Dr. Heckle & Mr. Jive

laugh and lie,

coerce—connive

fouler still

the duo thrives,

without—within

ingrained inside.

the Jivin’ hand

forms finger spin,

a jaZZy dig

at temple skin,

the Heckler

wags

his thumb from knows,

–as if he does–

yes, one of those…

the Jivin’ Man

plays games with shells

–where’s the nut?

he’ll never tell,

but Hecklin’ Dude

likes playin’ shill,

yellin’ catcalls

rude and shrill,

the Jivin’ Jokester

paints black→white,

in your face

calls left←right,

while ole Doc Heckle

–jeers–

when you,

decide which

state is true

(for you)

but if you were

to realize,

Dr. Heckle’s

only cred’

is self-endorsed

and authorized,

by fears that fester

in your head,

and Mr. Jive

can hoodwink only–

when you’re

unguarded

weak

and prone, he

presses hand

–he contradicts–

that sense in gut

(the better pick)

You can send

these peddlers’ packin’

by wieldin’

the whip & crackin’

down on doubts,

and second-guesses

lashin’

pair

with such redress, is

quite enough

to silence duo

–you’ve got the stuff–

don’t play the fool.

Stretched too thin

I go to doc,

tell him that I do a lot

advising less

–or in the middle–

was advice

of Doc Do Little.

Unimpressed

I book another,

date with doc

who’s somewhat other,

his advice

works well on road

Who was he.

(?)

a Doc Who knows.

Needing still

a different view,

I schedule meet

with doctor, who,

knows the nuts

and bolts of mine,

I can tell

Doc Frankenstein,

is just the guy

for neck and throat!

–since his is stitched–

as well as coat.

To round results

I call a last,

confab with doc

whose hat

is cat’s,

whose eggs are green!

& fishes blue!

Doc Suess

is final doctor ,who,

set me straight

precribin’ time,

be put aside

for formin’ rhymes,

for writin’

out my dreamy thoughts,

–the best advice–

for writer’s block.

Been in a spiral

since virus went viral

–my livelihood taken away–

my stress relief gym sesh’

too close to strange flesh,

–no movies

–no concerts

–no plays

if you paired up

before plague

–with or without ague–

you’re probably panicking less,

since 6-feet is same breadth,

as depth for you in death,

a distance unsocial

(at best)

To touch is the touchstone,

in tandem w pher’mone

2 ends of a yardstick collapsing,

now neither can make it

beyond zones of safety

–no kiss blown

–lest unknown

–starts gasping.

I wonder what measures,

we’ll turn to when pressure

to flatten the curve tapers off,

if full-body condoms

and masks will solve problem,

of airborne, and there borne

or not.

if dating on dot coms

will stay there–not go on

to meeting in person at last,

since droplets don’t travel

through sites, threads, or channels

but certainly make it

through masks.

Sometimes you’re out and about

and you see a shoe

–a single shoe, just lying there

and you gotta wonder. . .

how do you lose one shoe?

(is it a leftie or a rightie?)

Is the world full of Cinderellas running late?

In the case of the errant flip-flop on beach trails

it’s a Sanderella souvenir

(or Sunderella)

a one-off

mermaid-with-shore-leave’s

shoe

lost as she rushed to return to the briny depths before 12 bells

–sun-bleached beach attire strewn behind her–

–dune buggy just a shell of its time-sensitive chassis—

but what about the Converse sneaker?

(not those laced & paired over hi-voltage wires above)

but the singleton

. . .

what’s the story there?

Is that a Shirts and Skin-derella story?

a ballplayer just dying for a pick-up game?

who shoots, scores, unlaces, and bolts before the buzzer?

. . .

seems unlikely.

. . .

but then, losing one shoe seems something hard to miss, too.

Then there’s the work boot you sometimes see,

Clearly a “Done-derella” story

as in:

that clock couldn’t chime 5 quick enough

a classic “take-your-job-and-your-mandatory-attire”

and hit the bricks tale

–shredded blue collar cut from

the neck

it squeezed

surely somewhere in the vicinity—

I’m just sayin’. . .

you never see a glass stiletto just

lying there as you’re toolin’ around town

–not unless you live in Vegas.

I clocked in at 21,

and punched out 16 years later

—the Longest Island Ice Tea ever—

and you definitely remember me—

the most beautiful bartender in the world, right?

—schmoozin’ the hackles on your wife

(de-furring)

—defusin’ your once-over

(demurring)

startin’ tabs

& takin’ prisoners

‘til you’re good & pacified, an’

me & the wife are tight

she is

‘til we are all BFFN’s!

(bar friends for now)

Dishin’ the dirt, an’

mixin’ the Mudslides, an’

knockin’ the longnecks

—all high 5’s

“I heard that’s”

and “I love you, man’s”

for a Happy Hour or 6. . .

A charmer this side of Medusa,

my forked tongue & sideways mouth

escape remark in the dim light

(you)

exude

—an’ I get you proper stoned

pour poison in cups

—& cupped ears

(a shuddering burn)

toasting

—and upselling

(smoke rising)

wining

—and slinging bar mix

(dining)

tuning you up

—& tuning you out

that Same Old Story launched for the nth time, but hey!

It’s Tuesday!

Thank God it’s F*cking Tuesday!!

2 for Tuesday!

TGIFT!

as the band starts

—high 5’s lowerin’ for a lil’ grabass

(conversations continue)

at scream level

(important conversations)

“Let’s start first thing tomorrow”

and

“That’s nothin’, check this out”

or

“He’s such a douche”

and

“Me, too!”

a confidant this

>close<

to tell-all,

I gotcher back all the way up ’til the time

I don’t

—the stories heard at witchin’ hour not worth wasted winks

“Make it strong”

(a stale plea)

“Wanna line?”

(oh, please)

“Turn it up!”

(a deafening directive)

cranking lights at 2 am so OR bright

codes crack

masks, too

beer goggles slipping off

along with hook ups, and

Double Vision sets in

—both 5’s clenchin’

now

(fist bumps forgotten)

in the good-nights

(of)

“Outside. Now.”

and

“I’ll kick his motherfuckin’ ass”

or

“Where’s the after party?”

and

“Tell her I left”

Bottled lightning

recapped

— at last call. . .

 
He gave us the

Apple

–from the tree of knowledge–

and framing it as

Scooby snacks,

told us to

dig in, and right then we

should have known. . .

‘should have seen his agenda

‘should have recognized his soul-less

reptilian eyes

–so like the man from Sugar Mountain–

glinting in the spectacle.

From then on

Eden

(the comparative Eden)

made of Earth

–and at least occasionally in America–

transformed.

Transported us outside

Gates

(to peace)

to Gates

flung open wide

to Hell

(aka algorithms)

and Window to a world

of all that’s allowed

–plus all that’s actually done—

a Window to a world

that grows social distancing in Petri dishes

while climbing up your ass on the not-so-DL,

a Window to a world

sealed tight behind

filtered

monitored

screens

. . .

–where tales

wagging dogs

(and data)

swear the

plague’s upon us

I weave yarns.

Wheels spinning

–sometimes 2

others

(for)

avoiding thirds and fifths,

I do donuts

–on the DL

flip bitches

–less so

burn rubber bridges

–with superball suspension

I go off-wrote.

Amassing elephants

unspooled on shoulders not meant

to be written

–in rooms and out–

–pink into white–

and never forgetting

(except when I do)

I stomp the yard

–embroidering

truth

in chunky chain accents

–disguising gaps

and hoops held

–stressing gaps

from ledges jumped

into Gap

(all detailed in dated tatting)

(knit 1 into pearls, 2)

bedazzled denim

and

zig-zagging stitch.

The plots I tilt

are windmills

(not my own)

–spinning

live-lines

without

dead-lines

LOOMING

I gather

faqs,

skeins I use

–weaving yarns.

I burn ears,

I wag chins,

I pain necks,

I stand hairs on end,

I weave yarns.

Spinning wheels

sometimes to→

Always

→for