Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

Archive for the month “October, 2014”

That old man dancing

That old man dancing

Is me.

Sometimes you just have to.


Modulates the tao carrier wave that flows

Through every cell of my brain.

These rhythms, intervals and rhymes

Are my life’s exclusive soundtrack.

“Dance as if

No one is watching.”


He would have loved them

I knew a guy whose book of life

Was more gracefully done than mine,

A finer hand on flawless paper.

The promise of love, oh, it was there

For the first few chapters

Then the quality fell

And it finally, fitfully, ended.


Oh, I was sad, but I kept writing

About all my silly-hearted loves

And my time tested BFFs, yes,

I have written of art and ailments

Cameras, colors and

Splendid little gadgets.

Ah, He would have loved them, loved them all.


I sit here drinking coffee; dawn’s two hours away.

I am physically unaware of this diurnal rotation,

And of the speed of the Earth in its solar orbit

Or of that yearning of our galaxy for far Vega.

I’m just concerned about breakfast.


There may be alerts of great import in the deep infrared.

And music celestial and ineffable just beyond earshot.

And perhaps odors challenging my senses, unsmelled.

Cold, uncaring am I to these frequencies.

Am I hungry for eggs or a bowl of cereal?


Yet I know that the eggs have no color, the cereal taste,

Were it not for this sentient being with this brain.

And all these Antikytherian motions, so complex,

Have no regard or need for me to sense them.

So maybe I’ll go with English muffins and cheese.


I Can’t Trill

I realized I could not trill (O shame)

When the first Ruffles commercials

Came on TV – “Rrrruffles have rrridges”.

I couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t trill.

No biggie.  Fuck Ruffles anyway.


Later, as I sat in Russian Language school:

Native Russian teachers, underpaid, but proud.

Eyes down long noses looked at me.

Neudachnik: Loser.  No music.

Russian flat as the vast frigid steppes.


I won’t bring up German, though in Spanish,

If you don’t trill, “but” is the same as “dog”.

Elegant Spanish flat as a tortilla.

Luckily, for ears, I never took opera.

Thanks, no trills for me, I’m from Tennessee.


I begin to say, “I’m sorry,”

But there’s no one left to hear.

What good does it do, anyway,

To try to wheedle forgiveness

From those too far away

In time and place to feel

My practiced pleadings. Alas.


But, upon reflection, I was

Rarely mean, just sometimes drunk.

You gave as good as you got,

Most of you, yeah, most all of you.

Then there’s you.  I’m ashamed.

God, I was such an utter dick.



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