Whiskey Bill was on the brink!
He'd learned to balk the balk
and blink the blink.
His stint no longer stunted,
his pint for good he'd punted.

Bill was only 26
with his whole life before him
(he wondered what came after).
He was not strong on decorum.
Whiskey Bill was on his way.
'Whatever!' was his rallying cry.
(W.B. was an indifferentiast of the highest order).

And so he set off,
moving his feet for many a night
and barely a day.
Headed for the Belgian border,
armed with waffle-iron and tape-recorder,
with every step Bill would reconnoiter
and juggle his priorities until, at last,
nothing came first --
and everything was final.
Orders, he'd found,
were the last to know,
while always on the march,
while always on the go.

Soon it became evident:
there was no going back
and no going forward,
though the steps in between
were firm and untoward.
Still Bill's resolve never did dwindle,
never did wane, nor doubt did kindle,
as waffle after waffle did he
meticulously spindle.

Being a pirate of poetic kind,
possessed of handsome scabbard
and iambic mind,
Bill sought adventures
of the nautical kind, which, in Begium,
he found,
were hard to find.
Urban by nature,
Bill had no clue
how to navigate nature,
though he'd been to a zoo.
And was quite a collector
of stuffed kangaroos
and other marsupials
(all of which had died,
he'd been guaranteed,
of natural causes,
like scurvy and greed).

Gripping his sword
and reciting his creed,
Bill scaled the Not-Mountains of Belgium,
rappelling with rare surcease.
When pausing on a bluff,
he would snack
from a can of aerosol cheese,
sip elderberry wine
from a canteen with ease.
Thus fortified, Bill clambered along,
over moss-covered rocks, through armies of bees.
Soon Bill's thoughts turned melancholy
and he crooned a quiet song:

Something might happen
at some point,
something might happen
sometime soon.
But for now I'll just walk
by the light of this
really-not-at-all-reassuring moon.

Though a young man
with more sense than most,
just then Bill glimpsed a spectre
(also known as a ghost).
With a shiver and a lurch
Bill scurried to and fro,
watching the spectre watch him,
watching the spectre not go.

It seemed to Bill that the spectre was keening,
the way it hovered and sputtered,
the way it shook without meaning.
Bathed in a ghastly orange-green glow,
the spirit appeared more bemused than bemusing.
And Bill found what he felt
less unpleasant than ... confusing.

The spectre had a profile like the Mona Lisa
and emitted the sounds of a second-hand tuba.
As time went by, Bill felt less uneasy
In fact very soon he was feeling almost ... breezy.
As the spectre peered with eyes of green,
Bill decided it was mischievous, but not really mean.

And then all of a sudden the spectre spoke,
-- it wasn't reassuring or polite; it was more like a poke.
"They will tear you asunder!" shrilled the creature,
with near-Biblical demeanor.
She spake when she might have spoke,
and Bill found himself wishing
she had opened with a joke.

Just then a dark cloud rolled over the mountain,
and water sprang up underfoot
from some top-secret spring,
or wrong-way fountain.

For the sole-soaking,
Bill held the spectre accountable.
This was all he needed,
More odds insurmountable.

To his less than dry state
The creature seemed oblivious.
She was water-tight
And possibly amphibious.

On a low green fogbank
She reclined with a smoke.
When Bill looked her way,
She offered him a toke.

No thank you, Bill said,
Tugging on his earring.
Whoever this That was,
It was less than endearing.

Sodden and cranky, WB withdrew.
He sank onto a large rock
Where he boiled
And steamed
And simmered like stew.

Of this being, he sighed,
There was no countenancing.

Pirates, thought Bill, don't like happenstancing
--Unless it happens to involve sword-fighting
Or maybe fancy dancing.

The creature hopped down from her perch.
Her gait was peculiar, like a step-step-step-lurch.

Bill shook his head.
He feared the worst.
The spectre's actions shouted "Thespian!"
And whispered "Ill-rehearsed."

At least with the rain
He could vanquish his not-hunger
And get on with his travels.
He wasn't getting any younger.

But before Bill could drink,
The spectre sidled up to his ... side.
As she drew near, with a lurch-lurch-leer,
He noticed she was chewing gum
That smacked strongly of beer.

Allow me to introduce myself,
She said with a burp.
I'm Sleazy McSleazerton.
Sleazy McSleazerton I am.

Not just a bad actor,
Bill groaned,
But a certifiable ham.
He stooped down
To take a sip
From a newly sprung dam.

The water flowed cool and fast,
And tasted like a midwinter's dream.
Somewhere in the distance
He heard a newborn raven scream.

Again Sleazy lurched his way,
Nearly spearing his foot with her silver stiletto.
Bill said a faint hello
And braced for a libretto.

Look, Bill said,
I don't mean to be a bore.
But I'm in Belgium
Seeking adventures
Of the nautical kind.

That, and I was hoping I
Could maybe unwind.

For five years I've been
An urban pirate
And it's become quite a chore.

Snitching music from the Internet,
Snatching movies from Bangalore.

It was terrible work,
Being a stealer
And a jerk.

I'd blame it on my parents,
But my parents they ... suffice.
And are naturally inclined to virtue,
They are even kind to mice.

So who cares and whatever.
For good or for better,
I've traveled to Belgium
To make a new start,
To heal my rotten core
And grow a new heart.

But I regress.
The truth is,
I'd simply like to give more.
I'd simply like to take less.

There's a hole at my center
Or no center at my core.
And so maybe, I thought,
Just maybe I need to get out
A little bit more.

Bill glanced at Sleazy,
Who was sitting on a boulder.
Cigarillo after cigarillo
She slyly set a-smolder.

Smoking several at a time,
She was quite the multi-tasker.
He wondered how she did it,
He decided not to ask her.

She seemed to be listening
And dreaming
And smoking all at once.
Bill stared down at his feet,
Feeling like a dunce.

A crimson fog crept in,
To mingle with the green.

Sleazy sneezed like a cat
And scrawled out a sign
That read:

Keep talking Bill.
Finish all your lines.
I'll be quiet till you're through.
Though I am sometimes unpleasant,
I am seldom a big fat shrew.

"Thank you Sleazy" said Bill, with
A nod of the head.

Above them a bearded mountain goat
Dislodged a bit of gravel,
Which startled Bill,
And which sounded oddly
Like the pounding
Of a tiny two-bit gavel.

And so he proceeded
To proceed to deliver his case,
While Sleazy took out a compact
And powdered her busy face.

"Being decentered, you see,
Is pretty confusing--
Not to mention lazy.
I've just started this journey,
And already things are hazy.

And what about you?
Sleazy-I-Am.
Why do you taunt me?
Why am I here?
I could be home reading,
Or drinking a beer."

"I knew it, said Sleazy.
You're a yegg on the lam.
But I'm not here to taunt you
Or to slow your ascent.
Don't worry WB,
That's not why I was sent.

Now about your core,
It's really not that rotten.
Your main problem is
You're racing too fast ahead.
You're in all the wrong places,
You're almost as good as dead.
(But you were never misbegotten.)

Everyone knows
That you start
With the face
And use lotion,
Not surgery.
This is subtle alchemy,
Not crass metallurgy.

They say empathy is over,
They say everything's so real.
Some squeeze it into soundbites,
Some shake it up and squeal.

But I'm talking about life,
Not the art of the deal.

Begin with begat
And proceed
To begotten.
Don't start with the core.
It seems you've forgotten--

Start with the peel.
It's not a big deal.

As for holes, save your leaks for the seas.
Better yet, Shut your piehole!
As they say in Brooklynese.
The losers I've met house more holes
Than Swiss cheese.

But to fill all those gaps
Isn't really the point.
We've all got more holes
Than She Who Forgot Her Name
Could possibly anoint.

And I'm not talking orifices or edifices, please,
The holes are there for a reason--
Not fashions or fads,
Not chic for one season.

"Oh come on,"
Bill protested.
"Don't give me that agape spiel.
I've heard it all before,
It's all so unreal."

This has nothing to do with you,
McSleazerton said.
Get on with business!
Step out of your head!

You need a new paradigm
That does not involve stealing.
Something more inventive,
Something less freewheeling.

Doughnuts are for dullards,
For vultures and buzzards.
Holes are not just holes--
They are not all for filling.

Sometimes you can numb them,
But not too much or too often.
Holes are best kept sensate,
Not holed up in some coffin.

Sleazy thundered and vaunted,
And became a troupe of teases.
Her playful wrath grew to that
Of 10,000 chimpanzeeses.

Then suddenly she grew quiet,
And picked the scabs on her knees.
Enough of this falderal,
She announced.
I must get back to my cheeses.

Though lactose-intolerant,
Sleazy was an artisan cheesemaker
By trade.
Though she preferred to sup
On lemon Madelines
And ginger marmalade.

But before I go
I must make
Some kind of point.
It's very important
And not to be missed.
She blew her nose
With a flourish
And brandished
A dainty fist.

Maybe not so much
A point
As a figure geometrical--
Not a heptahedron ...
Something more symmetrical."

Bill grew impatient.
Was Sleazy a prophet?
Or really just a stoner?
And if prophet, then permanent?
Or more of just a loaner?

"Ah-ha!" Sleazy thrilled,
We've arrived at that time!"
Just then, as if on cue,
Seven bells did loudly chime.

I don't mean to be overly didactical.
But your tactics just aren't practical.

Put your nose to the grindstone
Put your feet to the fire.
Take something you detest
And align it with desire.

Over there sits a governor,
Just beyond that peak.
His thinking is somewhat fuzzy,
His rule somewhat antique.

He's driven my boss
Into a fit of purple pique.

Go to him now.
Coax him off his heavenly horse.
Or try at least to engage him
In sensical discourse."

"What is the name of
This governor?
And why me?
I'm not a resident."

"Perfect!" Sleazy said.
You could be elected president!"

Bill thought to himself,
And stifled a cough.
Was this Sleazy for real?
Who does she think I am?
What does she think I feel?

"Sleazy," Bill announced.
I can't hear anymore.
You keep letting the cat out.
You keep opening the door.

My feet were made for talking,
That's the whole conundrum.
You're not helping matters much.
I feel like I'm in a dream,
I fear I'm losing touch.

The whole point of this junket
Was to fill the doughnut,
Not dunk it.

This is all so confusing.
Governors in the Not-Mountains of Belgium?
And who is the president?

"There is no precedent,
Said Sleazy with a sigh.
Precedents are for losers.
This mission is not for
Presidents.
This mission is for choosers.

Now I'll pack a ruckusack
And leave you to Her devices.
You'll need plenty of
Dark chocolate and other
Tasty vices.

Cappuccino brewed by
Disconsolate monks
From the district Allalone.
And a portion
Of this treat
Called Vieux Boulogne.

Sleazy reached
Behind a rock
And from it withdrew
A big slab
Of gooey cheese.
A big grab
Of Fromage Le Peu.

What is that product
Most ripe and most
Foul? Bill asked,
Covering his
Angry nose
With a soothing
(And handsome)
Silver towel.

This, said Sleazy,
Is my pride and joy.
I could eat it by the bucket,
I could eat it with a trowel.
It was aged between
My toes.
It goes well with
Cucumber.
It goes, well ...
--It just goes!
(Take a number.)

What?

What?

Did you just say "Take a number"?

No, Sleazy said.
She wondered
If Bill was stupid
Or if he was just
Growing dumber.

From the third
Highest peak
Just then
They heard a howl.

"Sleazy!" Bill sputtered.
He could take it
No longer.
His cup had been filled.
His cup was running over.

"This cheese is disgusting
And I am verging on
Dismayed.
Thank you for the coffee,
But I musn't be
Waylaid."

"That was not my intention,"
Sleazy glared
And took a drag.
"Why the vivisection?
Why the nag-nag-nag?
This is not exactly my idea
Of fun,
Sleazy said,
With an almost-sneer.

Stopping you
Wasn't my decision.
It was my boss
Who made me do it.
She's no fan of
Imprecision.

She's given me
This map
And these
Way too long directions--
Which I've taken
The liberty of rewriting.

Though her knowledge
Is formidable,
Her penmanship
Is deplorable."

Sleazy forked over
The map.
And ladled
The directions.
Bill couldn't see them
Right away,
Due to tricky
Cross-convections.

When the air setttled,
He studied the map
It was folded
Seventeen times
And closed with a snap.

To make things more
Complicated,
To thicken the glue,
The papers were quite
Delicate
And kind of pretty too.

"How am I supposed
To open these
Without tearing them
Asunder?
Why can't they make
Decent maps in Not-Belgium?
I really have to wonder."

"They're tougher than you think,"
Sleazy said without a wink.
"Now it's time I returned
To my lair.
I've got to milk a herd of zebras
I've got to tend to my gruyere."

And with those businesslike
Words.
Sleazy McSleazerton was history.
Bill was a stalwart feminist.
He did not believe in mystery.

WB felt a little let-down.
A little out of sorts.
But he was ready
For what came next.
He was ready
For next resorts.

Still ... he could do with a drink
Or a tasty cigar.
He'd gone to such
Great lengths.
He'd progressed--
Well ... not so far.

In the distance
There echoed
The sound of
Breaking ice.
He heard it once.
He heard it twice.

"That's what an echo means,
You twit!"

"Who said that?" Bill demanded.

"Nobody!" said Nobody.
"That statement
Has been remanded!"

Whatever, Bill sighed.
I'd better get inside.
He looked up at the sky,
Which had darkened
Beyond reason.
I can't make sense out of this.
This weather's out of season.

The tempests in this region
Are really very queer.
One minute it's raining hijinks,
The next it's quite austere.

Fearing the development
Of unstable weather,
Bill sought shelter
In a nearby cave.

There he settled down
On a curiously comfortable
Rock.
He built a
Roaring fire
To keep
Nobody at bay.
He was ready for tomorrow,
He had had it with today.

From his rucksack he
Withdrew a portion
Of the horrid stinky cheese
Which, surprisingly,
He found delectable,
Which surprisingly
Put him at ease.

Soon by the smoldering fire,
Bill's conscious mind curled up
Like a kitten.
And soon his sleep-hot head
With dream-mice was smitten.

In all shapes and sizes
His dream clay made
Creatures full of light
And creatures full of shade.
Some danced the rhumba.
Others drank lemonade.

But after awhile all that action
Just got boring
And Bill woke with a start,
To the sound of his snoring.

He coughed and shivered
And wished it were later.
Oh what he wouldn't give
For a nasall destufferator.

He clutched the dainty
Directions to his heaving chest.
In his botany book
Had he the map gently pressed.

Bill sighed and sighed
And sighed until dawn.
What if Sleazy had betrayed him?
What if he was just a pawn?

Well at least I have directions,
He thought,
Stifling an anxious yawn.

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