Friday, November 20, 2009

The President's Toking

The President's toking applause
Unsure how it'll affect him,
Heads shift into a mirage
Of desert sands shelled by grins.
Diamond teeth and wide jewls
--Those same lobbed down Wallstreet,
Stare firm like banks' fineprint rules
That grab shop, State, and grain replete.

Resticitive sleaves can't keep
From turning like bailed-out crank shafts,
Dripping hair sweat to feet
And misaligning sugical grafts.

Oven mouths raise bread
In reved-up breaths, baking banners,
The podium, its seal blushed red,
Rewrought by one-sounded hammers,
"My fellow Americans
. . . etc. " Plying over and over,
Between the typical phrasings
And the rest of those prime movers.

Why take it in? No, 'cause,
Inhale and watch the room spin
With the President toking applause
Unsure how it'll affect him.

Monday, October 5, 2009

The Old Waterfall


Stay indoors
when waterfall lines
can't complete
the thought

with iron


waterfall lines
in the sun
of this bored day

so bored is boring day
bored in dirt
bored a hole

it's enough to
take the time
and see
yet again

more broke lines
trickling as a


October waterfall
shining at
the boring sun
and boring lines
in dirt

the water
of the heart

not heart

the water of this
is October
the last trickling
after the monsoon
before powder

white powder
that makes wave
white rapids

at sun

to send a flowing
fall soon

to send
breaking iron
will bend in fluid
with less breaks
in lines

after this death
after agonized faces
run boring

the only

that would breathe
and see
broke in place
where jewls
they're found


in this break




A convention center rusts below. It's goers shift and walk slowly before the dying fall. Agony presses these squinting eyes and furrowed brows that tell themselves to go on, on to the top, despite obvious pressure. Along the side of the trail, some cross their legs teary-eyed keeping it in, and dance a crooked dance before completing their ascent. The final leg is littered with prune juice containers and dried fruit bags. These agonized faces face relief just up . . . .
Those already making their runs say a prayer and give thanks for what is running so faintly, so vaguley. With ears pressed down to the rock, they hear its radiance whispering, "you can do it, you can save. Keep me going."
And for the sake of this dying fall, for the sake of all those decades past when they witnessed its spraying magnificence, a foreman on top signals though his megaphone
"Go! Let loose! keep it running!"
The squating conventioners ring their music through the cliffs, trickling faint gifts of life. Reems await their turn to make those same sweet sombre tones, to remember, to dream.
Oh, but it dies despite! And I hear the convention center isn't keeping up its dues. Yet on they march. On they go along steep trails in agonized faces, longing for their flowing fall, waving white to the sun.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Kill Me Hardly

Puss Princesses
& Pansy Princes
Are getting sentimental

Are writing poetry

To shit styles in piss

Make too many words
Say nothing
Make too many words
Avoid transitions

Comment on the art
Want art



We're writing stuff so meaningful
That when you don't see it you aren't meaningful, go away.

It's the world of stabbing eyes
Shooting energies
Bitch worlds
When energy's there,
To mold our own vision for it,

Cracked turtles trailing blood.

Beneath the Autumn wood
You have sung me songs, clouds
Shown which path's truely good
Out of these wandering reams of crowds
That stab at Earth
For bits of worth.
Show them what you showed me, clouds?
Yeah well that's not my job
chit chat with individual wills as a mob,
...Oh but that's what you did say,
.............Above the darkened rain
Wandering wills are too much to contain
None know what each will do
This is the only thing that's true.

So did that do it, did I tell them okay, did I listen?
Fucken ell, can't I enjoy clouds without divine mission?

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

It's Time For a Drink (A Poem in Limericks)

There's nothing so great as feelings that sink
Cause then it's off with the lads for a drink,
I take up my shot
And brawl with the sots
The next day wond'ring ow come I can't think.

There's nothing so great as feelings that sink
Cause what's that? Yep, it's time for a drink.
It's only by the shot
I can fade 'way my lot
As the more I drink, the more lasses wink.

There's nothing so great as to pick up a drink
Bandy it about and wreck up a stink
Pissing a lot
With all that you got
Nothing so great voiding feelings that sink.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

A Triolet and a Tanka


Again I leave as malcontent
As slamming rotted window sills
That send up bugs dead, dust, and lint.
Again I leave as malcontent
A mutt who can't afford cheap rent
But send me stars, horizon!--'til
Again I'll leave as malcontent
As slamming rotted window sills.


Red beams give a rash
To all these shriveled up rocks
Where trees stoop down low
And waves arise from asphalt,
Baking critters on the road.

Friday, September 18, 2009


The rock that tumbled and mountains that drowned
Were cross-examined by the atomists.
They sampled its hard structure, loosened dust,
Under microscopes fed it, saw nothing:
Chemicals reacted as predicted.
Down here nothing's unseen, nothing above
Happened that wasn't predicted wasn't
Forseen. Those that died are totally unseen
In the dirt and earth; one with the mountains
They ring. Nor geologists have better to add,
They're mixed-up clay, chemically correct,
But transposed across terrain, bounced off backs
From living bone-heads to the living mounts.
No wrong no evils touch embedded ones,
Just bits of atoms
......................On the thirsty rocks
That no longer need to want.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

There Was Never . . .

There was never
...a god of restraint
though lawyers dream.

I called to Bacchus
....or Dionysus
....What do you want
to be called?
Like the one kid
the teacher never pronounces
I feel I've insulted someone
in broke lines.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Undedited Journals of What I Was Considering in the Nascent Pursuit of Literature

From school year 2002-2003:


She sings somlemnly in a yellow head.
Your blind side troubles few
For they've never heard you sing
Only ones that see love you anyway.

Moscow's abandoned
its spectacle turned bliss.
What once was full dogmatic,
now houses free-thinkers.

A bare heavy beat
when water lifts its sovreign height
and its iron ore can no longer
succeed in what it came to build.

A note to a friend during class:

We have to change our dumb blonde
class thinking into discussion thinking.
I'll disagree with something and
you agree no matter how crazy
it sounds, okay?

However in the evening
turned a departed wing,
in a week it goes ape.

Lonely muse of intellect,
where are your followers,
where are your cuddlers?

You wake up lacking rhetorical ability.
You can't perceive images, they have no value
until the night casts upon your brain,
your brain experienced from day.
It is better never to sleep.

This year, this year will be madness,
constant nights in endless thought.

Pandemonium, blossoming night
. . . things will see straight again
for now it's down to dreams,
wrecked and harmonized,
swinging forth, uncontrolled and swift.

Winter/Spring 2003-2004

The nieghbors, taking notice of my
flower-picking, scolded me and
told me to leave. I grabbed another and vanished,
rubbing them on my body. It hardly
does any good, that smell always
linguers. It's infinitely better just
to drink and be drunk.

Almost as if there are no correct
answers and everyone has their own

Love. What is love?
Incessant caresses,
painful goodbyes.

There's more, next time.

Friday, September 11, 2009

For My Friends Who Are Sick (Like Me)

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

There's no time,
when sapped of mortal energy
the casket queen
is a beckoning.

Why me?

Poh wee-wee
caught neath covers
with dis hich-up
or dey coughs cuh cuh hut hut
cuh cuh hut hut.
Foh wee-wee.

But that's the truth isn't it?
I'm 103 degrees F and it's only
21 Degrees C out there.
I'm lying naked cause
My body burnt off its clothes.

poo-head my head's
a poo-poo-wee

Yeah that last line's
How did I get here?
It wasn't by taxi.
I would have remembered
bailing without paying.

Spinny room
round and round
round and round
spinny room lost
then found
then not found
end found round.

My mucus is
like a shock of hot piss syrup
down my esophegus
and I've been balled up
on my bed tearying up
for 2 hours straight
because I know I won't survive
to write that preceding simile somewhere,
somewhere my boss can find it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Why me?

I'm patenting this bed,
it's a toilet-chew toy
barf bag that you can sleep on.
Edison can suck it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

I know I'm being sucked somewhere,
where colors are brightly dull--
--That's the Queen's tricks,
and they're not cheap.
I asked her if I could know her secrets,
last year.

She told me to shuv it.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

I've shuved it sideways,
upways, downtown, up over,
and you know something?
I feel better.

Cuh cuh hut hut.

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Tell my wife and kids that I . . . hooowahhhh

Go to the Casket Queen now, there's no time!

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Leaving the House

I press shut my front door
Trying what it might give,
Sever the anxious roar
Pinning me to my chair.

In quick sets of hours
I've heard all clashing words
Traveling down many paths
Multiplied by copper cord.

Legs had long disappeared
In the arm of a chair
But now scream like death curred
Dragged from sleep by the hair;

For here's a fresh switch
For hive heads in circus worlds,
Full of sounds but wanting more
Wanting straight to the head,

To head out brittle-eyed,
Peering light-seered darkness
With taut holes needle-sized
Where suns turned after day.

Where those suns turned through holes,
I took down--and what sights:
Faded trees, drying air
Broken leaves, and no one.

Who'd leave a better world?

The cover of a screen
Gives what's wanted only,
Colors ray and speakers
Twist to any form wished,
And the graying world's seen
In higher clarity.

I deadbolt my front door,
Hope I'll plug one more day
Into the anxious roar
And another and more.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


They're pouring back in, the whole world,
Done wandering and organizing
The hours into a place-mold,
As waving Scorpio's rising.

The crouched boxes let them back in:
Humming heads numb, stiff legs undone.
Latched in, they won't be seen again
'Til a birdbox squawks up their sun

And it's down the blood-stream again,
Goaded to organize the bore,
Waddle through another command;
Long done in, return to their door.

Crouch here, so blushing Atlas sees
How burdens that hold up the world
Are maintained when their dangling keys
Bolt shut behind them days wrung old.

Crouch here, lower than this hunched box
And drink from their reviving pools:
Flickering blues through blinds detox,
Washing away exhausted rules.

So blue through bolt window's cover,
That plugged bare into those sources,
Ponce De Leon discovers
his Florida and Stevens his,

Yet flows to fizzle in the street,
The long of the night won't regard,
These flickering blinds, darkness eats,
Holding its better sense apart.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Two Triolets And a Limerick

I recently found Evelyn N. Alfred's blog Evelyn N. Alfred, where she writes some poems in a form called a triolet. It's a very musical form with several refrains, which I failed to do in my first attempt because I didn't follow the example that closely, and so made a second. The meter is in iambic tetrameter with an ABaAabAB rhyme scheme (the capitals are the refrain). But memorizing terms like those is probably what killed poetry. Instead, find a poem that you consider a full expression of the art and directly imitate it. Lack of imitation and severing all influence is probably what killed poetry.

Did you kill poetry? To see if you did, answer correctly this trivia: Example #2 still deviates from being a true triolet, why is this?

Please be sure to let me know if you enjoyed these, how you feel about the forms, if they're worthwhile, if poetry's worthwhile, or anything else you're thinking in the comments. Enjoy.

Last Night Dream

My dream last night was more than real,
You felt me wrap my sheets around,
Yet pain was none nor fear did feel,
The land I dwelt was too ideal:
All troubles first did quickly heal
Then all bright sights and sounds were wound
In sense so free without a seal,
I weep to know it won't be found.


The leaves today go all a twirl,
My house, it seems, will blow away!
They come, unite in berry swirl,
The leaves today go all a twirl.
Come join us, neighbors, in the whirl,
Your home might not survive this day,
The leaves today go all a twirl,
My house, I hope, will blow away!

My Limerick:

There Once Was a Girl . . .

There once was a girl with more hair
Than's contained in circumferenced air.
She would grab all her lovers,
Under those strands for covers,
So they'd know her clothes weren't there.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Selected Haiku

The ruby I bought
Now sits beside everything
Else I've discarded.

Rain taps on roof tops,
Impatiently wait for it
To stop already.

The food is ready,
Prepared without much money
Yet nothing's better.

Water trickling down
A brook also carries a
Way the day's effects.

The lifting bee knows
How to use and find nectar,
Nice to know purpose!

She wants to find 'it'
Near the 'thing' by the 'doo-dad.'
I'm not gonna help.

Though young I've grown old,
Staring too long at the clock
To move a little.

I see my finger
Pointing at everyone now,
At least I'm still safe.

Let's go for days sounds,
The streams of roads and people
Caught in their whirlpools.

This land was desert
Before people brought in green
Water and gardens.

There are many paths
And they say none are wrong but
I have to choose one.

Raising a boulder
Takes many heroes drudging
In the day to day.

Bacchus is no name
Any sober person sings,
That's why he's called that.

He carries his bat
Inside the ice cream parlor,
Smiles at the girl.

The deadline is near
So I'll cram, finish maybe
With buckets of sweat.

Though impossible,
It must be done and done well,
And so is worthwhile.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

All Their Forgotten Names

All the gods and their forgotten names escaped
Off our bloated land, jaws dropping as they flew.
I suspect the sight of junk's what did them in,
I suspect the shout of a vendor's so-old!
How long's it been since one caught a shining glimpse?
Nope--they're gone--and plastic pieces pump our pipes.
But I called these junk that work perfectly well,
Let me try and make up this apology:
The pressed-out wax cups lining every highway
Work as well as when the fat kid sucked down juice,
Bums who love nothing else quickly pick them up.
Red as makes one wish blood colors plastics through,
Sturdy as when pumped out. How like a bullet,
We're covered in soup straight out of China's bowels
Moulded into trinkets old women collect.
All this is going on a hundred years now,
A hundred years of backed-up houses spraying
Incontinent over their porches and yards,
A hundred years of withered blocks pricking land
That lie waiting for rust or to get so-old.
Kick it in with your toe and it's no wonder
All the gods and their forgotten names escaped.