by elvis bojangles

“mr. potato head”


oh little darlin’

oh little darlin’

oh little darlin’

not mine


i see the garland

so many flowers

a top your head

ridin’ so fine


so i strum

old & dumb

as you stride forth

so divine


i pronounce

your holy temple to be

the milky way galaxy



as you drum

as i strum

can this be

such a crime


text copyright clyde collins 2020

dust devil dance

by rawclyde



Slap happy

grand pappy

snappy shirt

stupid flirt

don’t wanna hurt

whistling dirt

dust devil swirls



bully man curls

the dumb bell

william tell

shoots an arrow

at the sparrow

& misses


deep-end blue

from you

never got one

my only fun


your fermenting






for clyde

glorious glance

it’s the dust devil dance



miley cyrus

ned buntline


copyright clyde collins 2020


divine love

by sister juana ines de la cruz …………………………………………………………………………………


There’s something disturbing me

so subtle, to be sure,

that though I feel it keenly,

it’s not hard to endure.


It’s love, but love, for once,

without a blindfold ~ whence

whoever sees his eyes,

feels torture the more intense.


It’s not from their terminus a quo

that my sufferings arise,

for their terminus is the Good;

it’s in distance that suffering lies.


If this emotion of mine

is proper ~ indeed, is love’s due ~

why must I be chastised

for paying what I owe?


Oh, all the consideration,

the tenderness I have seen:

when love is placed in God,

nothing else can intervene.


From what is legitimate

it cannot deviate;

no risk of being forgotten

need it ever contemplate.


I recall ~ were it not so ~

a time when the love I knew

went far beyond madness even,

reached excesses known to few,


but being a bastard love,

built on warring tensions,

it simply fell apart

from its own dissensions.


But oh, being now directed

to the goal true lovers know,

through virtue and reason alone

it must stronger and stronger grow.


Therefore one might inquire

why it is I still languish.

My troubled heart would reply:

what makes my joy makes my anguish.



Yes, from human weakness,

in the midst of purest affection,

we still remain a prey

to natural dejection.


To see our love returned

is so insistent a craving

that even when out of place,

we still find it enslaving.


It means nothing in this instance

that my love be reciprocated;

yet no matter how hard I try,

the need persists unabated.


If this is a sin, I confess it,

if a crime, I must avow it;

the one thing I cannot do

is repent and disallow it.


The one who has power to probe

the secrets of my breast,

has seen that I am the cause

of my suffering and distress.


Well he knows that I myself

have put my desires to death ~

my worries smother them,

their tomb is my own breast.


I die (who would believe it?)

at the hands of what I love best.

What is it puts me to death?

The very love I profess.


Thus, with deadly poison

I keep my life alive:

the very death I live

is the life of which I die.


Still, take courage, heart:

when torture becomes so sweet,

whatever may be my lot,

from love I’ll not retreat.



translation by alan s. trueblood

 a sor juana anthology





Enter Platonic Man

by Rawclyde !

Twirling like a po’ boy’s yo-yo

Like a holy dime

Like two friends are supposed to rhyme

Is Platonic Man too late?

The woman knows pain too well

Pure beauty & truth took a bullet

A po’ boy needs a second chance

But will he get it?

Probably not

Po’ boys never get a second chance

Unless a miracle occurs & the moment is right &

All the signs are brilliantly bright

Woe is ye & woe is me

Are creeps forever

Are two friends never

Is it too late for Platonic Man?

The stars are swirling

The sky is unfurling

Swear to God I can’t do anything right

Twirling twirling

Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016