POEM OF INNOCENCE

By the laws of Gitche Gumee
stood my lover, Backside Pouting,
shouts my help-meet, backside flouting,
It's not moral, doing nothing.
Get out of here, get me some money,
screw. Pumping heavy metal's mean,
Jack-off, forego sculpting abs obscene.

Me, Dream-of-Clouds, floating in the
hammock gitche, wet and gummy,
Shh, said I, let me think, why's I
put here lest to dream, to guess at
shape of clouds protean, hope a hope,
maybe this, surely here end now, dope,
but never wampum. Screw you true,
back-off honey. Brave not-in-love,
never have to say soppy, sloppy.

Great Papa Eagle gave us all,
Wigwam, 40 acres river frontage,
orchards, antelope, cantaloupe,
cornbread, salmon, seltzer water,
beano. He taught you, bashful
frontal, how to spear-fish, sour grape,
milk goat. Cheese-making doesn't,
necessarily, make life cheesy.

So there were a few no-nos. No,
you got no satisfaction. Clock's slow,
friction's plenty, you had to climb
up the steeple, crack the quiz-show.
Now, you're the apple of his ire.
He's evicted us, lox, stork, barbell.

The bloated snake's got the ranch, and
for the screwing we got, you've got
only to carry - some moons - a grape,
a plum, a melon, and a few water's
hard labor. But me, Dream-of-Clouds
goes belly-up, works the salt-mines
by the sweet sweat of his balls.
My advice, no dice. I, smell autumn,
Hop high-water, skip and jump in

the canoe and skidoo, smack the pony,
peddle the pig and ride the Hog.
I'm outa here, but dontcha worry:
you took a fall, see you next trip,

up to now you're swell. The fruit's on
the trees, fish in the river, life's
zigzag, burn wild-grass with the Bic.
OK for today. You can think
about the rest - yeah, that - tomorrow.

 

Copyright © Howard Fisch, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.

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