Now that I know Bali's a duckrabbit island,
I'm afraid to go there: What if it goes Wicker
and I'm nick-caged in a burning man kicker --
girls laughing as I flame up, while men grow vile and
call me Presbo, but thank me for the coming rain
and encourage me to curse them -- bugabugaboo --
while I watch go up -- poof -- all that I thought was true;
my last, lost moments a new paradigm of pain?
On the other hand, my daughter grooves on Bali;
looks out at the intermittent light of fireflies
over the rice paddies under the fading skies --
one and many -- guitar rambling soft and palely.
Early evening seas above and around, small lights
can't keep their promise to guide me through inner nights.
