Saturday Night

He had traveled far and deep into the Amazon
to find the three right words to serve for dinner,
but it turned out to be a silent meal.
That’s just one example.
When he climbed high into the Peruvian Andes,
he was greeted by a family with colorful hats
and coats who told him to go back,
he had come the wrong way.
Once he had flown across the Pacific Ocean,
but as it was, he slept through the long flight —
perhaps due to the Going Away Party
from the night before, the wine . . .
The contemplative time he spent wandering
in the desert failed to inspire a new religion,
and his three month retreat in Tibet ended abruptly
when he was discovered with the nun.
He had hired a guide to take him to the pyramids,
but it was so hot that he just wanted to return
to the hotel and drink Gin & Tonics.
Out on the ballroom dance floor, all the dancers
blended into each other in such an odd way
that he couldn’t really tell them apart.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, so he decided
dancing was not for him, he’d much rather snorkel,
though he never bought the mask and fins.
Now, even though he listened for hours
to smooth beat tracks from Squid Ethics,
he was unable to compose a single stanza.
He finally turned off the computer and went outside.
Three large deer were waiting there, just staring at him.
They all had large antlers with numerous prongs.
This gave him an idea which he couldn’t remember later.
Nevertheless, he still had a heartbeat, so this was good —
he was not going to give up, put on the suit and tie,
squat in a cubical and furtively download porn.
He sent off several letters with no return address,
inquiring about jobs in the Merchant Marine.
Isn’t that what Jack Kerouac did, or one of those guys?
If he had really been serious, he might have signed
his name and given his address.
Still, just making the effort, such as it was,
felt pretty good, pretty good indeed.
Maybe someday he would do something, or not.
He wasn’t sure. Nor were his friends.
They talked about him after he had fallen asleep
on the couch, but he knew not what they said.
No, he was deep into his dream by then.
In the dream, he had fallen asleep on the couch,
and couldn’t make out what the voices were saying.
Maybe it was the television, offering a chance
to get in on a major class action law suit, or else
get your teeth really white and sparkling — in the dream
he couldn’t decide which was the better strategy.
And so it had come to this, a dream within a dream,
but that was alright, it was Saturday Night,
and he had no complaint.


(Picture by Weronika Gesicka)


About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales: Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
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