This is a long poem I wrote in high school. There is much internal rhyme and alliteration throughout as I play with the sounds and the rhythms of the words. I will try to indicate the timing by use of line breaks.
Reach out to touch the empty air
of which the feel is that of pudding in a bowl of solid
bold and brave are those who dare to see
the universe of chairs,
and in the whole society
the giant bureaus in the sky controlling all they overlook
and reading pictures like a book of many pages
on and on
assigned to students in the schools
who hate their classes
so they say
but keep on going
and meeting people
which goes on by with flashing speed which is the only way to read
and if you do to everything, then you can hear the people sing.
Within their hearts there is a song
which may be right or might be wrong
but they'll keep singing anyway
because it is the only way to keep your inner sanity,
which may not show to all who see but leaves you free to be
in a manner most discreet when in the house or on the street
where everything is getting down with cars of green and cars of brown
and red and blue, and white and black, and every sidewalk has a crack
as such or much
as it will take to make
against the place where Cretans live,
while if I had said pro- instead,
I would have meant in favor of the island in the eastern Med.
So when you hit upon a joint, just take a bit and get the point
of trains of thought which change their tracks by getting caught on sidewalk cracks
and multicolored cars and things, and lunatics who dance and sing
despite the mess this world is in from all of us who live in sin.
But ain't it fun to party some, and play guitar, and speed in cars
instead of going fifty-five which is a boring speed to drive?
But saving gas it does indeed, and so the money that I feed into my car would go quite far
If I could go that fast that slow.
I wish that I could make some dough.
Although to know
how to grow rich
is quite an itch to carry on
one's shoulder, back, or even head
for one can try until he's dead
and NEVER get an even break
and NEVER get to live on steak
and chomp it down from day to day
without a sound of “Need more pay.”
Which oftentimes obtains good rhymes
feed more hay in colder climes
horses need to keep their heat or else they may become horsemeat
which tastes alright for dogs, I guess, although I'd hate to be a guest
of one who served such loathesome fare,
be it from stallion or from mare,
it may be hard to tell just WHERE
the meat to eat came from on horse
and that includes it ALL.
I don't pretend to send
these thoughts as serious,
when all they are are spurious.
That's just in case you're curious
of all I say and speak and do from day to day and week or two
or three or more, perhaps to four, or maybe five if I'm alive.
Which may not mean a lot at all,
though smoking pot, having a ball,
playing guitar, driving my car,
all qualify as qualities attributed to those who live.
At least comparing to a corpse
has no more reason than a horse's “as”
or hoof, or mane, or tail
while some are in the county jail
awaiting trial, or using Dial
instead of ordinary soap!
Although to cope
with such a claim
I want to maim some ads that say
“The best today!”
They seem to think we're made of clay
or something else that's moldable,
although I think that holdable
would best describe
a person of
the human kind
or state of mind.
I will probably mess with the formatting to try to communicate the experience of this poem better. I'm still trying to decide how to link to comments about certain words and phrases in the poem. For now, I list comments below (more to come).
Within their hearts there… — Homonyms
in a manner…when in the house — Manner is a pun on Manor, another name for house.
con-Crete — I couldn't resist the play on words here: concrete sidewalk versus con-Crete being against the Mediterranean island. I am reminded that if pro- and con- are opposites, then Congress is the opposite of progress and the Constitution is the opposite of prostitution.
…hit upon a joint — I make a reference to moderation (just take a bit). This is not to be taken as an endorsement of marijuana use.
…trains of thought — this whole poem is a train of thought that changes tracks many times.
…live in sin — I'm not sure now (thirty years after writing this poem) if there is such a thing as sin.
…instead of going fifty-five — I wrote this poem several years BEFORE Sammy Hagar had his hit rock song I Can't Drive 55. As for saving gas, and money being fed into the car, my GOD the difference in gas prices between 1977 (when this poem was written) and 2007 (as I write this).