Rocking At The Cave Man Hop

There is no exception to the angst

not even in being well-read

intelligent and full of pondering

and playing the world in your head

like a Rubik’s Cube

trying to twist and configure everything

back to its origins

from the mixed up chaos it is.

Perhaps even more so

when confronted with the reality

that putting two thoughts together

in a world of wet gossip

is akin to dog-paddling upstream

with busted haunches

through a coral reef of crass concordance.

And still….

And still

the bedroom sophisticate must look down

at his forearms

at sixteen—or sooner—

and wish to use them to level the world

the reptile sleepily dorming

in the pleasure center of his brain

giving a moist hot hiss

and a caressing flit of its tongue

against the grumpy gray matter

goading him on

while the caveman in his blood

grabs his priapic cudgel

that wood tool of destruction

to beat out his timpani of haste

and frustration.

Beating out the blues

to a blue beat.

No dinosaur is safe.