Demon Box

The dry time passed as all times will.
Back to the crippled county
Returned the rain, the sprouts to till,
And seeming endless bounty.

The guests all gathered up and left
With their advice and axes…
Old Ruth ragdanced on to death
Her land was sold for taxes
land was sold for taxes
Ragweed Ruth danced on to death
Her land was sold for taxes.

Pack of Walnettos

Sister Lou had a shop on the corner
Four kids and a veteran in bed
All day to the old she sold dresses made over
And dressed soldiers all night in her head…

God grant me a pack of Walnettos
And the Good Book to sermon upon
Let me shine like a flash through the trash in the ghettos
And I’ll light those darkies’ way home.

At the keyboard they found the professor
Done in by downers and wine
The bottle still cold on the old walnut dresser
The metronome still keeping time…

God give me a pack of Walnettos
And the Good Book to sermon upon
Let me burn like a beacon for the weak in the ghettos
And I’ll light those darkies’ way home.

Annie Greengums ate nuthin but veggies
Rubbed organic oils on her skin
Wore leg hair and a pair of corrective wedgies
She had found in the recycling bin…

God send me a pack of Walnettos
And the Good Book to sermon upon
Let me loom like a lamp in the damp and dark ghettos
And I’ll draw those darkies back home.

Little Lupe learned feminist lingo
With a lesbian accent to boot
But she married a ring and a grape-growing gringo
With weekdays to match every suit.

Please God just a pack of Walnettos
And the Good Book to sermon upon
Like a torch send me forth to scorch out the ghettos
And I’ll hotfoot those darkies on home.

Brother Memphis hit a St. Louis deli
For a pig’s foot and a handful of change
Got away on a train with a pain in his belly
Died next day in Des Moines of ptomaine.

Dear God a pack of Walnettos
And the Bible to sermon upon
Shine like a flash through the trash of the ghettos
Light all us poor darkies back home.

Finding Doctor Fung

“Oh, by the way,” is how the question was usually broached, whenever I encountered anybody able to understand enough English, “have you any information regarding the fate or whereabouts of your nation’s renowned philosopher, Dr. Fung Yu-lan?” This usually received pretty much the same response—“Fung Yu Who?”—and usually prompted some wordplay from one of my three American companions, such as “Yoo-hoo, Yu-lan?” when they saw me drop back to quiz some citizen.

This trio—our magazine editor, the sports photographer, and Bling, the Beijing-born Pittsburgh-raised student of Chinese law—had all concurred days ago that the object of my inquiry was, at his earthly most, a mist from China’s bygone glories. At his least, just another hoked-up curiosity in Dr. Time’s seamy sideshow—like the Cardiff Giant or D. B. Cooper. The quest did lend a kind of Stanley-looking-for-Livingstone class to our tour, however, so they weren’t impatient with my inquiring sidetrips.