back to the pogo stick
of a very good poet
if not a friend
or a very popular popinjay
who would rule the world
with clean skin and a clean set of walls
camouflage carpet and desk
I’m still carrying this matchbox steamroller
in my pocket
but I know its got to go
its making me late
goldfinches fly by with invisible ink
the woodpecker laughs then the rain stops
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
back to the pogo stick
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Without further ado,
between themselves, they had discussed,
among matters of importance,
the potential of impotence,
when without further disgust,
between the first and second floors,
they disappeared through open doors,
into the night of KatmandU.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
I will not be disappointed in the outcome
I already did that
I left scratch marks in the well's stone walls
I wrote that story a thousand times
running down the railroad tracks
out of breath on rubber stilts
up the glacial ravine
the vertical leaps
adding more and more
to my true vocabulary
my dumb alphabet
no longer able to scream
in the dark
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
she put my shoes out in the trash
a different one called the police
yet another threw my belongings off a balcony
and I watched them smash on the sidewalk
with the neighbors laughing
the first stood accusing me to my face of infidelity
I wished I had commited
the one I married called me a loser
but wouldn't let go for years
somewhere in the middle are echos
of doors slamming
objects smashing against walls
insults and vows of revenge
once or twice there was pulled hair and bruises
I remember blood in a bathtub
my mother would become a monster
once a month
and swear I was not the fruit of her womb
I have no more excuses
the last one shocked with kindness
smiling as she sent me packing
just as long as I kept my mouth shut
I (almost) did
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
the Germans put an abstract, mechanistic,
dare we say, "high tech" blue-sky face on it...
but do they compare with 25 million plus in Meso America
under Spanish swords. Of course it took them fifty years...
are we measuring the damn things against time?
If we count the you-row-peon invasions of the Americas North and
South, in 300 years we pretty much wiped the natives out
and subsequent to the end of the Russian/German trip, Americans
got right to it again... not so much ethnic/racial cleansings
as across the board apocalyptic bomber pinpoint mayhem;
mostly by client stooges bought, taught, and paid for
by US of A's happyface consumptive SUV wonders.
I guess for sheer numb_brrrs Hitler's 15 years
takes the prize and the way we paperclipped
his intellectual minions was a damn crime
gettin' in bed with the lot of 'em for 55 years
plantin' 'em in Hunsville Georgia
where nary a soul noticed -
puts a whole new complexion on
Everyone of us...
ethnicity be damned
paid our taxes, supported the plan;
cheered for our side in SE Asia and scapegoated
yellow, black, brown, jew, dyke, faggot, an' Arab
when it suited us; but we're gonna get even this time:
the train is leavin' on the same track
so we can fire up the ovens without lookin' back
and we're gonna let freedom ring and liberty toll
for a solid half billion new holocaust souls - for oil,
for rare earths, for whatever we think we want at the moment.
We'll pile 'em up like cordwood the way we did in the Phillipines
so we can celebrate our fundamental Christian righteous rave:
Profit first, comfort second, and
wisdom dead last.
of blue, of naught, porpoises, dragonflies,
atoms, particles, neutrinos, spinning sighs
of consequential push-pull: magnetics among others.
Love builds from respect, then trust
leading inevitably to mutual support
only if we pay attention in every direction.
and weeks of Wave Mountain;
little monk walks Junes;
and August roads hot tars detain.
Exotic beating looms with shuttle clacks,
barks adrift and seadrift float flood from rain-
sailor’s warning, monk’s pain,
Glorianna’s skin tracks.
At night the wafting of the wood is balming;
the skin’s weather, the short shout of the palm.
Tanned mind hails on the virgins; that’s age’s envy
and only lust flatters;
from somewhere the future shatters.
The sea beats the young boy, monk’s young father
to the man, dwelling with divine squatters,
dwelling on the daughters,
mountain breaks up, rather
like the ordinary small man of thinning
soul, locked within the clastic rock of sin.
From stony fields of massy, clacking bones, she sees
him approach the courtyard
through locust trees,
leaping like poem’s laugh-last word,
or before falling, pride in one’s estate,
human backstory, ears that haven’t heard
now perched, like some absurd
pigeon, to click and grate
upon the gates of the institution,
above the hoary and inconstant stew.
Monk’s moon finally comes to the playhouse, condemned,
performing the Soldan
in a cage, hemmed,
rolling with the tyrant’s golden
train, pulled by his wife, ‘til they brain themselves,
Heaven and Earth bleeding on the Satan’s car.
That’s what comes of love’s star
dried of it’s fire by elves.
Arts of banishment, logically pursued,
arrive at poems where no passions stir.
Autumn delivers him from the oppressive swelter
and the freak intentions,
and the variant suspensions
of disbelieving; hard to remember
how I could have fallen so very far
short of the under-par.
Let us embrace somber
reappraisal of the situation,
rendered and chewed up in the vasty day.
Mountain mirages in the clear days, the short days,
the leaf will come down husk,
bit with sharp rays,
wood smoke nosing eastwind at dusk.
White cities beckon the road, sweeping wrack
of thunderheads with a gate of moonlight,
the dead month at midnight
when the road rises, back
of time, and the spirit-fates gaze dolefully
on the sleeper dreaming of an asphodel.