What I Know About Time

by Elvis Bojangles

~

Heroine beloved tent oracle revered oh rhapsody

Your rocks & clay are not too scary

A scenic valley a secret grotto

An artesian well of levitating words

I have found a helmet that fits I am on my way

As I write I am already there as I write there is here

Headgear off upside-down in the corner

Abloom with a little trumpeting lily

This tent is too cozy too low I must kneel

I blink it’s a vast cathedral please guide me

I adore what’s up

Swirling steam solidifying as if Venus

Shucks I am clumsy like a new born colt

Mercy we witness a lightning bolt

Time is a clown skipping ’round & ’round

Please heed not the silly tick-tock sound

~

~

Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016

Hallelujah Trail

Years & miles

separate you & I

Something mysterious

brings us together

It seems to be real

Yet there’s nothing to touch

Like rocky ground

Or your shoulder

It’s what we believe-in

The window

Of our imagination

Thru which we met

It’s thru this window

That a cute poet philosopher

And an old horn-dog roustabout

Get to thump & bump

Because

We

Believe

Hallelujah

But a ticket to ride

Would be more fun

So meet me

In St. Louis!

~

Elvis Bojangles

~

Newspaper Office III

~~~

by Elvis Bojangles

~~~

A few minutes later this sprite morn, Cloyd Campfire, the assistant editor, pasty & red-eyed, comes in singing:

~

Play on the blog

Play with yourself

Play on the blog

Stay on the shelf

~

Get on the road

Get her hand in yer hand

pack a light load

travelin’ man

~

He sits down like one big ache behind a book-piled paper-cluttered desk and, like a corpse with one last breath, groans, “Coffee.  Please.  Coffee.”

Campfire has timed it perfectly.   I’m already standing in front of the fresh-brewed pot, so I pore him a cup, traipse around, place it in front of his nose.

“Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody.”  Whenever he gets a chance he says this.  He’s been saying it about 10 to 20 times a day lately, as if he’s President Obama finishing one speech after another all day long.

I go sit behind my own desk that has nothing on it.  The top of it is polished and shiny.  My cup of coffee placed there all by itself looks real good.  A little swirl of steam floats above the cup like a top hat.  I take a sip of coffee.  It tastes real good too.  Now I am open for suggestions ~ but not from the assistant editor.  “Fuck you, Cloyd,” says I.

He says again, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody…”

~~~

 

Newspaper Office II

~~~

by

Elvis Bojangles

~~~

I get to the office early.  I’m anxious to get started on the report assigned to me late yesterday by ~ Rawclyde!  He’s already here ~ sitting on top of his desk munching select shrub-leaf from a bowl.  Our editor is a jackrabbit, you know.  Without one word of greeting he peers suspiciously at me as I slouch into the Old Timer Chronicle newspaper office.  He hops over his bowl of rabbit ration, turns around, continues chewing.   Just like a jackrabbit.

After I get settled at my desk, one of the editor’s ears, a very long & alert antenna, points obnoxiously at the coffee pot, cold & empty, in the corner.  His staring at me becomes ferocious.

“Okay, Rawclyde!”  I grin because he’s so damn funny looking ~ one of several reasons why I took this job.  I get up and tend to the pot.

Rawclyde wasn’t always a rabbit.  He had, or he thought he had, a girl-friend once ~ who kept telling him that she hated people, but loved animals.  So he became a jackrabbit, which didn’t do him any good.  She still told him he had to leave.  Then she stopped e-mailing him.

I empty yesterday’s coffee grains, buff the pot…

~~~

~~~