Though a life is an arc
I tend to see my father as a point,
the oldest and most decrepit point,
right before he disappeared.
And though I feel rather pointless,
slowly, this day-to-day kills me
the same way it kills you.

It’s a white haze southern phase
the air all O2 depleted at orange alert,
with glacial meltdown, the water rises
like some slow train coming, while we're
tied to the track, watching.

The UV’s burn great cancers
as I wheeze a piston rhythm
pumping pedals against the hill,
perched atop my pansy road bike
in little pussy stretch tights.
Bogie, I ain’t
but then neither was Bogart and
besides, my belly resides rather small.

Sour sweat trickle stings my true blues,
as stark as a starling I sit,
gray hackled hound dog geezer boy,
cooling down in my digs.
fifty fifty fifty
I pound this age thing like a peg:
(pardon me, the redundancy
I force the fit).
As a boy, upon hearing its importance
I measured my semi-useless with a ruler
but it hardly hung like the arm of a crane,
so very average, but the mushroom was nice
and it still packs the wallop to cause a child!
Imagine that.

I’m a saddle tramp
with Texas Pete Hot Sauce
and a pot of beans on the burner
(Note it’s a phallic shaped
saddle with special cutout
to prevent dysfunction
in cyclists. Halleluiah!
for my semi-useless.).

My TV foolishly blathers,
I feign interest for a while,
occasionally nod, hit the mute.
At least its warm body keeps me
through lowdown lonesome nights.
I wish a thunderstorm would roll in
shake the foundation,
but at least
Tom Waits rattles the drywall
and bellows like mad cow disease
from plastic speakers.

I reckon I'll wait
for my hair to turn yellow,
band it in a Dead Head tail
all Wavy Gravy, howling how:
I’s so tard, I’s so god awful tard...

In these, my declining years
I want to move even further South,
play bottle neck sweat bead guitar
my mind gone all Lead Belly jelly:
Mississippi Mud, Mississippi Mud
Hound Dog Geezer on the Mississippi Mud…

But tonight, the Nazis,
to my delight,
rise and fall in black & white
so I delay the migration
yet another night.
How I loathe them
and somehow,
harbor down deep love for darkest night.

jus ain't no cure fer what I gots, baby
l’s jus hafta suffer...

I hope I've made my point.

08/03/2006

Posted on 08/04/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill