Monday, December 30, 2013

PICKUP

His mind
is special—it's not full
of wheels

like most—

it's—rather
full
of turning;

in other
words—those
other poets

out there—baby,

he's not
at all!
like them—you see,

he's plainly not trying
to be
like a fire—

he's rather all-

about—
the
burning!

Saturday, December 28, 2013

UP YOUR NOSE

Saturday morning breaths
of fresh

coffee and
sun—are melting

shiny side-
walk snow-

piles—revealing
such

a pretty
lot of dogshit!

NO BOTTOM

In milk-
white truth

I just—
can't seem

to eat
enough

of these—
infinite

loops
of fruit-

colored corn—

Friday, December 27, 2013

EINSTEIN LEAVES THE BEACH

Over and
over

and
over again—repeating

slabs
of snow-wet

concrete—
glistening and

dappled
rectangles—keep appearing

motionless—nonstop and
not-

different
at all underneath—broad arcing

vectors of selfsimilar
feet—but still;

if anyone asks,
I'm sticking

with—those things
are all moving backwards

while these—
keep on staying

furiously here.

PROCRASTINATION POEM

First—you must
forgive!

your-
self for
writing this 


one.
Last—you've got
to accept

and
get
past

the fact that you 

didn't—

sooner.

Monday, December 23, 2013

LAUGHING ALL THE WAY

Giddy-up giddy-
up giddy-
up Jinglehorse!

Can'tstop'em
holiday
Dactyls come 

marching! 
Mag-

nificent 
Miles are

shopping days 
peeling-off
bells—ring! Re-

lentlessly—
Ha ha ha
ha ha ha
ha ha ha
ha ha ha;

pick 'em up, pick
'em up, stick 'em
up!—quickly 
you—

Equine-
faced mother-
fucked—giddy-
uped! jingle-
bald rock-
ing stuffed 
porcine- 
nosed schlock
of a nobby-
kneed sorry ex-
cuse for a 
sloping-
backed 
slobbering 
hobby horse—can't you just?

force! 
up your 

blast-
ed feet! 

tug 
some more;

take 
us there;

any
where!

such—
that we

don't 
have to

put 
our own

dead 
feet back

down 
again

any
where!—

ever!
and

ever for-

ever—
amen!

Friday, December 20, 2013

INFERIOR VEHICLE

Here in
the West—
we don't disagree

with your premise
that
everyone is god—

it's just,
we insist
on a little

decorum! And so
we
like to proceed

in a single-
file line—only

one
long-

dead
man at a time!

COOKIES N' CREAM

Melting down—
the shrinking
slush hugs all

the tighter—edges
of dirty
city curbs—where dead

and still-
dying shrubs, are
hung—no longer

with snow,
but still
with several

slow and
ruddy country-
squirrels—who shrug

and don't bother jumping—savvy
and fat
enough to know

there's nothing
left down there—that's
sweet

to eat
amid
these stretches

of rippling brownblack
and
white detritus.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

HUNGRY EYES (REPRISE)

Oh my
God the sky

looks
so
right partly

cloudy
just
now—solid

as gold

and
cream-
colored

jillions
of
dead grandmas

infamous
oodles of egg salad—

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

LIKE CHINESE PORCELAIN

Try to keep 
in mind—

the one single 
sky

you'll 
describe in your life

as—bluest 

of all 
will likely

arc wide—
over 

cold 
and on-
going

confines—
of

only 
the most!

ordinary white.  

CURRENT

The modern 
dancer

isn't 
twirling—turns 

out it's
her dance—that's

up there
actually

doing all the moving—

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

WAVE

I don't 
want 

to wax 
on forever—paddling

past all 
the positive 

integers—
I'd just

as soon 
wane

and sink
beyond

a little wake—
of work 

that got
finished.

Monday, December 16, 2013

TEMPUS FUGIT

Time could be just 
those first 
three-or-so minutes—when it's still 

okay to be wonderful-
ly feckless 
and prostrate—before another 8:10 a.m. parade

of work-a-day sensations 
comes reckless-
ly traipsing our way;

when I feel so slightly 
permitted 
to yawn and to

say, so sticky—I had 
this dream, 
and you were in it;

and then,
to struggle recounting such 
harrowing nonsense

as infinities 
of our strict 
syntax can't manage—and then

to just think—what a glad
relief it can be
to lay that drooping burden back 

down—easy in our warm
brown 
mattress on the ground 

before we raise—
on the count 
of three—the rest (or should

I say: slight 
majorities?) of us—to finally get 
up and start

flying apart—

EINE KLEINE NACHTMUSIK

Punky latenight 
dachshund-

beagle 
wailing—your tail

off 
out in my kitchen—your high-

strung 
bay—is not my favorite 

piece 
of music at this hour—even if it's 

probably—still my 
all-time

favorite kind!

Friday, December 13, 2013

AMERICAN KAFKA

I suspect
you'll believe—

the briefer
this is,

the deeper?

So—what
if life's just

an Ah!—then
a Ha! run-together.

BANTAM SANS PINE-WOODS

He is so noisy-
proud

of the sheer
fact—of the sun's coming

up once
again on this
prim frosty morning;

as if—he alone
knows the whole act

reflects—more than merely

warmly
on him!

Thursday, December 12, 2013

ARTICULATION—

Filthy red 
tongue

tied-
up tight
to a chapped white municipal

plated Ford's 
frozen 
old mouth relentlessly—licking

the shit!
off these ballasted 
alley-

ways—I declare
myself 
positive-

ly 
gross
to be wallowing

behind you 
lapping 
greedily—up your fresh 

and warm—slobber 
of sparks.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

BATMAN FOREVER

Ask every 
bold

man's mask—whether

or not
it's 

that man's—and wait

for the one
true

superlative answer!—

a veiled
and

uncanny—sometimes.

THE ANSWER TO YOUR PRAYER—

Two
plus two

is
still four—and there's

nothing—
squealing

you
can do about it.

NAGGING OPTIMISM

Suppose—for most
of us

death—
comes both

not-
quick-

ly 
enough—and just 

little 

too soon. 
So—now,

which
one? feels closer—

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

GEE, I WISH I WAS BACK IN THE IMAX—

It's not 
at all!
like 

that—
out here;

the gritty guy
whose
really

tripping—chasing silver

sunsmoke 
through
the tundra—swears

he really 
feels 

as if he
needs a rather—magic pair 

of 
glasses—cutting three,

or
actually, four

dimensions
way down!—

on the glare.

Monday, December 9, 2013

ON PERIOD INSTRUMENTS

Outstretched—and long
as it knows how

to get, one knotty tree
branch
has snagged a furious black
trash bag.

On the ground and in
headphones, I
can just
see the whole

little system rippling—perceiving
in the raging

no maxims
at all—but great
texture!—these two dumb things

doing their furious
dense damnedest!
with absolutely no net-

result hanging
in the balance—now that's

what I'd—
call



harmonic structure.

Friday, December 6, 2013

THE AUDIENCE IS LISTENING

American movies
are lousy—and long

and too often
drowning—in their own sound!

But the mushy seats there
are still warm-

dark, and sticky-
flecked

floors, padded
walls afford many

wide
pupils—soft flickering

shade from those
harsh

outside—
rumors of winter.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

CROSS-KIA CRUSH

My ardent pilot—seems to keep her perfect
nerve and never

has looked rough-
and-
tumble

sexier—jackknifing

hard
and
coolly through all these—

fiery swerves
of Smoky Mountains!

TRAVEL ITINERARY

Two little chintzy
white
styrofoam coolers—squeaking

away noisy far
back in the bumpy
backseat—try to be more

conscientious! We're tacit-
ly pretty
much—counting on you!

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

IN THE SPACE BETWEEN YOUR LAST TWO BREATHS—

Uncountable
waves of involuntary

warm light came
running—

streaming
through the pine

woods—blushing
completely

unimagined—
swaying patterns

onto those
conspicuous-

ly white and
scrawny

hammock
legs of yours.

AMATEUR ORNITHOLOGY

It's a lark—to watch
the flighty little

chickenshit cars—out here
ducking

and swooping
wide to dodge the old

shifty and hawk-
eyed state trooper—who's

currently
parked all spread-

eagle flat
across another concrete u-turn

slab and probably
just

snoozing
away hard in his fat and bald-

buzzard-
looking Charger!

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

MUSH!

Sprinting blithe
through Florida's
mossy swamp—your mind

feels glossy-
sharp

and
hot
and tough!—but so much

about
your mashing
legs is just—out of place

in so much

funny fermented—you don't
know
what?—sort of

kimchi stuff—

Monday, December 2, 2013

WALTZ DISNEY WORLD

Take a step
in my
shoes, princess—taxes

are pretty
steep
wherever it's

your kingdom!
for a
mere—albeit very

beautiful
looking—
autograph!

Saturday, November 30, 2013

FEMORAL

Flintsharp
little
green Korean

emissary motivating—
sun-
harangued and bumping

up and
down through final
leg of deepest

south—stay
your tough
arterial course!—just keep

thumping—
such exotic
truth of Justin Timberlake!

Friday, November 29, 2013

SHADOW BOX

The inside
mechanics—of late

autumn's
best kinds

of brown are never
clearly defined—only

repeatedly!

and jointly advised—
by late-

arriving committees
of afternoon

sun and low
steady motion of

cars
like yours—flickering

windows through droves
of those-

colored Kentucky sorts—
of pines.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

SORRY, SHACKLETON—

Forgive! 
the sound—

of hollow antarctic 
wind—

whose 
dull wail

I'll explore—
one hundred

years 
or so later—in order

that I might
lay claim

to better—

or, 

at least less-
deplorable—

sleep over some of my fussier weeknights!

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

THESIS

If the hunch
you lust
to prove
is tough—
that's probably
because
you're up
too close.

For instance—I just
got done
longing—
to suspect
that every lonely

mirror—out there
in the world

unexamined
as such
by a figure (like me
who needs—
from the
first—so much!
to be there)

cannot just-
ly exist
as a mirror
one bit!

Only—I didn't
know how
to think that
with justice

because I realized
I'm always
either standing—far,

far,

far too much
out-front
of such things

or else—just
in-front enough.

EMPTY PRAISE

Even on tough
full days—like this
there are these

sort of soft spots
to find
where imagination—which is

nothing really—gently
swishes
in and floods around—filling

more than
just some void
of god.

But where voluptuous
air and empty
arcs of light

are simply
glorious
enough on their own—

what use has thought
for a loaded word
such as seraphim?—let alone

an actual—
whole crowded
host of them?

Monday, November 25, 2013

FOR YOUR CARUNCLES

Felt a quick
pang spreading—there;

vague and 
thick in my quaking low 

back—upon lowering
your particular-

ly sleek pink and 
cold chassis carbuncular

down—for now, to the bottom-
most shelf of a Frigidaire;

and—without even 
really thinking—named it 

not thanks, but sympathy—

Friday, November 22, 2013

BACH COMPLEX

Gee—it's
swell

and
all—how well
the strings play

the themes—sawing

away—workman-
like—at such
symmetric
taut and
fresh teleological

arguments—
but truth

be known—all I really
want

to be told
is how?

could someone
who's simply—a little cobbler
by day—ever wind-
up—out there!

in tails!
decked-
out in black and sonorously

conducting
the whole affair?