Whiskey Bill fans! Don't despair! Yes WB has been walking for-fucking-ever. That's okay. He's doing it for the country! Walking for a new energy policy! Sustainable! Renewable! Infinitely chewable! ... He would really rather be driving, but only sometimes. Maybe he'll buy a new bike.

Begun on a blank postcard in 1999.

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.
(Bill 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.
They were always on the march,
They were 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 Belgium,
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
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, Bill 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.

(Except for jelly doughnuts, the kinds
We call ponchkes.
We forgot it.)

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 troupeful 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-convictions.

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 of this,
He thought.
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
Boulder.
Still, he kept watch over
A tired and achey shoulder.

He longed for someone to talk with--
Even Sleazy would do.
But kindling hopes had gotten
Him nowhere in the past.

Action was called for,
Not backwards forecast.

Bill crept out of the cave
To collect kindling,
The kind that yielded warmth,
Not hope.

Let down your guard.
I'll let down mine.
Otherwise we'll never know.

It was time to get real.
It was time to cope.

Before long a ten-tongued fire
Roared the night away.
The conversation was a little
One-sided,
But Bill had nothing to say.

He was ready for tomorrow,
He had had it with today.

From his ruckusack 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 sipped lemonade.

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

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

Just then the cave
Turned a bright golden hue.
A large ball of light
Appeared overhead,
Where before
Had shown only stalactites
And a spry little spider
That Bill had named Ed.

He blinked (Bill not Ed)
And looked again.
How weird.
The ball of light
Had disappeared,
Replaced by a single
60-watt bulb
Around which
Ed warily crawled.

This light, Bill reflected,
He liked a lot better.
Following directions
Can be good,
Though not always to the letter.

Speaking of which,
He unfolded the map.
It was done up Origami-style.
And undone with a snap.

The key was written
In hieroglyphic-type code.
But the first destination
Was clear:
To the governor's abode!

"That's upside down!" sounded a voice.

"Oh thanks!" Bill said.

"Don't mention it, my pleasure, I'll send an invoice."

Bill turned the map over
And the code was shattered.
For the moment, it seemed,
That was all that mattered.

Voices come, voices go.
In-voices, Out-voices,
Voices in the know--
Some from Argentina,
Some from Mexico.
Some were friendly,
Others not so much.
One Argentinian spoke German.
One Mexican spoke Dutch.

There was something in the air--
In the Not-Mountains clime--
That was bordering on instructive.
That was loitering on sublime.

That was me, said Ed.
Not someone exotic.
You're quite something Bill,
When you're not being so
Quixotic.

Bill glanced up at Ed,
Who was pacing
Back and forth.
"Hey, you seemed friendlier
Before you called me
Quixotic."

"What would you prefer?
Brave? Patriotic?
I've been quite patient--
You must admit you're a bit ...
Askew.
I don't mean to be at all
Assaultive,
And only mildly
Invasive.
It's just that you're too
Analytical, your anxieties
Too persuasive.

Also your gaudy gold light
Ruined my web.
So I'm feeling pretty
Sorry for myself.
I'm feeling pretty toulouse.
That was my house you know,
My connection to the world.
How am I to get my news?
How will I IM?
What will I do?

Yes, I confess,
I'm tangled up in blue.

"I'm sorry you're sad,
Bill said.
But that light was not
My bad."

Your?

Bad.

Bad?

Not my fault, really.

Well if you're comfortable with that ...

It's not a question of comfort.
There's no comfort here.
That light was no more my light
Than last night was ... my night.

Well it certainly wasn't my night.
The spider said,
Lighting a Cuban cigar.
Had it been my night,
I'd not have been here.
Had it been my night,
I'd have been at the bar.

Instead I watched in horror
As some cheese-eating dandypants
Destroyed my humble home.
Who do you think you are?
What brings you to this biome?

"I don't really like cheese, much,"
Bill said,
Before he could pay attention.

"Oh really?" sneered Ed.
"Let's organize a convention!"

"I'm sorry," said WB.
I don't wish you any harm.
I was supposed to see this governor--
You see, Sleazy said--
But there was a storm--
So I wound up here instead."

"What storm? There was no storm."

"There were clouds."

"That was fog."

"There was smoke."

"You lit a log."

"I lit kindling."

"What's your point?"

Bill closed his eyes
And pretended
He was dead.

When he opened his eyes
Ed was sitting beside him.
"Give me a break,"
Bill said."

"It's okay, said Ed.
You've been granted asylum."

Outside the cave lightning flashed.
And winds windingly wailed.
These are stormy times,
Bill thought,
Feeling he had failed.
But his gloomy fail-feelings he forsook
As the wind picked up, shaking like a chinook,
Bill his unsettling moods like an ill-fitting suit
Did off-shake ... shook.

He was all stirred up,
As fragile as alabaster.
He knew not where to turn.
He was neither servant nor
Master.

He didn't know what to copy,
What writ to write or right to
Wrong.
Wait a second, WB thought,
Maybe I could right a song.

Mixmaster Bill?
No, that didn't strike a chord.

He had a mission to fulfill!
A battle to fight!
Sans sword.

Off-tempo and beaten like eggs,
Just then sounded
A chorus of yeggs:
"All the world's a sage,
And we are merely sayers."

Bill glanced around him,
In search of something to
Un-astound him.
His gaze settled on a nearby
Wall.
And the wind
Obligingly took off
Like a fleet-footed squall.

"The Iceman cometh,
The Iceman goethe."
Someone had scrawled
On the cave wall--
Which, curiously, seemed
To be built of sturdy polymers.

"Oh I hate that," said Ed.

"What?"

"The writing on the stall."

"Wall."

"What?"

"You said writing on the 'stall.' It's wall."

"Whatever," said Ed,
Rolling his eyes.
"I hate it just the same.
The extra 'e,' the different
Pronunciations,
The whole lame game."

"I don't play games," Bill said.

I don't buy that, Ed mimed.
Not dead!
In any case, you may
Enter that plea.
It's nothing to her,
Only slightly more to me.

More to the point,
You mentioned a trip,
A mission did you say?
How dear! How dire!
How charming and gay!

Who, prey tell, are you
Going to see?
Is it a social affair?
Or business?
Or both?

I told you, Bill said,
I was instructed to see
The governor,
Though I'm not
Sure why.

The governor?! chirped Ed,
Fixing a gin and tonic.
Well tell me William,
What's your drink?
I had no idea you
Were a VIP!

Had I known earlier
I'd have forgiven more
And forgotten less.
Let's see, who are you?
Let me look, let me guess.

No, no, I can't see it,
Ed said,
With appraising
Lookity-looks.

Are you just in from Japan?
Perhaps you're a sensitive troubador
With a small following
And a large band?
Have you written many books?

Could you lend me a hand?

Are you a superstar of marketing?
A genius of haircuttery?
An accomplished giver
Of mean looks?

Are you a fossil-follower?
Or an examiner of odd birds?
I'm running out of--
Oh I know!
You're a rhythmic
Slamm-er
Of
Words--
Words
That-Make-
The-Ancient-Armadillo-
Weep-Hot-Red-
Tears-Of-Emohhhhhhh-
Tional ...
Trial.
And ...
Dirt-Eating-Sadnesses.
Of. Loud. Long.
PainfulThunder.

Is that it?
That's it!
Right?
Dreadful.

"No, I'm just a pirate
In the midst of reformation.
An ordinary Bill
With insufficient information."

Wise up, said Ed.
Get on with your
Life.
Look to the ground,
Quit looking to
The sky.
Walk where you
Walk.
Quit treading
On the pie.

"Forward march!"

Bill bent down to
Tie his laces.
On his face
Were five disgraces.

He was confused
And verklempt--
Though even that
He wasn't sure about
(the verklempt part).

He found a basin
Outside the cave
And set about
His face to bathe.
To wash away
All the sad early
Years.
The ones he'd
Tried to drown
In beers.
Hot water first,
Then tea tree
Soap.
And cold water
After.

Gone the troubles
Gone the tears
Gone the 5001 beers
Gone the sleep
And the sheep
And the soap.
Gone the confusion,
Gone the mope.

Now get you gone, Bill!
You're not such a dope!

Again the heated
Offstage whisper-
Shout.

Bill made a face
In Ed's general
Direction.
He had to
Leave now,
Despite Ed's
Vivisection.
Nobody was here,
Nobody would go!
Take that, thought
Bill, and stubbed his
Big toe.
Upon a tiny rock
In which inset
Was a microscopic
Clock
Of impeccable
Proportion
And perfect
Time.
Of very little
Reason
And even less
Rhyme.

Off he started
For Governor
Mountain.
Off he took,
With rock-clock
And origamic direction.
With canteen of
Anti-gin
And ruckusack
Emptied
Of introspection.

With each waft
Of the fast-warming
Breeze,
He breathed deeply
Of the sack,
Which smelled
Steeply
Of cheese.
As he mounted
The steady incline,
In altitude
His attitude
Did also
Steadily climb.
In fact,
Before he
Knew it,
He was
Feeling
Just fine.

"Steady on!" he
Rallied himself.
Smiling and cheered.
Unprepared for what
Was next,
For what would be
Surpassingly Weirde.

He trundled on,
Stepping around some
Peppery-smelling vine.
He did a few calculations
And figured he'd be
At the governor's in
Time for breakfast.
The governor, it was
Rumored, according to Ed,
Had the finest chef in the
Land, had a Roman a Clef.

What?
Author?
Merry minds make weary
Worldplay.
It keeps us
Relatively sane
In a world where such
Awfulnesses are committed,
Such crimes lowly and heine.

Resume.

Now?

Yes, now.

Thank you!

Get on with it.

Right!

Just then he passed
A sign:
Surpass, Weirde, 3.7 files
Weirdness was not
Welcome but would
Come just as well.
He'd found that
Normalcy in these
Parts was nothing
If not
A hard sell.

Oh well, said Bill
With bluster,
It's too late
For filibuster.
There is
No stopping time.
Weirdness comes,
And weirdness goes,
Whether dressed in
Red tulle or purple pleather,
Whether shy and resigned
Or a real go-getter.
Weirdness would get
Him and would get
Him good.
There was no
Way around it.

He had entered
Weirdness Wood.

It was the dark
Before the dawn,
The drang before
The sturm.
As he creeped
Along the muddy
Path an owl
Swooped down
To prey on a turtle.
Before he knew
What he was
Doing Bill was
Running at the
Bird, running and
Shrieking "Cwrw! Cwrw!"

Startled, the bird
Flew fast away.
And the turtle
Disappeared
In its usual turtley way.

After a quick
Coin toss,
It sought cover
Under a bit
Of damp moss.

"Who shouted that?"
A voice queried
From behind
A persimmon tree.
"Just my luck to
Be saddled with
A jokester.
There is no crwr here.
Now why would you
Want to mislead?
Grogs and nogs we
Have in spades,
But my fellow it's
Perfectly clear,
There is no
Place in the Weird
For fancy Belgian beer.

It's Welsh, but nevermind.

What?

Nevermind.

Resume?

Please.

Thank you.

Get on--

Right!

In fact such brew
In these parts is illegal.
Out here in the wild,
So far from the Regal.
No sir! The governor
Would not allow it.
As for your advertisement,
I demand you
Disavow it!"

By now Bill
Was half-used
To such demands.
Bill trained his
Torch on the tree
And said
With a quiver,
"I won't disavow it.
Who's there?
Who's talking?
Please stand
And deliver."

Stand and deliver?
Do you even
Know what that
Means?
I'm so tired
Of intermediaries
Of wrongway
Messengers
And sulky
Go-betweens.
There's a march
Afoot.
Don't you know
What that means?
You with your
Preening stances
And colorful
Directions,
You of the
Insolent orders
And unnatural
Insurrections.

Bill looked around
And said to
No one in particular.
I'm tired of walking,
My thoughts turn
Vehicular.
As for failings
And fallings
I cop to them
All.
Stop pretending
You're in a
Dialogue
When all you say
Is positioned
To impress.
I'm so tired
Of you talkity-talkers.
Give me some
Amusement--
A monkey
In a dress.
And a tankard of ale
A few
Cheerful friends.
Someone down
On her luck,
Someone suffering
From the bends.
We'll share our
Ale with all who
Are ailing.
As for grandstanding
And politicking,
Who are you kidding?
No one's prevailing.

Everyone who's
Able is turning
Bold and religious.
Everyone else is
Turning mad
And Litigious.
That leaves
The Rest of us,
The No-ones
The beiges
And neutrals
The ones who
Eat oatmeal
Every morning
And every
Afternoon build
Bridges.
I love all gods,
If it's anybody's
Business.
I love starfish
And slugs.
Though the latter
Are kind of
Slippery and
Not fond of
Hugs.
And starfish can
Be mean or
Wait a minute,
Maybe it's jellyfish
That are brutal.
I'm so mixed up.
I'm a two-headed
Turtle.
I am moral
In a sense,
The sense in
Which I mean
It.
Others mean
Something different,
Still others in-between
It.
I pledge allegiance
To the ocean
And to Saturn
When I want to.
But it's Venus
That I love
And Mars that
I want to.
Still ...
Jupiter's the
Best, that
Much is clear.
I pledge allegiance
To you
And to
Her,
And all that you
Hold dear.
Now if
You'll pardon
Me, I believe
There's something
Stuck
In my ear.

The voice
Was silent,
Finished its
Scolding.
The woods
Were a riot
Of jubjub birds
And other
Grand beholdings.
Bill felt quite
Peaceful and
Almost in
Tune and so
Let forth with
A heartfelt
Croon.
It was a
Song slow
And steady
A song of
Getting ready
And though
It struck some
As a High Lonesome
Sound, Bill knew
He could be happy
With just the
Woods
And the ground.

Nature did and
Had done and
He forswore
To preserve and
Protect, to do less
Sometimes and other
Times more.

The next sign
Bill passed
Was shaped
Like a ghost
And read:

Go straight
For a while
And then
Go crooked
Step over
The large rock
And kick
Seven pebbles
Go backwards
Around the
Holly bush
And sit
Down for a
Few minutes.
When you
Get up again,
Count to ten,
Omitting prime
Numbers.
Visualize your
Favorite animal
Wearing your
Mother's shoes.
And then run
Like the wind
To make up
For lost time.
It's all uphill
From there,
So be prepared
For a climb.
P.S. Please
Sign the attached
Legal document
Releasing us from
Any responsiblity
For the eruption of
Blisters, callouses,
Burns or contusions.
Thank you and
Good luck!
Yours,
Management
P.P.S. Your
Zipper's unzipped,
Your shoes
Are untied,
And please
Do something
About
That hair.

Bill had no
Fear and
No mirror.
His image
Was sound,
His path
Never clearer.
He would be
Quiet and
True and
Hope for
The best
While
Expecting
The wurst
Or maybe
A croissant
Instead.
He needed
To eat
But not much.
A little hunger
Was good.
It kept him
In touch.

Bill felt
A thrill of
Inspiration.
He typed
Up a letter
To his nasty
Wicked
And Mean
Poser-Punk
French
Stepmother.

Dear Mademoiselle
Snailgardener
(Bill wrote):
You "Always
Tell The Truth"
Is the lie you've been
Spreading.
"That's just me!
That's how I am!
There's nothing
I can do!"

Oh poor
Spoiled princess,
But it's so
Very clear
That anyone
And everyone
Is more
Punk-rock
Than you.

Sadder still
Is the fact
That
In your
Protracted
Adolescence
This itmust
Test actually
Has meaning
Beaucoup.
Oh pauvre,
Oh petite,
Oh poisson
Le Stinky-poo.

Love,
Bill

Wow, Bill
Thought.
That was
Really weird.
It was like
Someone took
Control of
My pen,
Someone
Tall, with
A beard.
I can't mail
That letter
Even if it
Makes me
Feel better,
Even if
My stepmother
Did fill
My lunchbox
With snails,
Even if she
Is mean to
Birds and
Creatures
With tails.
After all,
She's had a
Tough life.
All her escargot
Got up and went.
Quel horreur!
What angst!
What strife!

"Ooh! Let me
Write that one
Down!" piped in
An excitable
Voice.
"E-s-c ...
E-s-c-a-r ... "

It's an old joke.

Vintage!

No.

Antique!

No. Just old.

RESUME.

Hmm, Bill
Puzzled, I
Seem to have
Been moved
Without moving,
Without walking
Or strolling, without
Cantoring or
Gamboling.

"You're a pawn!"
Shrieked a voice
From behind
A giant fern.

Who said that?
Bill queried.
I'm not a prawn
Or any such
Sea creature.
I'm my own
Man, I think.
And my own man
Needs a drink.
How am I
To keep up
With all these
Preposterous
Dances?
Oh forget it,
I'm proceeding
As directed,
I'll take my
Chances.
The governor
Is expecting me
Or maybe not.
Perhaps I should
Have a letter of
Introduction.

Bill extracted from
His pocket
A voluminous pen
It was stripey
And sharp,
It was as tall
As Big Ben.

"You can't
Write that here!
It's a holiday
Of spiritual
Significance.
No writing!
No thinking!
Baking,
However,
Is Allowed,
As is festive
Drinking."

WB forged ahead
With a clear head,
Emptied of dread
And pre-emptivity
He whistled an
Ancient tune as
Was his proclivity
On days such as
These, days lit
With golden sun and
Swept with pine-
Scented breezes.
The alpine air
Felt good in his
Lungs and he began
To relax as he
Issued several sneezes.

He knew he would
Encounter few SUVses.
Or car-alarm attacks--
At least
For the time being--
And times being
What they were,
He found peace
At a premium
Was peace
Twice deferred.

Bill reached into
His ruckusack and
Withdrew a handful
Of sandalwood beads.
He resolved then and
There to exorcise
All niggling needs--
To banish his
Cravings for help
And for love,
To put the kibosh
On his ravenings
And to dampen
All fires.
To fire all memories
And untoward
Desires.
On his
Spiritual Vehicle,
He swore
To rotate
The tires.

Later that night
Bill stopped near
Mirror Lake.
He scooped up
Cold water by
The cup-full but
His thirst he failed
To slake.
Sometimes little
Things were the
Hardest to take.
He cried and cried
And cried some
More.
It shouldn't be this
Hard was what
He swore.
His heart skipped
A beat and skidded
And stuttered.
There wasn't
Much to say,
There was a lot
To be muttered.

Just then on the
Surface of the lake
He saw a bug with
Glassine wings skating
Around, spelling out
Words and things.
At first it made no
Sense.
And then it did.
It greeted WB,
It said "Hello, Kid."
And prescribed
A message in double-
Time, a message
Unclear, without any
Rhyme:
"Do not put a period
Where God has put a
Parenthesis," the bug's
Message read.

Bill kicked a rock.
He yelled at the moon.
He acted the part.
He acted like a loon.
Giving up suddenly seemed
So appealing, giving up,
Not trying, not heeding,
Not healing, not walking,
Not singing,
Not seeing or feeling.

"Bill!" shrilled a voice
From the beginning.
"You must go on!
You must not think
Of winning!
Write the letter
And write it now.
Forget the future
And the
Invisible ink!
From the polity
At foot,
Remove the
Indelible stink!
Think rising,
Not risible,
Think together,
Not divisable!"

(Ah, okay then, that part meant
"Clean the carpet." Very good. That way?
No, the other way. Right, thank you.
Don't mention it.)

Resum.

Bill settled down
To write a
Letter of introduction.
He tried to summon
Eloquence, Elegance,
Excellence and Erudition.
He tried to consider
Consequence, Circumstance,
Context and Tradition--not to
Mention Precedent and Permission.
But his pen, unheeding, went trampling
Over different terrain, pausing
Only briefly at anything germaine,
Stopping only minutely at logic
Or deduction, then dashing off resolutely
In search of a grand conjunction--in search of
Something, something ... anything of interest, then
Scampering off again to who knows where--to Saturn
Or Mercury or to the local speakeasy
In search of a bit of cherry flip or some
Hard cheddar and onion or fresh wholegrain
Bread swimming in butter.
He never should have given up pencils,
Bill thought with a groan.
Pens had big egos, pencils left well-enough
Alone.

Still, the beginning had to start
Somewhere, Bill thought.
Suddenly feeling quite electrified,
He brandished another pen.
This time
The silver one
Sleazy had hidden in his ruckusack.

Bill began to write:
Darling Governor of the
Not-Mountains of Belgium,
I have traveled afar
And supped with melancholy goats,
I have laid my head upon damp
Moss and eaten my fill of buttered
Groats--all in order to meet you
Here, all in order to meet you my
Dear, dear Governor.
Thank you so much for receiving
Me here--with honeyed cakes and
Streams of amber beer.
And the nymphets you've commissioned
To sing my praises, well, really
So unnecessary for such a humble Bill.
I feel so ashamed, so embarrassed
And unworthy.

"Editor!" a voice trumpeted
Into Bill's left ear.
Bill could swear it was Sleazy.
He turned around in all directions,
But spotted nothing,
Except for a small toad in a hole,
A salamander the color of gold
And a single bough of holly suspended
In thin air.

"Delete, Delete, Delete," the voice thundered.

Um, okay, said Bill.
You sound quite writerly
And I am but a humble pirate in search of
A new vessel.
So tell me please, wise voice, what
Should I delete? Delete? Delete?

"Ah, yes! Well. Begin with the word 'unworthy' and work
Your way back up to four words prior to 'afar'."

Bill sat down under a holly tree
Which sang out of tune
A reverdie.
In the dead of winter
A reverdie.
The song caused
A mild stinging around
Bill's eyes.
He cried because he
Was confused.
He cried because he
Was feeling unused
And unuse and disuse
Were more than enough
To break a Bill, no matter
How tough.
Unuse and disuse did not
Amuse.
Stuck as he was in the
Midst of a wrongway cycle,
With springtimes songs
Ringing bells out of time.
What hell was this?
To what end this crazy climb?
He looked above and spied,
Suspended overhead
Like a dagger,
A crimson icicle.
He stood and broke
It off the holly tree branch
And warily, thirstily took
A small lick.
It tasted metallic at first
But then it turned fruity.
Like a blood orange or
A sugar plum or
Brambleberry aspic.

If he hadn't been well,
Perhaps he might've
Gotten sick.

"I've had it with this
country," said Bill.
"It's always out to lunch.
Let's go somewhere else,
Let's go and call it Dutch."

Who was he talking to--
This Bill without a way?
He'd had his fill of means.
He was living for today.
Still he longed for a companion,
Someone to help him be.
Someone different, but true,
Someone who could
Help him see.

Just then--as sometimes
Happens in a story sans
Progress--27 larks singing
The very same song
Flew backwards
Across the moon.
And there was, for a moment,
A stillness in the air--
No one could quite pinpoint it
As it was neither here,
Nor there.
But it was a sweet stillness
Just the same
And it heralded with its
Quiet a something on its
Way.
It wouldn't be here tomorrow,
But it might arrive today.

Bill looked to the ground
And to the sky.
He longed for some protection
And a piece of blueberry pie.
He stood and brushed the
Moss from the seat of
His striped woolen pants.
He would do this on a lark,
And somehow, somehow
He vowed.
Somehow he would
Advance.

For inspiration's sake,
Bill turned 28 circles
Upon his mossy perch.
And then, properly
Disoriented, he continued
On his dizzying search.

But dizzy is as dizzy
Does and dizzy comes
Before because as
Churchless steeples
Testify there are many
Ways to Heavenlyroads.
But nothing crosses the
mind of the Presidential
Toad because surely surety
Is the onlyeveryway, here
Tomorrow, Here today.
On darkened brows no
Light will weigh that lights
Too little the night,
Too much the day.
"We are not our own
Light," the Good Woman
Said. And in this climate,
Of climbers and snoads,
What recourse?
What tidy turns?

And who is this woman but
One who spurns?
Who goads and goads,
And goads perforce.
Who grows weary of timidly
Toads who stay the course--
Of toads who live to live to stay remorse.

Who grouse and toss anonymous
Such invective flat and obvious
That any yegg worth his do.
Any flatfoot or lowly house
Detective knows who's the who
Who hurls the same old tripe,
The same creaky post,
And tired gripe.
Who assumes that shape is what
Matters most to someone with
Whom History has played
Misery's Host.

Little does he know that
Though she's tired, bruised
And sore, she's also
100 times grateful for
All that is and more.

Superficial wounds
Do little more than glance her.
Are you happy, It thunders,
Now you have your answer?

Don't you see?
No, I guess not.
Nature loves a golden despot.

Let's move on.
Let's go downtown.
Let's take a trip to the Riviera.
Time wastes and wastes
And you waste yet more.

She thought ...

He so steadily reined abuse
That he couldn't help advancing
Damage thick and thin to his vain
And poetic hero-stancing.

And she, for one, blinked an
Eye and spied the door.
And moved on with winged
Font
As well as half
The company store.

There was sealing wax
And stamps
There were seeds
And fertilizer.
Also a ball of twine.
And an un-hypnotizer.

It was fun and a challenge
To rhyme this way, to
Conjure up four puzzles
And solve ten a day.

He wondered what the root
Was, what was stuck
On her shoe.
He could not comprehend
The joy in the game.
Instead he leafed through manuals
Titled More and The Same.
Bill was confused and perplexed,
Steeped in duality.
What ever was it called?
This singsong pathology?

"A bit drafty in here, mate?"

"Yes."

...

"What's your point?"

"Just the draft. Just noticing."

"Well, yes, it's a work in progress."

"Progressively becoming ... ?"

"More work."

"Wonders work wonders
And we wonder for more.
As for the governor, he's
Never in, what a bore. "

How do you know? WB asked.

"He's wooing sister number seven in
A family of four.
She catches his fancy and turns
Him quite green
With desire
And purple and blue.
Like an overripe plum,
Like a skittish accountant,
Like a cat in a zoo."

How can he be such a Johnny
Dandypants?
When his hardworking citizens
Work like ... hardworking ... ants!

That reminds me ...

Of what?

Of something Wigglesworth said.

Mr. ... ?

Colonel.
Wigglesworth.
The Third.
He said ...

Yes?

Far more than I can remember.
The man never stopped talking,
Though he never interrupted,
Or overstayed his welcome,
Nor was he indecisive
Or overprotective.
He said his piece,
That's for sure.

You know, there's not much
To be said for conversation
These days.
What with F-C'ing and
Three-second delays.
And then there's the
Pleasant and cautious sort
Long on scripts and short
On retort.
Who knows, who cares
What secrets you keep.
You imagine in your quiet
We'll imagine you're deep?
Oh wait, have you gone?
Sorry! Didn't notice!
(Must've fallen asleep.)

Say something, anything,
Laugh, even sigh.
My god man!
What do you think?
Your lips should be bound up
With locks?
Like some dainty Mr. Goldenprecious?
Like some Madame Silverfox?

Shut up!

What?

Shuh-uh-uh-uh-uht up. Ha-hoooooooooooooo!

That is most impolite.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Here, I'll drive you to the
Governor's house.
It used to be a mansion
But now it's more a palace
With interiors by Dauphine
And musique by Red Alice.
It's all done up in checkerboard
With exquisite accents in gold,
Green, orange, and purple,
And here and there just the faintest hint
Of glacial blue.
The furniture is very grand,
The style haute moderne.
Don't ask the designer's name
I really don't know it
As for your nose, you really
Must blow it ...

For if I offer you a ride in my
Coupe de Ville, I don't want any
Snockers landing on the grill--
Or anywhere else for that matter.
Stay here, I'll just pull it 'round.
Though the moss is so shallow here,
I fear it may run aground.

Bill stood in place and played with
A rock, his shoulders hunched up
Around his ears, his chestal region
Besmirched with vestal tears.
He couldn't wait to get a move
On--
To outpace that old fiend
Anxiety, who twittered in his ear
Who counseled incaution,
Who counseled unfear,
Not to mention national pride.

What nation, where?
He took nations in stride and
Danced a jig as he was wont
When in a dither.

Around the corner, there pulled a
Sedan most royal, with smooth
Veneer, with ... sans ... motor oil, it burped
A sort of french-friesy smell.
The chrome was polished to a fine
Glassine shimmer. As for the paint job,
He desired a dimmer ... switch!
Orange and purple were dominant
Colors.
Dragons breathed great walls of
Golden-green flame and snacked
Noisily on Lorna Doones.

Bill smiled as though his face would break.
For the very first time since the first time
He began this blighted Belgian trek
He felt quite like a ... king.
He felt most unlike ... heck.

Mr. Wigglesworth who was for the
Record much steadier than his
Name implied swung open the car
Door, it was time for a ride.

The seat was cold and wet
Like a cold wet seat
A seat on the chilly side
A seat without heat.

I can hear your thoughts,
Said the driver, taking
His hands from the wheel.
We get it, we got it, we
Heard it and thought it.
The horse is dead and buried,
The apple has no peel.
And you, my friend, are
Always thinking you're on the
Southern end of
A very raw deal.

But raw can be cooked.
Or at least half-baked.
And dead horses morph
Into Pegasus-es.
And we are all right
And all wrong anyway.

Slow and fast
And quick all around.
Had the car been a boat
It would have run far aground.

What's our velocity?
I really must know our speed?
I recently vowed to go slow.
It is part of my creed.
And Mr. Wigglesworth if it's
Not too much trouble,
Quit cracking that gum,
Stop blowing those bubbles.

What? What? And indeed.
Wigglesworth raised an eyebrow
And cracked his gum extra loud.

And when will we arrive?
Bill continued on.

This guy, Wigglesworth thought,
Has become a most objectionable swan.

I don't know
About this drive.
All this uncertainty
Is giving me a hive.

Hives? queried Wigglesworth,
Stepping on the accelerator.
Do you want to get there now?
Or do you want to get there later?
Either can be arranged.
As a driver I'm really quite deranged.

The hives I have is hive
As in singular.
A hive without bees
A hive that washed up from
The ocean into a grove
Without trees
I picked it up and put
It in my pocket.
It isn't all that fancy.
But it's lighter than a locket.

Wigglesworth zoomed through
The dusty terrain, passing zebras
And zoos, passing singular persons
And peoples in twos.
Eucalyptus trees swayed
To secretive breezes.
And Bill mused
Past all musings, past visions
And noises, past musicians
One-two-threeing.

What, dear Wigglesworth, sir,
Can you tell me about the
Governor?

What would you like to know?

Is he haired or wigged?
Does he wear pomade?
What's his show?
Does he attempt to explain?
Does he pretend to know?
How does he manage his
Thinkity-thinks?
Does he have a computer?
Does he know Rorty from Kant?
Does he engage a young tutor?

Or is he sold on his own
Reputation? Are his veneers
Beyond disputation?
Will I bruise his nose by
Posing a question?
Will I vex his knees by
Venturing a suggestion?
Is he allergic to sound
And disconvention?

My whatevering, continued Bill,
Has been quite exhausting.
I require different fuel
A different race is in the offing.
When confronted with pitches
And confidence men I whatever and
Whatever with the dullest mien.
Whatever to me is a badminton racket.
I swing at noysters, at punters and blahdies.

Whateverment is the way I
Keep hucksters at bay.
My brain's too often busy
With heart-blocking static.
Were I rich, were I poor
I would consign it to the
Attic.

Pretense has deserted
And so has fear.
I say what I say
To be more than clear.
I say what I say
But only to you, dear.

Still.

You decide your decidements
And turn the other ear.
You chalk it up to agendas, ideas
And vendettas.
When most days I am simple,
Like a cat in the sun.
Days go by and I try to be kind.
If there's one thing ... well it's yet
To be tried.
I am attentive.
I am here.
There is no more locus-pocus in me.

I have just one bone to pick
And that bone is political.
It began with my heart
And my brain overflowing.
It began and began
And just keeps on going.

Bill looked sideways
At enough.
Thank you, my dear Wigglesworth,
Bill said, for enduring my guff.

Enduring your guff is beside the
Point--of which you have many.
Please choose just the one
And leave the rest at the entry.

Our governor's head is ... how to put it?
Like the pumpkin at Halloweening.
Like the feather of a peacock, overpreening.

At three with his oneness,
With this world
He's proclaimed over-and-doneness.

He does not cotton to the poor.
Or the sad or the stinky.
Did I mention his mansion?
Did I mention pinky-pinky?
His door is crafted of the
Finest Bamboozle.
And his "welcome" mat
Is quite less than that.

What's this? What does it say?

"Income, Please Stay.
Out go, After You Pay."

Is it really capitalized that way?

Yes said Wigglesworth, with a hint of this-may.

How overbearing! stormed Bill.
Capitalism of this kind is
So Rococo.
And not in a fun way.
More in a way most rude.
More like Shells and Crude.

A mansion with such a mat
Makes me quite irritable.
Or perhaps it's the altitude,
Or the speed unendearitable.

Tell me more about this governor then.

Well, Wigglesworth said,
He sure is down to earth.
(But don't call him dirty--he's no fan of mirth.)
It's said he admires strength and agility.
And that he lives like a noble
While retaining a certain ...
Hillbillity.

No offense.

None taken.

His constituents are sad,
But they don't really know it.
The truth is they're mad
And they should be.
They read books that tell
Them the fault ALL lies within.
The governor is happy to repeat this.
And does with a grin.

The truth is there is no "all" here.
(The truth is the governor is not all there.)
There is a question of degree,
Wealth, power and position.
Pompadour and pedigree.

It's said the mild citizenry
Agree to go without.
And get mad at each other,
Get mad as all-get-out.

Meanwhile abusers keep abusing,
And users keep using.
People who might know better
Wax antithetical.

And advertorials blurt.
They counsel "solutions" "medical."
Fix yourself! Fix yourself!
Fix yourself up!
You can't go out like that
And you certainly can't stay in.

On second thought, the All.So
Network squawks fundamental:
Why do anything at all?
Why not just open that bin?
See there,
That one the compost's in?

Heave up now,
Look alive now,

And toss yourself in.

Counter to the counter
To the counterspin,
We won't give up.
We won't give in.

You say you're spot on.
But you're really jest spitt-in'.
Out ya damned, out ya damned
Out ya damned
Spot.
Out ya damned. Out ya damned.
Out ya damned spot.

How's your forest, Morris?
Speak up son, before you bore us.
How's your forest, Morris?
Speak up son, before you bore us.

Everything I call just rebounds back
Tuh me.
Everything I speak just echolocates
Like some freaky bat.
Freak-y, freak-y, freak-y.

Evs flava, you want the catch of the day?
Evs flava, you gon' hear me today?
What's it gonna be?
Oh blah da?
Oh blah di?
Hear me talking, don't you?
But I ain't talking happ-y.

You're always rumbling, always moving,
Always charging, like a dump truck.
Kinda clumsy, kinda clumsy,
Kinda rocking like a dumb cluck.
Tryna flap it, tryna flap it,
You ain't nothin' but a lame duck.

How's your forest?
How's your?
Tricky-tricky-tricky?
How's your birds and your bees?
Got your head on the ground?
"Cause you can't see above your knees.

Headline! Newsflash! Hey you! Quit mackin' on your ghoulash!

MBA just initials for you know what.
If you listen to them you gonna
Wind up King Tut.
Too common, too common.
You hear that.
You're common and conventional.
Can't even draw.
Your face is one-dimensional.

Step back off that calculator.
Lift your head to the sky.
I don't care what your yogi said.
Your yogi's always high.

Get your mind off your money
And your money off your glory.
Look at you all tricked out.
Ya looking kinda hoary.

When the forest's gone you be
Staring at your bonsai.
When the water's gone,
You be sipping on your mai-thai.
The air's already gone.
What you breathing?

Make you all pinky-pink?
Check your status smell.
Cause your status smell stink.
Pinky-pinky-pinky.

It's not about strategy.
You're getting all rectangular.
Come correct.
At least rectal-linear.
That's right.
I said "Get your ass in line!"

Get lost, you wallnut.
I ain't got the time.

Who was that? Bill asked.

That was me.

Sleazy?

Hi Bill.
Where's the map?
We need to check the map.

Bill got flustered
His face pink as spam.
I forgot to remember the map, Sleazy.
But I know where I am.

That's okay, Bill,
Sleazy said with a yawn.
I've got it right here,
Engraved on my palm.

She stared at her hand
And then raised a finger.
She glared at Bill's elbow
And conjured quite a zinger.
Which she kept to herself
For safekeeping, for keeping
Herself safe from what was
Slowly creeping up the mountain
From what she could feel in her
Blood and bones, from the slithy
Slimy rock, from the filthy filmy
Phones it rose like a giant lens
Of X-Ray capacity.
It rose and rose
Its name was Tenacity.

What is the quota? a spy queried
From underneath a brick.
I must have a number!
And by the way, my name's Rick.

Your name is not Rick.
Your name is Cassandra.

I know.
But it sounds so twee,
Like a bed of
Pachysandra.

Oh you mean spurge?

Sigh.

Okay I'm Cassandra.

Well it isn't exactly a stretch!

What? What?

Nothing, nevermind.
I don't mean to kvetch.
Now tell me Cass,
Are you really a spy?

How dare he?
What's the rumpus?
Who is this cad?
So gaseous and bumptious!

Oh well, nevermind.
Cassandra Rick Spurge Pachysandra
Made a few quick calculations,
Ran an algorithm
And tabulations,
Made a spreadsheet
And some PowerPointers.

Are we a spy?
Hardly ever,
Just when we lie.
Or when we're light as
A bored or stiff as a
Feather?
That can't be right.
Wait a minute ...
Wait forever.

Oh please you dingdongrungian.
You hearityhead, you hopeless
Dungunnahen.

What does that mean,
Grumpus grofulus grudge?

It means I don't budge ...
When I sit at the table,
It means the fix is in and
This country seems barely
Able to contain itself from
Notheaded incensitism.
Now, Sleazy commanded,
"Go fetch the car!"

Tar?
And feathers!?
Feathers too?!
And Stocks?
Pistols?
And Barrels?
Even Locks!?!

No! Sleazy thundered.
Though you could use
Some new hinges.
Hew to your center,
Don't cater to the fringes!

As for the populus, it seems
To me that what they're
Suffering is a delayed
Reaction to being flim-flammed
And bamboozled.
(Now where is my pomade?)
Seems to me some can't spy
The forest for the bushes.
And that's why so many volks
Have fires in their tushes.

In?

Under?

Which one of you is talking?

Has someone taken over?

This debate's gone all crimson.

Where is the clover?

Where?
Wherever.
Cheese it spy, Rick, Cassandra, whatever.
Sleazy said like a snapping
Turtle.
Crawl back beneath your brick.
For a supposed spy you're more than a little thick.
And waistlines are wantlines and wantlines are
All, so don't front like you're a player when
Your eye is nowhere near the ball.
Now take cover and make it quick,
Take cover and make it once and for all.
The cumulonimbus is upon us.
We're in for quite a squall.

Stall?

Squall.

Sleazy lit a cigarette and proffered
It to the sky.
She held it aloft, she held it in vain.
For in 7.3 minutes it would
Be extinguished by the rain.

In the distance Wigglesworth
Could be heard
Gunning the engine.
"Hop in!" he shouted.
"We must not be late for the convention!"

Sleazy wouldn't wait that long
That long seemed like forever.
As for quitting the smokes,
It was now or never.
They were waving a ticket.
Time to get better, time to
Kick it.

In three minutes flat the stick
Had fizzled.
She looked at the sky
She looked as
It drizzled
Some sort of syrup
Or poultice or healing.
It was helping her up,
It was sick of her kneeling.

She climbed into the car and
Smacked some gum.
It smacked back.
Stupid annoying gum.