"my brother fears the jukebox in his head..." 

____________ 

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Richard Beban

All the Hits All the Time
 

My brother fears the jukebox in his head,
cranking out perpetual Fifties hits,
the echoes of performers long since dead.
"I think I'm going nuts," he gravely said,
"from Frankie Lymon, all those Coasters bits."
My brother fears the jukebox in his head 
is crowding out the brain cells that instead
should be applied to living by his wits,
not echoes of performers long since dead.
In his strained voice I hear that growing dread
of Jackie Wilson's apoplectic fits--
my brother fears the jukebox in his head.
I joked that he should line his skull with lead,
block Frankie, Ricky, all those other twits--
those echoes of performers long since dead.
I'll never cop that I'm forever fed
by Sixties flashbacks, Cream & acid hits.
I dearly love the jukebox in my head,
it flies the Airplane & the Grateful Dead.

 
 

Dancing with the One-Legged Man

When the one-legged man suddenly grew
his leg back, everything changed
& nothing.  He danced new steps
but with the same herky-jerky, one-pistoned
gait.  We all sang hosannas for him,
clapped a new rhythm
to his step, prayed for
lightness.  Not that this actually happened,
but when my friend Jake--
after thirty years of whining
obesity, throwing up in the sink
to top off capacious meals, incapacitated
by the slightest hint of the mating dance--
found Sally & she married him,
we all hopped the night away like the
one-legged man in that legendary
ass-kicking festival.  Not that this lasted--

the night, the dance, or the music.  Inside
this whining fat man was
a whining fat man trying
to get out.  The brief spark
snuffed when Sally left, tired
of the piston's monotonous
grind & chuff.  That's
Jake we see alone again
dancing, herky-jerky, still humming
the only tune he knows.
 
 

The Voyage

Li Po folded his poems into paper boats,
set them out upon the river, uncertain
they, he, or the world would survive.
He knew the river merged with something
grander, but that was itself a beginning,
not a destination at all.  By the time the poems

arrived, the ink had leached from the sodden
paper, pictographs became dark eddies,
whirlpools into which meaning was sucked

& drowned.  The once-words spread like
shadows over the gathered water, broke into
waves & set out for distant lands.

One of a Chorus of Angels

I am the angel of doubt
whose slow resurrection
is an everyday miracle.

My wings, appearing clipped
each evening, are majestic
again by dawn; opaque they

block the sun.  Feel them spread
around you, mimicking comfort,
familiar as the low murmuring
of mother, as father's hard-won
homilies.  I teach your true
potential, urge you to reach

no farther than you really can.
This is a hard life, disappointment
the fate of most; there is not

enough to go around.  Keep your head
low against my incorruptible breast,
seek solace in my encircling wings.

I am protection, sweet child, a feather
bed for you to sleep away
the trying, excruciating pain.