Two poems/Two haiku



Cranky old windmill,

sentinel of the prairie --

beat pilgrims welcome.




Heaven's indignant messengers


I had a free ticket

to see Adventures in Paradise

and angel tufts

sprouting from your face

in a strange rodeo lobby

filled with powder punk

Geishas their slippered feet

gliding silent

between the notes

exploring the ancient

question ~ “What is

the sound of

one hand clapping?”.

I whispered

I didn't believe

in virtue.

You shouted

Cocaine Was Embarrassing!

The heretical madman

hung around


with polaroids

of smiling red birds

he tried to make me see

the birds smiling,

but I was drunk on wine

and pink ladies

blurring faded levi halos.

When you were walking

out the door

leaving me alone,

I saluted, the

current flowing

through my heated

palm electrified yours

I know.





Orange Line trolley

zings me home; reading Tom Paine,

a choice solitude.




(For they're) only fleeting things


Woke up this morning feeling like

Kafka's bug rubbing sleepy eyes

with rueful regret oh why

was I not born a wondrous free thing with

jewel-hued feathers and wings

making a singular whir above

sodden rain-forest canopy  or a fat

and fluffy cumulus cloud

bouncing down Levi-washed shore

without one single solitary care in this

whole wide world.

Sighing, now time to gather

elusive dream webs in

trusty bedside journal the one with 

the pink atomic diamond motif

and dusting off one last

remaining remnant of how we

played my dad's favorite

Waylon Jennings records at his

funeral, the songs still impressed

chimerically in my head

he so loved his desperados

first one to sell a million copies --

Wanted! The Outlaws with

Willie and Jessie and Tompall

"between Hank Williams pain songs

and Jerry Jeff's train songs"

all this giving me hope today

along with astrology du jour

"The "pink glow" around Uranus,

Neptune and Chiron ,

indicates those planets are

currently retrograde..." (gosh!) and

amidst daybreaks' musings I'm

wishing for the 100th time that I had

just one miserable competitive bone in

my body instead of my laughing

beatnik bodhisattva soul

I'd get along damn straight better in

this world regardless, and a

little thing I always liked about

a pathological disordered personality

is you can always predict their

next move and never ever,

ever be surprised when they get

riproaring mad as you

opt out of the game

hey, just take your bat and glove

and trot on home

it's easy

and there's no law

says you have to play or even

mention that you are going

away just beat it

and breathe

but heed and hearken to

your tenderness folks

because crimes of the heart are

important too and now when my world

shattered, and to nobody's surprise

I fucked it up so bad once again

and enemies didn't even know I had

and some I did

come slithering out of the

worldly woodwork,

you know the type that would

strike you as a conventional person

who in another life

during that last Cold War

would snitch out their neighbors

to the KGB

just for spite, my good faith

turned against me

by the aggressive element

of the narcissist.

my very words rendered

to manipulate me, my humble

spirits' appeals allowing

the mob to bury me all the while

transfiguring my joie de vivre

into some vindictive whore.

And I'm saying it is the heavy toll

and sound of a soul being

ripped from you, while

annihilating everything human

with the ghosts of our future yet

to come in a frenzied race competing

neck and neck with slouching beasts

of the past and present

like the underground abortion from

years anon (sure messed me up for good)

the ever existent shame

of domestic abuse  worn like a

scarlet letter  and that one

excruciating moment in the

concurrence of circumstance

that you irrevocably knew the

man you rained your love

down upon could give a

rat's ass about you, all this

juxtaposed with the inevitable

portentous horrors of sitting

on the old folks porch strumming

the nursing home blues which could

be a blessing in disguise haven't had a

real vacation in years then

the natural evolution of precious

essentia and female personhood

pathetically reduced to being

the rumpled ego stroking mind-fuckery of

octogenarians playing bingo,

Sartre's  La Nausée   pirouetting madly

through the ragged windmills of my mind.

So come on people I'm

Testifying again

here and now it's never

too late to realize your yearning

and follow it to the bitter end

and all I have left

is this ramshackle poem for my

long ago hankering to

waltz across America but this time

well armed with the prescience

that love and hate will slip through your

fingers oh yes they will, quick

as the dense apocalyptic

gales that blew away the farmer's

pitch-black Oklahoma dust,

but Truth, now that's something I think

I can live with, because where

I come from any place

you choose to go first

you MUST pass through the desert

and the impossible wildflowers

and the moving on

and all this being flayed bare in

the hot belly of the hourglass allowing you

to come this close to

comprehending Jesus the eternal

dynamic tantamount to the

infinite equation

the place where myth and history

merge and time and space disintegrate

into the agonies of determining the

birth and direction of new dreams --

what do..... where go?

And even if this all turns out to

be a big fat zero it's a 

hell of a lot better than the 

nothing I've got now.


© Sissy Buckles