TAP DANCER'S TAPESTRY

In his own shoes - talking about my blues - paying dues.

He is a translucent muse.

He's in your womb and I'm crying at my father's tomb.

Got total amnesia - from Doc. Kroger's anesthesia.

My lady - thinking about you - before morning's light.

Night goes to day and Day goes to night.

Well past a moonlit's white summer's midnight.

Driving for The Department Of Salvation.

Believing in moral obligation - legislation was passed -

Concerning the contemplation of creation - in our world of annihilation.

Mental masturbation is Oral gratification.

Physical stimulation is dependent on sexes' copulation.

Some have no modulation while others have diarrhea's constipation.

I dream alone in my poem.

At night there's nothing to do.

Be in your barracks at twenty to two.

Expelled from life's school's because I took a crap in your shoes.

Drunk on air and high on gas.

I'm always failing to pass.

Please laugh hard until you start to cry.

Who doesn't die in a hypocrisy's lie?

Life makes the crap fly high in a sky.

Puking yellow pumpkins of banana stews.

Wet treats of a rainbow's hue.

Painted cars and buildings blue.

Got slurry vision and can't hear.

Am I full of fear?

It's not always clear.

Today's salesmen in worn leather shoes -

Selling the nursery school's views.

Always breaking in "The Planet News!"

By Anonymous Bosch and Jonathan Billet

For The Paper

"For The Paper"

God will forgive me for my sins when they decide the time is right...

Right now I'm deciding who I am, who we are, and if I am.  

If I am me or somebody else according to their view of who I am.  

My interpretation of that interpretation.  

Am I tripping over my ego?  Or have I tripped over a trip wire?

Nobody negotiates better then me.  It seems the only thing up for

grabs in life's negotiations are my cajones.

If I sleep then I am no longer alive.  It has been long since established

that I am no longer in existence.  How the government declared me

"deceased" is beyond me.  If you don't exist there's always trouble for

you...Please Mister don't delete me in my sleep.

Made a perfect heist at the cookie factory with my sidekick Pat.  

Stole a sack of "Grandma's Oatmeal Cookies."  

Worth $1.00 a pack.  Two in each pack.  100 in a sack.

It seems to me that politics is full of jerks who brag about how smart 

are, how stupid they are - or the fact that they just don't know.  The

head doesn't know what the ass is doing in government.  The politicians

clean the executive toilet bowls.  Our fault - we elect them and then

blame them for what they do.  

To make a short story long, I went to Harvard.  I spent the better

part of an afternoon at Harvard Yard.  Dripped out of Princeton.  Got my

degree in diarrhea.

I throw out the trash for cash and collect the trash to make more cash.

If you're being schmucked over remember the world's always schmucking

over its schmucky self - even to death.  The day is a hot one.  The most

destitute person in the world has a warmer heart heart then the galaxies'

of suns or stars that can be seen.  Even in the world's scene of soap opera

stars on a cinema's screen.

You Sir, meet me on the street and agree I could use a haircut.  Sir, you

need your ass shaved.  Have a nice life!

- Jonathan Mark Billet or Jonnie Goldprick -

  neither exists anyway.                             

Laughter Flies

"Laughter Flies"

Twinkle, twinkle loving eyes gazing at flying birds in distant skies.

Drinking Vodka and Ryes with ruddy, bloodshot eyes.

Eating English pies and heaving heavy sighs in dopey highs.

Wearing 3-piece suits and ties with many running colors' dyes.

If ants can sing then the butterfly flies in afternoons' July.

Why, oh why then do wise men die in a fool's lie?        

Lovely Mountain's Love Song In San Francisco - 04/23/2010

                                        

                                        

Ventricular Cloud

"Ventricular Cloud"

A jolly melancholy, I only survive to arrive for a beautiful bird singing the sweetest of all songs. Recently found dreams in the corner of my mind. The past is as forgotten as our future will be. Now I dream blue is green and yellow orange.

 

We all bleed the same color blood. All of us come in different colors, shapes, and sizes like our clothes or dreams. Nature's living plants and animals, as well as all her fruits, also come in their unique colors, shapes and sizes. They are as different to one another as we are to them. I sometimes wonder if ugly is pretty and pretty is pretty ugly.

Stop off at the "Cellar Bar" with its red and white striped awning sticking out of the long brick wall near the railroad station. Having libations called "Green Zombies." 

I spot a bearded, white haired gentleman crossing the street on stilts. He is wearing a brown suit with red sneakers and whispering at the top of his lungs.

As I stroll, gray clouds appear, and it starts to downpour. I open a big black folding umbrella. Drops of rain drench my hairy chest, arms, and legs. The orange khaki bathing suit I am wearing is soaking, sticking to my wet skin. The thick droplets stick to my body as I walk down Palmer Avenue.

It is a new day and all our tomorrows are yesterday's senior moments. I stop at The Aroma Cafe for a Chamomile Tea and Expresso Macchiato. Traffic is very busy at Aroma as I am in a Saturday's morning.

I have a rowboat in my small apartment in case of floods. I am hardly ever in the closet because it is piled high with suitcases and garbage and has jackets, sweaters, pants, and ties hanging out everywhere. This makes it almost impossible to go into or out of my closet. Each individual must handle it in his or her own way.

By Jonathan Billet 

The Second Wizard's Blizzard

“The Second Wizard’s Blizzard”

The snow is delicious. "Read our beautiful manuscript.
If I could turn on the world - like you - I'd jump out of my shoes into the ceiling below."
Snow may be beautiful but to you it can't compare.
Nothing can ever be written that could compare to what you write to me.

I still dabble in scribble scrabble. Proof of this fact is the garbage I put out for you in today's mail delivery. You reply that people's trash are a raccoon's treasure. That you are like a raccoon. This reeks of the stinky truth. People are busy throwing out garbage and collecting it. (See Aristophane's - "The Birds."). In this philosophical treasure he states "Some people throw bird crumbs to the bums while other people use these crumbs." I throw out the garbage better then all the politicians, businesses, and sanitation crews on earth combined. Nothing and nobody, living or dead, throws out the garbage's crap better then I do. You my dear are the sweetest, most talented, and most beautiful garbage collector the world has ever known, in even the most trashiest of its days. I love it when you throw your trash my way.

I'm still trying to play a fiddle with the talent you were taught to use your clarinet. I am a mere fiddle on a roof. Meet your fiddeling garbage collector on top of his roof anytime of days gone by. My poor existence has changed into a fiddeling, riddling, maddening rhyme.

I don't like getting graphic but I miss your ham and eggs. Now with the kitchen gone they can't be made by you. Feed yourself with the love you feed the world and you will be blessed for eternal life. Its true that I - Billy The Kid, am loaded with happiness only life can supply - with the help of its joys. It's people like you that let love into my life. You will always travel with me and be part of my lonely path. True beauty lies in the heart of its beholder. Please God may you always walk in light.

By Jonathan Billet

Frozen August

"FROZEN AUGUST"

Gangsters always ask their wives, "Is it true that we are all dead guys with beady eyes?"

Junkies ask their sons if their noses really run.

Lover's thighs are as hot as summers' July's.

There will be a full moon in the afternoon next June.

Soon someone will discover a new Beedle's old tune.

A balloon's package full of light, fragile, air should be handled with loving care.

Its delivery will be a mystery in the theory of her story's history.

Drunks and lawyers pass their bars with glamorous movie stars while dead men play on their sitars.

I, for one, would like to play for fun, underneath a starry sun.

All of us like to bawl all ya all.

Dough rises, as do prices, and pregnant women's belly buttons.

What goes up - must come down - except the stock market and mother's stomach.

That is until they are ready to deliver their dividends.

I roll on the floor quoting stock prices and watching palpitations.

In the meanwhile there are just expansions and contractions until delivery of this heady's heavy surprise.

Yes - the world in it's miraculous sunrise.

Be Wise - You Nice Guys!

Jonathan Billet On Muerte De Mayo - 05/10/54 Date Of Birth

Mean Jon's Blog

"A Problem I Have Dealt With"

If it looks like it, and smell like it, it is it. 

I'm having a hard time staying off the pot.

Addicted to it for life.

Get diarrhea or constipation all the time.

Been on it since I was 5.

I don't sell it but I produce loads of it.

Some people can't afford to buy.

Others have plenty.

Everyone is high on the pot.

It costs to buy and buys to cost.   

When you burn it - it stinks to high heaven.

Personally - I can't stand it. 

I wipe my ass with rolling paper.                                             

It's like torture to my soul.

I say destroy it.  

Let my epitaph read, "May I rot on my pot!" 

By Jonathan Billet alias Edgar Allen Pooh