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!

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—

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.

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!

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.

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—

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—

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.

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!

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!

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.

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 

a 

little 

too soon. 

So—now,

which

one? feels closer—

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.

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

a 
harmonic structure.

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.

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!

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!

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—

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!