Desert's Hand

"Desert's Hand"

A desert without any sand.

22 fingers without a hand.

A world without any land.

Cigars without any tobacco.

Railroad tracks without any steel.

A frame without a painting.

A television without a picture.

A rain without any sky.

People that never cry.

Relatives that never die.

Love that never flies.

An empty Campbell's soup can.

A poisoned Superman.

A James Earl Ray fan.

A radiator that gives no heat.

A toilet without a seat.

Clapper's feet.

A Bubblegum Rapper's beat.

Playing in the street.

Animals beating their meat.

Times to eat.

By Jonathan Billet

Bubble Gum Rapping With Linda At Starbocks

"Bubble Gum Rapping With Linda At Starbocks"

I was sitting across from a cute blond at Starbocks. 

Told her I hated getting up in the dark morning on winter days. 

We both agreed that winter was a bad time of the year because it got darker earlier at night, and the sun didn't come out until later in the morning, making it harder to rise from bed.

I told her that spring and fall were my two best seasons.  She told me spring was her best.

I got up for my second cup of iced green tea and sat back down with her.  I told her my name was Jon and gave her one of my cards.  Told her I liked writing poetry.  Linda responded that she looked forward to reading some of my poetry, and introduced herself by shaking my hand.  She went to talk to somebody, and left.

I went for a third cup of ice tea.  Chriss, my Starbock's barista, told me to go out and do a rain dance for the inclement condition.  I walked outside and performed a sun dance.

I told the guy at Starbocks that I knew that he and the people who work there have been swiping my cards in the machine and robbing me of all my money.

Some guy came in tonight and said working at Starbocks was out of the question.  The turn over rate was much to high.  Not as high as the turn over rate at the cemeteries, I replied.

So Linda, if you read this, try to reply without any English accent.  I'd be troubled if you wouldn't because I sound like I speak with an accent myself.  

Jon Billet

To Cary

"To Cary"

A universal truth's fruit in a gambler's suit.

Mirrored dream giving off my reflection.

A Catholic girl stuck in this mirror with me.

A green and red plaid miniskirt dress wears itself in this dream.

She tosses a medicine ball to her schoolmates in the mirror.

They stand still in front of Starbucks at 5 A.M. with me.

In one of my dream's fantasies, there was a radiator.

Running every other day like a nose with a cold.

To this dream, I add a moon without a cow jumping over it.

All the other farm animals are passing over.

Elephants, giraffes, and kangaroos jump over.

Even humans give it a try.

I am a lonesome cowboy who doesn't know up from down.

All in this dream, I made up.

By Jonathan Billet 10/18/12

Ping-Pong On Jupiter

"Ping-Pong On Jupiter"


Elvis Once Did A Cover For Dylan Or Something Like That.
I Watched It On Television 60's.

Thou Art On Venus As Thou Art In Dirt.

I'm Just A Blind Turkey's Caboose On A Fire Truck.

Attended The London School Of Mortuary Sciences From 1911-1913.
Dug Dead People.
Still Digging.

I Was Circumcised Until Lobotomized.

I Am Just A Muppet's Puppet Named Kermit.
Col. Kermit.

Had An Affair With The Nanny.

Stop All The Singing And Flying.
A Song I Wrote In Nursery School And Never Finished Or Recorded.
Simply Called The Nursery School Blues.

Living Your Views Shot On The Morning News.
Done By My Pet Dinosaur Rex For The Sex Of It!
Really A Hit.

Can We Meet To Step On The Feet To A Different Beat?

I Got Written Up In The New York Time's Op-Ed Page.  Also, In Who Was Who.
Saw Myself On The Late Show.
I Am A Lead Guitarist.
I Worked With Wes Farrell.

I Play A Good Game Of Shot Put.

Love Driving The Family Ford.
A T-Bird I Borrow.

Write In Song.

Am Sexually Impotent.
Don't Have A Friend In The World But Rex, And He Can't Hear Well.

Fell Through The Floor And Hit The Ceiling.
I'm Sorry If I Upset You.

The Mind Like A Fine Wine Has To Be Fermented.

Jonathan Billet or Edgar Allen Poe.

Evening Lark

"Evening Lark"

It's too late for an late night lark in the park.

Starlit people love in the dark.

Holding the heart of time in our arms.

Madness moonlight all night.

A brush with velveteen’s dream's death.

After a paramour play's close call.

Musical beeping horns and violins sound from car windows.

In streets down below us.

While up and down we dance and clap a hand to a Dorsey band.

Wait late until 8:00 with my date.

Then it's fate to eat a festive feast from a plate.

On the city's docks, ships come into the bays.

Nights will turn into next week’s heavenly days.

After dusk, buildings emit dark shadowed nights' lights.

Habits and hobbies of the city’s citizens include-

Eating, sleeping, dreaming, and thinking.

Being stuck in a movie screen's frozen, foreign time.

In big and small spaces at different places.

All with different viewpoints and references of mind.

We wake with the city's wildlife.

Its multicolored horticulture.

And trees with a turned on mystical breezes.

Moving autumn leaves down the city streets.

By Jonathan Billet In November 10/16/12

African Tuning Fork

 "African Tuning Fork"

Have you ever discussed this instrument with someone?

It goes along with The Mad Hatter's Rock Band.

I saw them when I was young.

The lead guitarist was wearing green hush puppies.

A silver beedle turned red.

Was Paul dead?

We drank cherry coke's clam chowder.

In the middle of a cold shower.

Getting drunk on a sleepy saucy, salty sauté sauce.

Roasting peanuts.

Smelling freshly baked bread.

Tasting fresh brewed coffee.

Chamomile citrus tea drove me to distraction.

It made me walk into the sun.

I couldn't escape into or out of its shadows.

A melodic trance I heard in the 60's.

Played on an African Tuning Fork.

By a magical musician.

Accompanied by an angel's flutist.

At The Golden Gate Park.

Near the red bridge over a blue bay.

On a fun day.

By Jonathan Billet
From Aroma Cafe 10/12/12

Turn Off #1

"Turn Off #1"

You deal with everybody's career but your own.

You make them and break them.

All, except yours.

You don't have one.

You handle everyone.

But never allow yourself to be touched.

You deal with other people's money and careers.

Their fates and destinies.

You have no fate or destiny.

You're secure for the rest of your clients' lives.

You have no space for true love in your life.

Go live in your vacuum.

You deal with everybody else's life.

Because you can't deal with your own.

You have no life to speak of.

Other people's lives belong to you.

You own everything but anything.

All things yet nothing.

You wear everybody's clothes and think all thoughts.

Except your own.

You take pride in your secret life of manipulative annihilation.

You sit in a chair and breathe empty air.

You take up empty air in the universe's space.

You don't even belong in a place in outer space.

I don't like your face.

The world runs at a pace that is there for your grace.

You think you own the human race.

But you have no place.


Billet's On A Distant Relative. 10/07/12