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| [Is this your image? Let Da-da know.] |
Monday's Child Is In Your Face
by A Man Called Da-da
Monday's Child is in your face,
Tuesday's Child is off in space,
Wednesday's Child is full of WHOA
Thursday's Child won't say hello,
Friday's Child can't wait for Thanksgiving,
Saturday's Child is marginally forgiving,
And the Child who is born on the Sabbath Day...
is pretty much the same, but in a different way.
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| Saturday's child needs big pants. |
Ma-ma the Moon
There are so many things the ocean wants.
It wants to relax, to sleep.
To storm. A lot.
To toss silly ships and shippage.
To worry forgotten chunks of land, earth.
But what it really wants is the moon
silver and silky and strange
so near so often, yet often missed, sometimes far away
sometimes full of aliens
looked on by so many
often taken for granted by little people
but never forgotten by those who know,
loved for its sweetness, its saintly purview
swelled after and loved after by the salt of the earth,
the thoughts of the sea.
Da-da's Brain is Still Missing
Gap-toothed no-neck monsters
screech and gyrate in 6YO
floppy soliloquoy: bed time.
Meanwhile, Da-da's Swedish au pair
lies on a tanning bed blocks away, texting admirers
over blue hawaiians before booming for Vegas.
Gone.
But the joke's on her: she left
her birth-control God in the bathroom,
and conception is its own reward.
And still, Da-da's brain goes missing.
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| Oh. THERE it is. Powering a casino in Vegas. Huh. At least someone got some use out of it. (Psst... bet it all on 22 Black.) |
My heart trembles like a poor leaf.
The planets whirl in my dreams.
The stars press against my window.
I rotate in my sleep.
My bed is a warm planet.
—Marvin Mercer
P.S. 153, Fifth Grade, Harlem
New York City, N.Y. (1981)
