Saturday, August 22, 2009
turn at the corner of river and trees,
misses the mountains entirely,
races beyond the limestone pillars
that archaeologists had drooled over.
The morning mysteries give me
enough nausea to last until lunch.
Hens spend the afternoon laying
eggs in hammocks before they
succumb to a barking Walt Whitman
on his way to the refrigerator.
Construction on the apocalypse gets
hung up at the city council meeting.
A shaky rooster is ferried across a parched
reservoir disguised as a grim Allen Ginsberg.
the kitchen floor as obedient eggs
scramble up in a skillet from the import store.
My concentration is broken by a front
door bell that has put its teeth into the bright
temperature of my early morning examination.
The day seems to be divided between piles of
impertinent socks and insistent shoes that
attempt to measure imperfect space.
The potted plants go bone dry before I can
flood them with a watering can full of mathematics.
A black cat stalks field mice in the tall grass of
the bedroom where babies used to gurgle up amnesia.
Monday, June 1, 2009
the egg up a tree with feathers in the mail.
The barking cat remembers when its world
was nothing more than a clump of hair.
I condemn the morning for keeping me in the dark,
the sparrows nest in the small of tomorrow's back.
An empty continent is shipped to my
door with a manual in five languages.
I grind giddiness into a bad excuse for going out,
acceleration goes barren in the cut of the bloom.
The sea sits on my kitchen counter in an eight-ounce
glass with a potato taking root.
I muscle summer into sweet submission,
the sun shoulders the curve of the source.
The crow follows the morning, the grasshopper
follows the crow, the ants are left to clean up the mess.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Eileen's eye focused on
the sea and not
the arcade that was
morphing into a hazard
for everyone in
the extended family.
The day was full of
vermilion petals and
feathers that floated down
from a previous generation.
She watched the ocean be
transformed into a palace
full of fragrant myths, and
a gallery ready-made for
swimming away from
the geometry of dread.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The sanguine answer didn't come to me
soon enough to make a difference in
the big picture, but I was there when I
said I was there and not any later as has
been rumored in circles that i refuse to
acknowledge for purposes of this discussion.
The ticking continued as I spoke up for
myself in the center of the fray that was
not of my making in any sense of the word.
It could have been resolved in duplicate but
no one was pf a mind to carry through to the end.
Things were left to fester and my reputation
was left in tatters by the shabbiness of it all.
There was not one scintilla of truth to any of
the allegations that piled up at my door.
I merely paused before entering the building in
the back and could not have been standing
near the melting clock after lunch was served.
To make matters worse, I banged both knees on
the banister that was bulging beyond usefulness.
Although not trained in the law of diminishing
returns, I surmise that bald face lies should not
be left unanswered and that I am well within my
rights as a jester and a rube to take issue with
all the unsubstantiated accusations hanging on the clock.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The early poet prepares to not let a rendezvous with the cubbyholes of history to deflate any and all aspirations to be resuscitated by rapture.
The distracted poet prepares to take the shape of a swan in a pinch as a sweet wall of blossoms protects intricate exchanges of impoverishment.
The early poet prepares to retool the kinetic dichotomy that took assimilation off the table.
The marauding poet prepares to masquerade as a permanent structure on the prairie in order to trap intelligent life.
The early poet prepares to footnote the fleshy approximations of prodigious testimonials.
The Harold Pinter poet prepares to be as menacing as a lump of laughter.
The Willy Loman poet prepares to skip the sales pitch and go directly to the sample case from hell.
The biofeedback poet prepares to buy a kiss from the redhead who lives in the burning house on the next block.
The Our Gang poet prepares to belt out bad opera on the backlot of a second childhood.
The early poet prepares to alter the dosage on erratic approaches to windmills.
The conundrum poet prepares to bend a thunderbolt into a sturdy bookcase for the torn mandates of heaven.
The boomer poet prepares to live forever inside a nonjudgmental Venice bungalow with three dogs, two cats, a turtle on Prozac, and a dragonfly that knows all the answers.
The mailman poet prepares to deliver inspirational sketches to paranoid shut-ins across the southland.
The early poet prepares to be preoccupied with the purification of a prurient plot.
The canal poet prepares to dredge up an arcade full of noxious obsessions.
The receding poet prepares to cut back on all unnecessary rhetoric around the edges.
The early poet prepares to pour water on the exception instead of the rule and watch rows of struggling languages snap back with time-lapse film.
The Pandora poet prepares to wrap a bushel full of fancy presents that will stain the world with a lust for dread.
The disingenuous poet prepares to take back everything that was covered by the previous agreement.
The early poet prepares to search for an infinite freshness through the wrong end of a telescope.
The intruder poet prepares to divert all attention away from the helter skelter commingling of indeterminate repercussions.
The severed poet prepares to give numbers to all the parts left out in the rain with the riffraff.
The bicycle poet prepares to do a barefoot flip over the handlebars.
The Parcheesi poet prepares to commit perjury in the arms of a prime location.
The Ozzy poet prepares to think up a few very eerie polka metal tunes.
The early poet prepares to chime in down a windy road where perception counts eviction notices.
The preacher poet prepares to take a big plunge into two nonparallel faces of hospitality.
The harebrained poet prepares to fly south by way of the cobweb of melancholy.
The early poet prepares to disinherit all insubstantial mirages.
The route 66 poet prepares to wax up the corvette before landing in the middle of a family feud with a pretty Peggy coming between friends.
The tall poet prepares to look an unbalanced mountain dead in the eye and tell it to shape up before buzzcut season comes around.
The early poet prepares to not be undone by the iridescent bliss being offered by the heart.
The chameleon poet prepares to take up residence on the underside of a spring moon as wildflowers grow yellow to the sky.
The early poet prepares to redirect all the water under the bridge away from the frayed castles and family cups terracing around a floating choreography.
The Viking poet prepares to set sail for the outer reaches of the back porch with puzzled squirrels jumping ship for the safety of the wobbly roof.
The early poet prepares to step clear of all the banana peels that could take this day in a whole new direction.
The Monty Python poet prepares to serve a meal with prawns and stuff fit for all proper English mothers dressed for sleep.
The method poet prepares to mumble all the way up Mt. Hollywood in hopes of meeting the ghost of a young Marlon Brando.
The early poet prepares to not fall prey to a professorial exclamation collapse lurking in the halls of collaboration.
The contraband poet prepares to smuggle a batch of thoroughbred dust in a bag of loose fitting skin across the rope bridge that spans a conical depression.
The supportive poet prepares to attach a transcendental amount of weight to the words of others.
The door-to-door poet prepares to do some heavy cushion inflation for therapists with sinking sectional couches.
The early poet prepares to oversee the meticulous alignment of a mountain gazebo atop the molehill of a mind.
The Medici poet prepares to walk in vermilion with the weather relegated to a private wing of the Louvre.
The inverse poet prepares to scrub the navel from the inside out and the touching of the toes is once again an Olympic event.
The early poet prepares for the aftermath of something as the ripple effect carries the mother of all wighats out the window.
The curveball poet prepares to have some scary optical illusions ready to go for opening day.
The alchemist poet prepares to bubble up into the atmosphere with Clint Eastwood riding shotgun.
The shadow poet prepares to do the dance on the far wall of forgiveness.
The early poet prepares for a rapprochement between hard cider and overhanging trees after hours of diplomatic negotiations held in the hand of magnified wings.
The birthday poet prepares to save the midnight snack for the daylight hours when the shambles of celebration will be in full tilt.
The offshore poet prepares to float a few vowels in the face of a flotilla of consonants.
The early poet prepares to expand what is containable and to contain what is expandable.
The pickpocket poet with the scratchy talent prepares to lift a line or two from the tomb of the undiscovered Bedouin scribe who fell off the globe on flat day at the cheesecake factory.
The early poet prepares to inhale the semiprecious vapors of an anxious migration of thought.
The whispering poet prepares to tone down the static emanating from between the ears.
The pack rat poet prepares to stuff the cupboard with cans of immaculate mischief.
The revolutionary poet prepares to pin proclamations to the shower curtains of the dead.
The early poet prepares to turn the unsaid into a ruckus.
The campfire poet prepares to tap into testimonials of the trees.
The early poet prepares to ban fidgeting from the breakfast table.
The maybe poet prepares to make words cough up a new angle.
The fussy poet prepares to sweep up the shards of sunshine that have gathered in the corners of the driveway.
The LA poet prepares to advance up Mt. Washington at dusk.
The wise poet prepares to relish the divine pull of emptiness.
The early poet prepares to be charmed by the baritone of the river.
The intermittent poet prepares to be pelted by sad syllables.
The skittish poet prepares to set up camp under the grand piano.
The early poet prepares to make room for puttering on the shady street of purpose.
The giddy poet prepares to give the thesaurus a breathalyzer test.
The early poet prepares to put the fatted calf through its paces.
The early poet prepares to laugh at the private asylum built by the past.
The hardboiled poet prepares to keep one eye on guard the whole night long.
The stowaway poet prepares to disappear among some disheveled deck chairs.
The early poet prepares to paint fanaticism into a neutral corner.
The brute poet prepares to do battle with the blank page before sundown.
The early poet prepares to take the temperature of an indescribable banality.
The late poet prepares to put one big psychotic tooth under a diaphanous pillow.
The early poet prepares to acknowledge the tyranny of parlor indiscretions.
The Dylan poet prepares to go as cryptic as crayons in Sunday school.
The Elvis poet prepares to scare the sun out of its socks.
The early poet prepares to measure the morning rhythm of the insect world.
The village poet prepares to have a conference call with subterranean termites.
The early poet prepares to drag the sky for lost luggage.
The punk poet prepares to do a header into the mosh pit.
The early poet prepares to gaze at the blueprint in the mirror with the steady eye of an engineer.
The fanatic poet prepares to work the alphabet until it drops.
The early poet prepares to be a handwritten note in a spring pocket.
The early poet prepares to disappear in the strength of astral ligatures.
The early poet prepares to terrify the day with lustful silence.
The mid-day poet prepares to have a gondola moment on the way to the market.
The early poet prepares to be humbled by the nearest living accident in the garden.
The restless poet prepares to talk about seedless metaphysics with the gardener.
The early poet prepares to be less intimidated by the density of an unexpected smile.
The uneasy poet prepares to confront the intentions of a double-edged thought.
The early poet prepares to pocket at least a day’s worth of plausible deniability.
The cranky poet prepares to push the already dented dream over the dam.
The early poet prepares to ride a dromedary deception through the day.
The sleepy poet prepares for the BBC on the radio—war, pestilence, cricket scores.
The early poet prepares to play golf with the Buddha in scorpion country.
The cool poet prepares to not care about the cowgirls kicking down the barn door.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
lived under his mother’s feet,
not the dead son who drove
her crazy from daylight to
sundown with a father who
begged her to shape up and
fly right in the eyes of God.
He had been a farmer’s boy
with a nose for local history.
She had been a city girl with
the hands of a poker player.
I was the skinny kid who
drank extra rich milk and
loved crunching on hard candy,
not the unborn son who was
a genius in the making and
would have loved to pin his
parents to the wall like Amazon beetles .
Saturday, February 21, 2009
sleep as a distant train was no
longer distant but was whistling
through her philosophy and her flesh.
A mother put away a lawn
mower after losing a husband in
an all-night poker game with
wild cards raining down like leaves.
An Indian chief with a bad case of
irony whittled down an English
sonnet to a blistering haiku in
the early morning hours of betrayal.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
the walk and belt out some polar
bear tones with bloody feeling.
I saw it from down under as a
walrus in steel helmet kind of
German persuasion thing that
would make even the freaky Wagner
proud to be shivering in his boots.
A pretty soprano with tits that
could make an orchestra cry took
center stage and melted the hearts of
many a frozen passenger.
Without missing any of my toes,
I skated away with my baritone
still intact and my magnetic north
settling in for the season.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
away from the light, I pocket
my count of the dry rocks on an
inverse path to a psychic waterfall.
Soon there will be representational
art in the center of the canyon that
can outlast my unstable astronomy.
I dig up mothers who had manipulated
their fuzzy children as if they
had been testing one of Euclid's theorems
without a pavilion of spiral netting.
It is the pathology of rocks that sweetens
my salty fluids as a spherical palace of
silver girders supports the knuckled horizon.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
fingernail dug into the desert.
It was ours by default, it was
our green oasis with folding chairs.
No one saw the tinfoil swan take a
dive, it was up to me to tie the
cartilage to the bridge that spanned
the endless flow of a gardener’s grit.
The water fooled us all by cracking
the bodies down to their knuckles,
by breaking the backs like a butcher.
is not the one that June claims to inhabit.
He followed all the skinny legs across the
melting snow until he had rope burns at the knee.
Henry recuperated in a trapdoor apartment with
a photograph on the bed of June as
a burglar with her legs living in a penthouse.
It was the Paris Henry could not know in
his corrosive days inflicting bruises on a typewriter.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
the sway of ambition and routine redefinition of
bread as first judged to be reputable.
All encouragement was crowned with
mercy and spit, and driven like a spike into
the humble institution of tennis.
I took an oath, I cleaned a revolution of all its
spots, and took a frosty sojourn across
the field of knife fights and pick ax excursions.
The poem returned to abstraction without
vowels, without sprung rhythm.
I was of no help with my humanist
palms and grasshopper syntax.
The truth needed to be worked over
behind the woodshed, as our good neighbor
Robert Frost let the air out of radicalism.
It is the crooked way that wins the worm,
that farms the bird, that converts the net into grandeur.