Into Eden

I

Warlocks sip on potent teas

and wipe their hands across their knees.

As Grandpa fixes whirled peas,

a moustached man decries, decrees.

Wait a sec, I’ve gotta sneeze—

these god-forsaken allergies—

might you grab a kleenex please?

It’s something in this desert breeze.

Outside, it’s just about to freeze.

The needle sticks on thirty-three degrees.

Afresh, afresh, the budding trees

will, like peaches, die in this spring’s freeze.

II

Grown-up kids, who cut the cheese?

Smells like … stocking insecurities.

His and hers? Or mine’s and me’s?

Zeroes, ones, and twos, yes threes!

As paintings hang in galleries,

balloons inflate (not salaries).

Accountant-fashioned fudgeries?

They’re tragedies, not travesties.

Pop, your whim I will appease—

“He who smokes too much will wheeze.”

We sail a-high on rising seas,

so why not bank on our debris?

III

A tanker’s tipping off Cadiz

as plumage flocks from X Valdez.

The Skipper lifts a leg and pees,

we work for oil companies.

O, Midol, help us get our Z’s;

undo the knots in our tummies;

let our eyes slip back with ease,

as photos snap our liberties.

They hit the road in boarish humvees,

even flying daily sorties.

“If it sticks, try elbow grease.”

Or: just rip apart her dungarees.

And why not laugh at retardees?

Their bus is bound for chimpanzees.

B-dee b-dee b-dee b-dees.

“Now let us see your papers, please.”

—JACK RANDALL

December 2002