Tarzan No Want Figleaf
Un-Shakespeare me, un-Freud me,
unjingle and unjangle me—
tell yakking Socrates to put
a sock in it —I’m a truant
from all schools of thought
on poetry and philosophy.
Tarzan no want figleaf—
him howl from the treetops naked
and free! Yo, mom and pop America—
yeah, it’s me, your blue-eyed boy,
thumbing his nose instead of keeping
it to the grindstone as you propose.
Wanted on suspicion of harboring
a soul—of aiding-and-abetting crackpot
dreams—of desecrating Money-Money-
Money—that monotrinity of the Consumer Age—
Shame on me. Shame.
I’m on the run—
but at least I’m back on my feet again.
Tarzan him can’t cope—
nerve-wracked as a chameleon
on a kaleidoscope—my native
browns and greens—my earthtones—
no match for the ground
shifting under my feet.
Let go—and then—let go—
live with open hands—
in a world of staplers—
a green bottle on a windowsill
filling equally with darkness,
then with light—
neither fearing the one,
nor desiring the other.
A bird in a wind chime cage
free to come and go
as it pleases—living on erasure
crumbs and dreams—that’s me—
and all I want to be.
They’ve air-conditioned all the atmosphere
out of roadside cafés and the road to Denver
just don’t seem the same way
since they replaced Rosie’s with a chain café.
Just thought I’d drop you a line
from somewhere in the heartland.
Six A.M. Raining. Semis on the highway.
A cup of coffee at the counter
while I’m scribbling this.
The waitress offers Tarzan
a penny for his thoughts.
He shortchanges her. “Men!”
she mutters. Tarzan grunt.