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—

a paperclip

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.


Marty Walsh