Here's a poem I wrote, which received mixed reviews, about the Wakoskiness transcribed in my last post, doublespaced for your editing pleasure:

Ringed

say the Californian Desert has a

snake even you don’t yet know about.

stretched out,

it’s shorter than a one-dollar bill;

coiled up,

it’s rounder than a quarter—

yeah, a quarter—

with guess-who hissing silver, well, mostly copper,

excuses for his leftmost finger.

this snake’s bitten me there,

at my finger’s root,

and it didn’t unbite me,

even as my pinky,

(which quickly became my bluey,

then my purpley,)

began to die—now,

I’m afraid I’m drinking tea politely,

with my blacky finger extended, and

adorned, you could say,

with my fierce, little companion,

whom luckily,

is venomous enough for

only one small finger, that I never really used

for much. Though,

it was helpful for some guitar chords,

scratching an itchy ear,

the shocker, (of course),

and making promises with left-handed friends.

and sometimes, it talks to me,

but I can’t understand it.

conversation’d be tough enough without

its face stubborn in death-flesh, still,

I ask, can it feel around in there,

with its forked-tongue,

for what nation’s moniker is carved into

my piano-key bones?

and sometimes, when I think I notice a change in color,

I think it must be reminding

me what mood I’m in, but then

I remember how mood-snakes work—

cold-bloods can’t tell a bad or nice temper!

it’s never green and yellow—it’s

always, always chartreuse!

that desert sense of temperature must be off

in Midwest sands.

and sometimes, on late dune walks, or

in quiet, white, museums,

I think I hear it thinking

through my finger to my palm,

elbow, armpit, throat,

and brain: “take me off, you phony!

pry me off, for your sake!,

you look ridiculous!”

But, I know what happens when you do. The

black-moon boy—

he became poet too, but only sort of:

no more “pinky-ring shit.”

We assumed

his would evaporate by midday,

anyway.

But, my ring and I must,

hold fast in our judgments,

like a toupee-wearing gentleman

that’s been laughed at and by his coworkers—

you know, back in Washington’s day,

even wigs were cool.

But my chance to wear it and

not be embarrassed, in my

pinky of pinkies, I know

is gone with the 60s—

you’ll see the decline marked in history-book timelines someday.

oh, I hope you don’t hate me for being obstinate,

it’s just that now the snake ring is rebellious, but

when next it sheds its skin,

I’ll let you have it, if you like.