An insurance agent named Johnny B. Blank
Ran a run-down debit on the poor West Bank.
In the hardest of times he endeavored to be
The number one man in the company.

"I'd prefer not to say what's become of my pay,"
He stood up and spoke at a meeting one day.
"But I hereby intend to reverse this trend --
To triple my paycheck before the year's end."

“Good luck, Johnny Blank," someone said with a smirk,
"But the fact is, the West Bank is all out of work."
Johnny looked at his colleague, spoke steady and clear:
"I'll be number one by the end of the year."

From that day on, Johnny Blank was possessed,
Making pitch after pitch with fanatical zest.
But no matter how hard he'd push and persuade,
He'd hear the sad song of the oil trade:

"The rigs are shut down and the boats are asleep;
It's not worth their while because oil's too cheap.
My husband and brother, my nephew and son
Have all been laid off. As for money, there's none."

So Johnny would leave, but would not overlook
To write down their names in his prospect book.
And always he did the best he could do,
And always the list of his prospects grew.

Then at last the economy started to change;
The price had gone up in the oil exchange.
Business was booming as none had foreseen
From Buras to Boutte and in between.

And Johnny B. Blank was on top of the world
As dozens of pages of prospects unfurled;
He'd written their names when they couldn't afford,
But now they had money, and how it poured!

In the last few months of that famous year,
Johnny B. Blank secured his career.
He tripled his pay for a job well done,
And true to his word, he became number one.

Sending letters to the world
At the world hurled
Don't know why try
Why have to fly high
Unsolicited
Pseudonymous
A battle cry hi bye
Before we die

Writing stories on the wall
Any wall scrawl
Casting songs through the air
Electric air prayer
Poets novelists
Artists lyricists
All who dare care
Dare lay it bare

A billion letters in the mail
In the mail fail
Addressed to anyone
Read by none no one
Dear so and so
Let me tell you so
The number no one none
Is no fun one

A house is never cleaner
than when unoccupied,

with tables, couches, beds
removed and all inside
accessible to brush,
broom, mop, and vacuum
cleaner.

               No resident
had known a cleaner
room.

I must be nuts to be sitting here
at one o’clock in the morning,
when I have to get up at six,
when I have to put on a tie
at seven and walk in that door
at eight with a smile on my face.

But I’ve had such a normal day --
made a sale, ate lunch, made a sale;
made a ham sandwich for dinner;
ate it; ate a bowl of ice cream
between sitcom reruns and game shows --
that I had to wake up at least once before bed.

Out in the lanes where laughs not Mirth,
          Where maggots thrive 'mid offal fogs,
A mongrel ***** wreaked lethal birth
          Unto a host of puppy dogs.

Six guileless hounds were spewed in Hell,
          The dowager vaporing, dead.
Five unlicked pups heaved blind and fell
          Until but one might Being wed.

Then I, bereft of Pride's respect,
          My spirit cold spurned to this sty,
Touched humble fur -- O dim reject!
          For me his spark refused to die!

It matters not how mixed his blood,
          How flea-infected be his skin,
I now command this canine stud;
          I am the master of Chien.

And if the seed should take, what then?
Two souls would replicate, but one
would find itself, the other lose
itself in mystic legacy.

it’s in the blood and not the hand:
the corrupt blood of great great
grandmassa freret through great
grandpa cleo and grandpa cleo
and paps and then me;

the empty hand
to which grandmassa bequeathed
some of his fortune to be stolen
by his other (white) line
under the law by which the court
declared null and void the will
and legacy to cleo
because cleo’s mother
grandmassa’s daughter
could not inherit,

so the hand is empty --
empty of that fortune
but not of that blade
with which this disinherited one
drew the same blood
from three of the heirs
of that other (all-white) line
in the dark of one bleak morning
in the same garden district mansion
where grandmassa bed his housemaid
great great grandma mildred
who then in the same mansion
birthed the first cleo
to whom was bequeathed the blood
and the ultimately stolen fortune:

hence the hand the blood
the corrupt blood in these veins
i let onto the floor of the block
screaming “it’s in the blood! it’s in the blood!”

and so they took away the blade
and again the hand is empty
and still the blood is corrupt