Today the Desperado’s are sounding a call for the poetic Super Hero
Yikes!!! I am headlong into this moment and a stream of consciousness is tugging at my sleeve. Let’s go it says. Let’s go.
bazooka joe bubble-gummed me a super power
back in the 70’s when poetry was for old fuckers
x-ray-speccing me a laser eyed future gift of sight
the sidhe would be laughing now if they knew
i had not gotten what i went searching for years ago
i wanted to see-through it all but then it was just
clothing that was the barrier to my horny peekster
i have to admit that I still have an eye for the curves
that howl at me all sensuous and dripping with form
but now it is something else i want to see before me
and daft as it may seem what I want to see now is YOU
in all your unfettered dishevelled and undone glories
the cracks and the broken gold filled wounds which a-
light upon the authentic vaults of your human Beings
Aren’t we something to behold in our humbled majesty?
yes we fuck shit up like no other generation has ever done
but in the crumbling facade of a world no one ever really
wanted we might just be finding out that it is in dying this
way that we bring the shiny triumphant trumpets of us to
sound a call to all of our deepest frailties and fumblings
here in the birthing dirt we all are at home with the word
breaching our own sense of ever upon ever failure we write
in a small corner of the multiverse that mostly just we inhabit
and we write and we write and somewhere the ghost shadows of
each inked cantation find their place in the great mysterious void
words must be sent as letters must be posted else they have no
animate force to wing them up down and around into all the nooks
where we can dream they might seed another word tree or two.
the juice which brings the morning dew dripping upon the sweetgrass
and has sunlight dappling a warm lattice of shadow across the same
is the very potion into which we dip and ink our mortal pens to write
an eternal binding of a word-thread that always leads back to the source
the place where it all comes from and where we poets will all go to die.
Paul Scribbles 
So the Power’s there, just not the one we thought it was. Yours is so much more useful – earth-radiant, too. Enjoy your trip.
Wow, Paul, this poem IS radiant! I love “in the crumbling facade of a world no one ever really wanted we might just be finding out that it is in dying this
way that we bring the shiny triumphant trumpets of us to
sound a call to all of our deepest frailties and fumblings
here in the birthing dirt we are at home with the word.” Wonderful!
A tour de force, Paul, a feast of language…JIM
A rich journey into the realms of how and why we write, from our brokenness, from the gold-repaired vessel that holds what little wine we manage to press from the small bitter grapes of our dwindling time. I especially love the ending, and the line Sherry quoted, as well as “…I still have an eye for the curves/that howl at me all sensuous and dripping with form..” As always, a pleasure to read Paul. Hope your upcoming journey is fantastic.
Bazooka Joe, wow, I hadn’t thought of those little comics that came with trading cards in decades. “The Wreck of the Hesperus” was about my poetic limit in those days!
I’m with Shay – love the Bazooka Joe. Fabulous rant!