SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS

Intuiting over-

sleeping neighbors, I see

the plot—three

by three

feet—of the littlest rainy 

street sycamore

tree has been 

thickened—last night by tall

and dramatically 

wrecked—

wet cans of Busch Light.

DIVVY

Reluctant commuter, please

breathe 

it in 

this way—the warm breeze 

must've got 

up 

even 

earlier! than you 

this morning—lusty 

and 

hot to 

massage those fat

curves of your gleaming 

teal 

rental bike leaning— 

passive against 

such rusty wrought iron.

INDIAN SUMMER

Chicken-

legged blondes 

in pink

pastel 

crocs and polka-

dots

hastening—down Ashland

toward 

the corner 

Baskin Robbins—

COMPLEXION

In urgent dress, the young clerk 

holds a reddish 

     rag up to his nose and 

paces

seated and intense-

ly through collected 

     poems of So-And-So—

while outside tawny 

throngs of finches 

     leapfrog

up splayed branches of 

an old resplendent 

     ever-

green that's framed in by 

his window, 

               chiding— 

Say son, why're you 

being such 

a sissy this morning—nursing a bloody 

     nose there, popping

pimples in your office 

chair?  What's wrong—You scared?

to death of a little 

simple height?  Or is it maybe 

     more like

sore-

afraid to lose a little depth!

FOG CONT.

Hapless strands 

of office

buildings—only

curdle 

the shaggy 

edgeless 

soup that

already—

selfishly cradles the waterfront.

ONE-WAY KITCHEN CONVERSATION

I've already lost 

almost!

ten pounds—she gulps at me

     brimming 

solicitous-

ly over 

jaundiced—

streaks of mango yogurt.

The Poet Acts—

Unshaven and 

alone 

he knows—

the amount 

of goat

cheese he chooses

to chisel 

lazy onto haggard 

skillet-

fulls of 

wobbly eggs 

in the 

warm dark kitchen—can only 

just-

ly 

be described as—

disrespectful.

Idyll

Hardly Country 

Club 

material—the muddy 

clump 

of young 

ducks bobbing 

up

and 

down on seven's

circumvented 

watertrap—

spontaneously 

dips quickly 

down

to fish a 

clean 

cool breakfast out—still

it's enough 

to make 

the old birdies 

jealous—trapsing 

through slurping

hot grubby 

coffee sweating—

Flag of Glycemia

Purple-spangled

rectangles 

of ostentatious 

bluish

aiming to trigger

flaky 

and compulsive

celebrations—

just so much as 

wave one 

and watch—the pancreatic 

fireworks

How to Do It—

Scraggy cat tails 

growing

—impossibly!

up through dusty summer 

wrack and railroad 

rubble—

The straight and

narrow-

est among them

—shrugging

with lank ease in 

spare wind whispers

simply—

Aren't I lucky?

I don't! I 

don't! I don't 

know!

While Debussy Plays Off Somewhere—

Deserted on the outskirts of

the muddy 

knotted job site—brawny

overworked 

machines drip clean in quiet 

constant rain

and nearby 

scrawny 

tufts of stawyellow

grass 

bristle and almost 

sigh 

perceptibly—just to find

themselves 

a little 

dirtier.

Tempers

Just think—

for every 

single

shit-hot 

thing you're out there over-

doing

there exists—in principle

a little

casual beagle 

snoozing 

unmolested by the droning

air-conditioner—

Rarefied—

Slogging through wavy

breakfast

traffic—calmly 

exasperated air-

conditioned voices 

come on and tell 

me to 

beware—

of all the falling 

ozone 

layers out there—and don't 

you dare! let your lungs go

jogging—and if they're

older ones, well—

just 

try to take

care. The quality of 

their sort 

of air—is all over 

the 

poor kind

of ground today.

Skippy for Justin

Instead of counting

up 

our blessings, I say

we just start ticking 

them

down as we eat them—

but wait—

Does a 

stout proud jar of chunky

peanut 

butter and a sleeve 

of several

dozen saltine crackers tally

as 

two things?—or more

like

forty-

one-ish?

Let's think

on this 

a minute licking—

plastic white butterknives.

Piano Four Hands

This is so

plain

it's 

almost ivory-

pale—but 

contrary motion—still

runs parallel

maintaining 

a 

promise named 

tempo while streaking—

out 

in discrete 

staffs that play-live on the same

pages—

and that's 

how 

it's 

music—that I kiss you

goodbye

while you—

kiss me,

instead—

Awake.

Eternal Recurrence

Good morning—

good morning! Please

'd to make

your

acquaintance—I work (How

I work!)

for the Water 

Department—but 

really

I'm really 

a Real Famous writer—oh what?

can I tell you? what

's that? do you 

say?—God, help me

remember 

all them good losers? That's 

just Carl 

Sandberg!—that's not 

how 

This Man works—he wants

to see 

Beauty in (what

's necessary 

in) things but God! 

damnit sir such is 

the 

Nature

of any life worth living—

twice!

Sine

Of all, 

only 

the crookback—

camped-

out at park's 

edge clutching a rumpled 

old 

accordion—cradles  

the math 

of it deep

in his chest—Any 

gain!

that one side

makes—is 

because of the other's

steep—sacrifice!

The Catch

Quickly—conjure 

up the most 

untroubled

creatures you 

can think of—maybe 

noiseless

peaceful koi

or comets drifting

weightless and without 

memory—now 

ponder ninety-

gallon 

tanks piled 

high in big box

pet supply stores—whose sterile garish websites

call their 

pond fish 

simply—

Now in-stock!

Pomo

I'm talking 

here— 

about

Reality—I mean

that which 

can be—

copied.

A Hat, Backwards

Resplendent 

with the sound 

of

loudmouths bull-

shitting—

car no. 2943

plummets toward the dark

tunnel—

Indigestion

Rats!—

Another hungry 

pack of cats is 

splayed across the red line

tracks—and 

causing

quite 

the lunch 

hour back-

up—as they shovel 

down the distance 

between 

"unfinished" 

and 

"ongoing"—

Adjacent 

the long-

faced men

and stranded

women tap 

their hungry steering

wheels and 

tolerate

their sweating canines—

telling 

themselves

it's temporary—as if 

any other banquet 

wasn't.

American Rustic

Pumping tangy-

smelling gas 

in wind to strains 

of lumpy Crosby 

Stills and Nash 

—and Young, I plainly 

feel familiar

pangs for the crusty

egg salad

sandwiches inside—

Do Not Reply to This Email—

Simply

look—

east-

ward 

toward the Tuesday

morning

sun 

bounding 

bright through the 

heaps of wind-

sculpted

clouds —and 

landing—

roundly 

on the 

August 

treetops (same old

leaves, brand

new currency!) 

to 

re-

activate—

your membership.

Drafty Argument for Functionalism

When my window's

not there—

I don't really 

care if 

the wind—knotting 

in from

the west—or just 

south 

of there—carries

all sorts

of possible low

pressure threats or 

whatever;

I don't want

to be 

told 

how to hold

on to what's blowing (What is 

it

anyhow? All I know

is it's blowing)—sure

as the feeling of

tension

on bare skin

besides—whatever

it is, its 

only

like

this—if it behaves

like a breath

of fresh

air—

then it is one.

Jazz Chords

The blind man

listens

to the sound of hard

water falling

and feels 

his way across

sidewalks to the narrow 

bus stop

accordingly—

Unburdened

Dear dirty 

dump truck—I'm 

so much 

heavier that you!

Despite—

the tons

you're made 

to move (never 

mind the rusty 

ones you're made of) and

despite— 

your crust

of limestone

dust and mud-

flaps only a 

stiff sludge could suffer—

 

you

will never 

know the ponderous

capability of being

carried by another—of being 

filled

by emptiness—with huge 

and clumsy things

like dark 

and awkward

silences—or even

 

for that matter, just the bulk 

pleasure of 

spiting things

arbitrarily—

Meet

The trailing

athlete 

inhales deep

and 

thinks—you just

can't beat—

that sylvan 

smell of shady 

woods. Mostly

because 

it doesn't 

compete—it just

performs 

in 

exhibition.

Flattery

A flat

and—filthy 

diesel barge 

pulling

slowly 

coal

rough and 

shabby down 

the Cal-Sag 

Channel

is

—I'm sorry 

but—

a lot 

like you. 

Each 

day dragging

colossal 

power sources 

thankless to

outlying forces—and 

perpetually

crossing 

bridges—

underneath!

instead of 

over, and so 

brilliantly

perpendicular!—to the 

way 

in which everyone 

else does.

Main Street USA

Busting purple

baskets

of thirsty

begonias—

beautify repeating

street lamps

giving

the rusty public

works crew—

something to do.

Descartes' Place in the Suburbs

Outrageous 

plastic 

pink flamingos

ornament 

the lawn—

of 

the squat 

raised-

ranch—solely 

to promote

awareness—

that pink

is a thing 

that has four letters—whereas

pinkness— 

shamelessly

—has none.

Pits

Ravenous

the drooping 

woman

in peach 

keeps chewing-

out

his secretary—

Oblivion

Liberally

shaded suburban

lane—or maybe

terrace—undulating

with

the unattended

sounds of treefrogs

buzzing and soft

hiss of big

backyard sprinker

systems still-

running

—both mindlessly

indicative of

another

on-

coming summer

rainstorm.

F of X

The second 

driver's 

most recent thought,

having been 

miraculously

unabstracted—and extended 

in space 

a good 

twelve city blocks— 

is now 

holding fast 

as the leading

cause 

of this pretty

shabby 

accident report.

Sucks to Your Ass-mar

Hail—itinerant 

summer reader!—for 

the 

only Lord

of gold-

backed flies you'll 

really see 

while 

out here hiking—is

this pretty

over-

populated

pile 

of fetid

ralphy dog shit.

Á La Mode

All around the

yawning Wicker

Park perimeter—such chic 

clouds of

blackbirds cluster—pecking 

for seemingly 

not more than a measly 

few seeds

among the 

fallen 

rotting mulberries—

and I'd 

like to stop and 

ask them—are you really

eating breakfast—or 

are you only 

dress-

rehearsing?

Sneeze, 800% Slower

Humid August

waves of

wind sweeping—the indefatigable

din of kids

play-

laughing and

itchy on the distant

and glinting

primary-

colored equipment—in

through her wide-

mouthed and

peregrine nose—where those

eyes and those

ears start to catch

swollen hold

and go—waltzing

away in

resounding

displays of mock-

sympathy.