wacko, melancholy and mishegas
is the tribe of tribulations.
My people mish mashed, wacko,
melancholy and mishegas. Wild
eyed roamers with a taste for the rat
in the rat-a-tat-tat, and a liking
for licking life to the marrow.
(Sure, I’ve seen and even heard the howling
chimps, the herd of chumps, the humpers
and bumpers all held hostage by the heft
of a society not mine.)
My tribe is the tribe of spunk and punk.
Dancing to internal tunes. Dancing the do
wop, the to-be-or-not-to-be bop. Dancing
children dashing across time, singing
the night safe as the world whirls
a-bobble before them. My tribe
is a confabulation of singularities.
Like boughs flailing at the midnight
wind, my landsmen are the lush
from which the stars hang
as if they were the ripe fruit
of a burning bush.
Published in Misfit