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                        In 1974 a wave of poetic genius crashed over me.  
                        I decided poetry could open doors to my inner creative flow.  
                        And might help to pick up chicks.  
                        So I wrote these poems about living in southern California.

                                            Hum Dummy
  
         

When honey dew colored rock n' roll boys
Scream at me in my nine-fifty seat,
I crave for a Mr. Goodbar-colored blues song
With a hamhocks masturbative float-yer-feet beat.

                Bulbous Panasonic pump-pump handballing off my brain,
                Rusts and corrodes filtered through D.J. commodes;
                ABC American Band Stand never ever gets potty trained.

Bob, Joe, Pete, and Sam come and drum and sing and jam,
And me and Jude, Hey Jude is all they know, you know?
Lennoning it over over over rover don't even give a damn,
And we all shine on and shine it on jump in the Jeep and go.

                And so, you know, with morning-breath alum-dry lips,
                Look in the toothpaste dripping silent gripping mirror,
                And I'll be rock shod not lockjawed if I don't hum a lot.

                                            Courtesy of Zuma

        

                Someone put sand on the oil slick
                So someone would not slip.
                Grains of Lilliputian rock
                Throbbing beneath KHJ.
                Squiggling up through my toes;
                Stroking the nails, my teeth chatter.
                Stan got a tan; so did the other man.
                He put his ass in trash cans so 
                    he wouldn't get it burned.
                Some poor milquetoast whimper from
                    Omaha
                Was kicking a dead seal, and picking pitiful shreds 
                From his back.
                High School dropouts, out dropping; heads of Coke;
                Runny noses sniff,
                And snuff,
                Batting bye-bye to a Valley Volleyball Troup in baggy
                    green short shorts and nipples.
                All in all it was a ball--a really great Zuma-zoom day.
                But my ass got burned anyway,
                If you know what I mean?

                                            6th Night Habit
        

                Elegance randomly roamed room to dancing room.
                Searching for the glistening-gold tequila jug.
                Smoking Cannabis,
                Biting flesh like a cannibal from a boiling can of beauty
                By Candy-stained candlelight;
                Someone, anyone,
                Danced     for     love     of     the     hearty     party,
                Making                                                            space
                for more                           and                           more
                dancers, prancers, hung-flung cancers of the 
                    Saturday Night-Plight.
                But when the music ducked into the amp
                    and acoustics silenced,
                No one remembered why they danced at all.
                And habit brought the rabbit-footed funsters home
                    and vexed,
                To grow for lifted lids and Wrath of Grapes,
                And writhing like idiots, 
                'Till Saturday next!