We came to the valley to absorb the glory
of the Alps. Wordsworth succumbed
to the sublime here. Now we all romanticize
nature. But the sublime overwhelms;
it is too grand, too large, too dark, too menacing.
The mountains soar,
overflowing the bounds of what
the scrawny human spirit
can take in.

Your chair is unoccupied.
I am waiting for you to come.
You will not.

Why it happens? When
I touch you. You are not there.
A silent poem writes your name.

Untouchable was your
pain. An eagle hovers in blue sky
to pick up the child of death.

I took down Billy Graham
Of that I can be proud

He won't survive my Rolling Stone
Despite his megacrowds

The truth is often hidden
But it shines forth in time

Some poems come unbidden
But their youth is in the rhyme

I write about cats and strange situations,
Which is apparently the same topic,
According to my cat.

I want to throw my soul
Out of the window
And look than curiosly,
At what way it will go.

Now Muriel plays piano
Every Friday at the Hollywood
And they brought me down to see her
And they asked me if I would
Do a little number
And I sang with all my might
She said, "Tell me are you a Christian, child?"

I said, "Ma'am, I am tonight!"

                  - Walkin' in Memphis