has studied physics, math, modern and ancient languages and has taught college literature.
Among his credits are The New Republic, The London Magazine and Light Quarterly.
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At the FigLoaf Writers Conference,I went to the Old One—
Bigfoot, they said, was his name.
He taught me to live on poetry and eat paper.
I said, Speak to me of God. He clapped one hand
Three times and a sunflower peeked out of his ear.
“There are no more miracle-workers! Listen,
That is an extinct behavior pattern.”
Now, Bigfoot knows where it’s at and how it got there.
I said to him then, Speak to me of Philosophy.
And the sunflower fell to the table, glowing a terrific orange.
My teacher, the connoisseur Bigfoot, tossed back his head and sang,
“Said Bishop George Berkeley, looking
Through a beer glass darkly
‘When a Tree Slaps the Ground
God Riffs With the Sound. Amen.’”
I said to my up-to-the-minute friend, the Neanderthal,
I said, Speak to me of the Meaning of Life.
And at the table where all of us lived on poetry,
A soda can winked at another soda can.
My pundit, the Enlightened One, whispered,
“You must not play two guitars at once. Ravel would never
Approve. Don’t do it.”
I spoke again to the Sasquatch, I said, Speak to me of Love.
The soda cans hugged near the sunflower that was orange.
And the Sultan of Swing said,
“Love floats like a butterfly and stings like a small hymenopteran.
Love avoids serpents.
Love is the superstructure and the base.
Love can be fuzzy and love is a kiss.
Love, be a lady, tonight.”
And I left Bigfoot floating about ten inches above literature,
With the soda cans running madly
In smaller and smaller circles,
While the sunflower made eyes at me.