Mucking Around

Mucking around on the far side of life,
yep, that's me, writing about myself again,
in a cool breeze, writing to the sound of much activity
in the courtyard beyond the open window,
dog yarping, men conversing in low voices,
and the traffic roar of Saturday night-slash-
Sunday morning ...
it's been a long slow weekend since I had no
work on Friday
and terrifically hot during this heatwave
engulfing Europe
so it's been a lot of lying on the bed staring at the ceiling;
napping in the daytime and suffering insomnia in the
nighttime.
This "isn't really poetry" but I can't help it, it's just my mood,
my doom, my modernity,
my passivity in the face of the Great Buddha.
I fly slowly, heavily down the road under an Arizona sun.
Flap arms drearily in the heat. Fingertips
brushing the fiery asphalt. Must catch a rising current
but the heat seems at this moment to be operating in reverse,
pulling me down toward the ground
(i.e., instead of down toward the sky).
(That's a play on words.)
(Help, I am trapped within parentheses.)
(Within (v(i(b(r(a(t(i(o(n(s(.))))))))))))
Like a lion on the tip of a potting wheel,
Like a complete unflown,
Like a strolling roan.
Whistling a tune, I'm such a dude,
my mood, my doom, my doom, my mood,
my method, my deathhead, I need a breathhead,
my moo moo moo, my do do do,
my modern dottage, up late in the cottage,
my moon, my dune, my lingering tune,
my doobidy doo-wop say what yeah.