they become horns

take a haven’t got a clue
and give it a mystery to solve
and a big reward at the end
and you’ll have a warehouse
of false leads gathering dust

take a good idea
to fast around the curve
and autopsy will show
that it was a bad idea after all

take an list of excuses
for what could go wrong
reverse them
and you have either the true possibilities
or false optimism

take a plan to stop
and keep going
and see what happens
and if you can’t stop going
stick to the original plan

take a beautiful dive into
an empty pool
and no one will remember
the graceful perfection of the dive

take a pack of wolves
and ask them to guard the sheep
and there’s no oath in the world
that can guarantee you won’t
have a pile of bones by morning

under under

hard to stop
before
surfacing
the lightness
floats
away
it brings
a connection to
all the things
waiting
on top
of the ocean

if we must

we’ll take
our breaths
tell
them
to
spare
the funeral
wreaths
we’re returning
to the ocean’s
depths –
we crave
its slower motion

(the going raid)

the going raid
the gone done done
owned this
his light slight silk slit gone

his side tide wide
wired tired bride

his
wudya say
sashy

his “you the kinda thing
no coffin could repay”

in arrears

there’s a rock
in
theback
of
my throat
I’ve been
trying
to
swallow
for years
some things
left
in arrears
can
leave
a soul
so
hollow

(opened early on late walls)

opened early on
late walls

what you see is what you see
is what you get is what you make
or can’t do a thing for me

there’s power and light spent
flowed fine to neon signs
flash: “It might be too late”
flash: “Is it just the times?”

closed late on
early walls

what you bring is what you bring
is what is told is what you tell
is what is sung is what you sing

there’s a lower power sent
flowed lines like being fried
stiff wires: “Finally the time?”
stiff wires: “Our wired mires.”

what roads to tell the wind

what roads to tell the wind
to clear away

go tank rust
go blow as dust

what swords to tell the words
to rudely break

like,
snap
crackle
pop
you’re cooked
motherfucker!

what wars to tell the wards
now of the state

“We were on the good side…”
“Everyone’s a hero who has died…”
to the wards of those who died
the good side lied

(a flag furled)

a flag furled
as the anthem
on a trailer

towed from Freedom
straight down skyward
opened upside down

so hurricained

if the weather
had hands
they’d be stones
in piles
of broken fingers
guarded
by crocodiles,

but someday
surely Shirley
this thing surely
will break,

and our
future smiles
won’t be
salty, wet
won’t be
so hurricained

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