troysherdahl

marbles or jacks— the playing stops

don’t step on that crack or you’ll

break your mama’s back— and thrown away

garbage gum is sticking to your flipflops

in a painting by Gérôme

some hundred and fifty years old

tiny Napoleon Bonaparte sits

on a brown horse

looking at the Sphinx

nose to no nose—

“Hello Sphinx, welcome me!

I am a great general like your Ramses.

I assure you, many French soldiers will die

so I can achieve his former glories!”

his campaign in the Orient

is at a standstill spent 

under the constant desert sun

the Battle of the Nile is lost to Horatio

but the Battle of the Pyramids is won

a revolt of Cairo is put down fast

the new divan is in place, at last

so Egypt is quiet

“It is time, my friends, to go

we must search out ancient things

that Alexander might have touched

to see what Enlightenment they bring!”

Napoleon is a determined ego

and adventurous, like Indiana Jones so

he sets out with his staff and savants

to rediscover a long-lost mystery

that there is a possibility

a canal was cut in antiquity

connecting the Gulf of Suez to the Red Sea

by the Pharaohs, Senusret and Necho

“Let them say, this was the greatest day

when this expedition set out bold,

to discover secrets of the Égyptienne

for France’s glory to uphold!”

three hundred men, some with fez

march three days across Suez

in uniforms with scarves du jour

at one point they take a big detour

into Arabia to look for more

like the celebrated Fountains of Moses

but to no avail and back on the trail

they discover, in fact, that Canal of the Pharaohs

“O’ Glorious God! Thank you for my destiny!

France will have its connection to Mysore,

I will beat the British out of India and

the name of Napoleon will be one of lore!”

fulfilling its aims

and nursing its pains

heading back this expedition

survives the heat and thirst attrition

but in the tide, Bonaparte nearly drowns

and by most staff accounts

the little master expounds

that he’s destined to be an emperor

“I hate this sun, the unholy flies,

this desert and its infernal sand.

Let us beat the drums, fight the Turks

and go invade the Holy Land!”

in a painting by Gérôme

some hundred and fifty years old

tiny Napoleon Bonaparte sits

on a white camel

looking out at the Suez

le misérable—

“These were painted by Gérôme some

hundred and fifty years after I died.

I wish I could tell you that I like them, yet

they are not quite grand enough… for my pride.”

open grave, open casket

welcome back

to the bread basket—

and dead dolls have no eyes

this alley of rust

is a junkyard coulee

filled with dead dolls and derelicts

no crusher will ever bust

not just farm trucks

but once proud sedans

even an out of place convertible

out of luck

and I wonder where these dolls have been?

and what they’ve seen?

now home to spiders

snakes, rabbits, mice but

microorganism breakdowns

are now the permanent drivers

and dolls sigh through open doors

and bullet holes

weeds and willow trees

have grown through floorboards

and out busted windows to dance

with tall grass in the foothill breeze

the pink Caddy it seems

looks especially forlorn

like the aging movie star

and her lost American dream

and the old doll is looking rougher

an extreme makeover won’t fix her

brown spots become oxide cavities

broken iron bones, seized organs

and her lost chromium dream

as Mother Nature claims the fee

and from empty sockets to red eyes

I swear she winked at me

dumped ’til eternity calls

rust to dust, metal to ashes

unless there’s an impossible intervention

rescue or reanimation—

in the valley of the dolls

Sam swam his waters of

same-same regret

every day

and he was drowning—

his bottomless blue despair

made him wet with fret

so totally, and the anxious

currents went

down the same drain

in eddies of the exoteric—

black waters of

wasted time

pulled him under

routine had made him

mean and

he was afraid that always

swimming in the known

would fill his lungs

and dilute his spirits

drifting on the days

his lost board floated to him

and he climbed aboard a whim

standing, steadying himself to ride

balancing on his new found pride

he rode a giant and

he was afraid, man

it was a leap of faith

and Sam’s heart raced

but the wind had shifted

and he was lifted, riding

into the unknown rush

of the sweet air savior—

now Sam rides waves of

diverse anticipation

riding the unknown

to unknown nations

doing something

a little different

every day

—unafraid,

is a wave

a rip curl to

somewhere, dude

with kindness

and mindfulness—

riding the unknown

it’s paradise road for meat-eaters

ranches everywhere

beef, bison, even llamas

and tasty free-range bear

trophy buck, big ol’ moose

you gotta watch it, see?

’cause critters always gettin’ loose

and crossin’ Highway 3—

this stretch is bad junk

you could hit somethin’ and kill

a porcupine or stinky skunk

to pick out of your grill

but she likes that

she hopes you do

and she won’t have to pay

her oily feathers shine

in the asphalt heat of midday

the lunch is ready, time to dine

then traffic comes her way

so she flaps to the fence post

licks her beak ’til she can carry on

gopher, deer make rotting roast

and she loves the carrion

down the road from Paradise Hill

out on Highway 3

an American crow eats fresh road kill

quite ironically

in front of the Paradise Hill Meat House

and the Paradise Hill Meat House is closed

for the holiday

there is no meat for sale today

but the crow has got some

if you want some

just stop— you won’t have to pay

for the insomniac

that doesn’t get R.E.M.

is something hacked

in the brain stem?

wired for sound

from white noise

to black silence

the inner voices

and outer static

neighbors parties

sirens screaming

but melatonin is

disturbing dreaming

rolls and turns

pillow punches

kick off the covers

stop caffeine lunches!

street light glare

sweats sticky heat

brrrrr… cold in there

need somethin’ to eat

like warm milk ‘n toast—

squishy ear plugs

blinder masks

sleeping drugs

or counting tasks

jumping sheep— why?

bite me, little tsetse fly

the late, late TV sadness

means no sleep madness

for the insomniac

sleep— precious

sleep

wherefore art thou, zee’s?

she’s got a shy sweet smile

most of the time

she’s my lil’ sugar

but when she’s happy

to see me

I get a little dimple

from her right side

and her brown eyes

get kinda wide

it’s cute as hell—

the asymmetry is simple

perfection

so why am I jealous?

’cause dc gets two

dc always gets two dimples

and her brown eyes

get real wide

then she can’t hide

how much she loves

dc

damn you, dc!

I’m jealous of you

don’t you see?

dark chocolate!

you always get

two dimples—

but not me

my mind is a black hole

dark and foreboding

my mind is a life spark

bright veins all exploding

my mind is the plains

limitless, not flat

my mind is the mountains

peaks and valleys like that

my mind and my soul speak

of the creator inside

my mind is the love

that’s lost in our pride

my mind is the comet

that sails from far off

my mind is a wave

that I surf from the top

my mind is a universe

in my mind’s little eye

my mind is a speck

in a freedom flight sigh