Tuesday, March 31, 2015

A LITTLE TOO CONVENIENT

You and me—baby, we
go together

just like—
parts and labor!

By which,
I guess I mean—mostly 
that

one of us
does all the talking—and the other,
all the driving;

and—regardless of whether 
most people

know it or not—one of us
is always covering

the total cost
of both.

LIKE SPIDERS IN YOUR MOUTH

When writing—
don't ever consider. Move quickly

and swing, using gravity 
never to suspend 

but merely as a pendulum 
would—to generate 

sheer momentum. 
For truly,

quickness is your only 
shot at honesty—and honesty 

completely necessary;
all thought being pure—hesitation,

and all hesitation—pretty 
disgusting when you stop to think about it.

Monday, March 30, 2015

AMERICAN APPAREL ADVERTISEMENT

Not yet in time—in the still moment
before moments,

before heartbeats, before melody,
even before any such

face as you may
have later read about 

dared to break the stillness and move   
upon the surface

of silent slumbering waters; 
enter—

the very first light of creation—
curiously

mottled, not pure 
white, in fact 

still fairly heather
and slightly green with pale cold

from that timeless winter's night before,
but nevertheless

blushing with just enough 
promise of the proximate season

that its faint kiss,
imbued as it is 

with just the right kind 
of slight warmth

so as to gently begin motivating each wave 
to awaken;

in turn causes—
our face 

to first crane, and then 
to bend its very 

good 
fitting v-neck in benediction.

Friday, March 27, 2015

SUPERIMPOSITION

Walking looking
so pale under arches— 
cold and long past

window after 
window—I notice I've
become the silent

witness—to 
my own 
translucent 

reflection gradually 
beginning to brighten and 
fill-in again;

not through its 
participation—but more 
surely through being 

imbued—
with each passing 
streak of of their 

variously 
orange and 
yellowish faces—

each one of them 
hunkered-
down low in a tall booth—and each one

of them hunched 
so wonderfully
warm and greedy—over its own

furiously
red-
napkin blotted 

tray 
of solid- 
golden food.

SMALL COFFEE $1.80

Not exactly 
lagging for want 
of protection 

of some patron saint
so much as 
a few presidents' 

mild faces—or better
still, 
a fine-
arts patron;

and longing,
all-
along to be lured—maybe
by

dayjob wolfhound quicksniffing—

squirrel trail,
to flowerbed pissdrizzle,
to the simplest

smell—of 
sun warmed wood,

then here—
off the boulevard, 

not to mere
dross pennies,

but gleaming
dimes and fresh

nickels in the birdbath;

thereupon,
suddenly

starts a mossy 
uvula swelling

and jangling—'til over-
whelming-
ly it's—

glory glory glory! 
Oh glory be
to God?, maybe

but victory—
to me.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

SOUND AS VISION

No sooner awake 
than were 
his ears suddenly—pierced to feel 

warmed strangely!
by 
the delirious cryof a lone gull

doubtless startled
but
by turns—elated

and crowing—perhaps
to her lagging and 
dappled companions—regarding

reasonably
the smell 
of fecund alley trash;

which, by nowmust be!
rising in tandem 
with that invisible weight 

of the world's 
nearest kind 
preposterous yellow star—in radiant plumes

not yet
of warm—but of milder
cold air,

each one 
just quietly 
exhaustingthe tired 

premise of another 
endless winter.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

IN THE LIONS' DEN

Hey, maybe 
easy does it?—
with all of your

prim gymnastic 
hyper-elastic 

fightin' words!
down there,
now—dim little Daniel; 

for sure
as it's currently

rhythm
that's your instrument

it'll most likely
soon 
be 

arthritis—that's your
impediment.

IRREGARDLESS

Fair warning—near the very
early morning

the poet—warm-
headed

sticky-
haired 
andwaking at last 

from his 
dear precious cache

of small 
curdled rest
to behold in that

momenta bewildering 
new panorama 

of colors 
and
forms
and sensations—and thereupon 

rising
and moving—slowly
to inhabit 

tesseract
after 
tesseract 

of convoluted 
rooms that 
will need describing;

any little man 
such as that
is quite likely 

feeling a disparately 
good bitless substantive
than he 

contemporaneously 
might be feelingconfident 
articulating.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

SPLIT INFINITIVE KOAN—

How can?—
a tongue

be
bothdead!

and
correct.

NON-FAIRY GODMOTHER

A lie—my child
is a wish

your heart 
is willing to let die.

And it is real work—letting 
a thing die;

islanded
out there—as it must be

in the very 
midst of your 
very real life

as a single dream 
in the 
vast ocean of night might be;

but not undertaken 
in order 
to deny life—

but rather 
simply
to spite it a little.

Monday, March 23, 2015

STATIC CHARACTER

Substantive as she appears—
to clutch
with tight glovefingers

jewel-crusted cane tops and white 
tea cups—
while seated 

slanted smartly
in pleated reams of gilded velvet, draped 
loose—so as not to hide,

but rather highlight
each principled wrinkle—and dispensing, quite
even-handedly,

impeccably-
timed and great age-
ripened witticisms, very specifically 

when and however she 
pleases
to trill them out to attendant purple parlors;

the poor 
old 
Dowager-Countess persists 

nevertheless—poor,
impoverished, starving
for attention;

for no company present 
actually hears 
or heeds her rich declarations, caked and 

heaped 
together so incredibly densely 
as they are—word

by 
thick luscious 
beautifully embellished British word—

into such decadent piles
of caramelized
profiteroles 

of sentences—
each filled to near-
bursting with such devilishly sticky 

gooey creamy filling—
that no polite guest
could rightly ingest 

more than 
one or 
two of them in a sitting.

Friday, March 20, 2015

PORTRAIT OF THE DELIVERY BOY WITH HIS M.A.

Coasting past the elementary school
the red yellow 

crossing guard—long,
grimfaced,

pockmark-
mottled, female—

brandishing her huge 
stop 

sign
and snapping—Go ahead quick, Bicycle!

And him
pedaling through with his deep mind recording—

pricelessly astute
but far,

far 
less usefully—That was a metonym.

IRRESPONSIBLE PARADE ROUTE

Suddenly
on the first day of 
spring—come many 

pale skinny kids rubbing 
out their dark eyes and 
blinking—then

streaming through
crosswalk-winnowed city blocks 
in thin clothes and 
singing—no particular popular
song to keep rhythm;

and already—not one of them thinking 
about winter, or 
traffic, or
even remembering

anything significant 
regarding what 
happened last 

night, for that matter—as they 
advance toward their 
ultimate destination—those lusciously verdant

cocktails 
at those open-
air tables—along the way 

intermittently pausing 
to praise and toss-
out pretty flowers

plucked earlier 
from the un-
kempt sidewalk-

sale out in
front of the Jewel-Osco.

ANGELS SINGING ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING—

In the 
whole 
bright big 

beautiful blue 
world!—
it's entirely

weird—
that there's 

that many waiting rooms.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

NO BIRTH AND NO DEATH

On a bust
of his ancestor, 
clinging candlelit

bleak above his 
chipped and 
dismal chamber door—

perched 
and spat 
the raven—something rather

a little too grim
and final 
for him 

to handle.
Meanwhile,
unheeded—

silently blared
the somewhat
more helpful

tip at 
the top 
of that—swiftly diminishing 

waxy
alabaster candle—look guys;
it's cool.

I'm fire.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

SCAM

Once—
and for

a limited time only—
life's an award;

after which
you're 

totally stuck
spending 

day after day—just
struggling

to afford it. 

THE IMAGIST POET HAS HIS CONCERNS—

How? can my mind 
be

both 
a diamond—

and tired?
Also—is anybody

else out there 
pretty 

sure—that they're 
shitting

a lot more than they're eating?

SOLO WITH ACCOMPANIMENT

Whenever—
clear 
out of nowhere,

without
any trigger—seeming-
ly free

from violence 
and vim
and

all attendant 
vignettes whatsoever—save
for

the sheer fact
of its 
sudden

penetration
and 
impact 

on a landscape—
warm light enters,
enlivening all particles;

that's when—
some of them

begin
figuring to one another—here's!
where

the violins 
should start
to fade in—and marveling,

oh!—how
it just makes

and ruins
the whole thing.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

SHORE

At least—after wild storms 
and bleak
unpredictable stresses, he feels

there can be a certain plain and 
repeatable 
order to his sleep—where

he might dream—
simply

of perfectly 
calm and full oceans—not contained,
for not complete,

inside any such 
tall glass as might convey 
even the most fleeting 
feeling of momentary optimism—

and with 
absolutely no bubbles 
to flatter 
or define them at their edges.

And then 
when he wakes, he might dare

to imagine
having imagined—

that the whole world 
has stopped 
and slept in his wake;

and when he rises again 
to move—in pastel light,
through a kindlier space,

that the whole world is leaping forward 
with him—rekindled 

and a little
less confused.

Monday, March 16, 2015

PRELUDE TO THE AFTERNOON

Eventually—from the flutes
and the Eb 
clarinet section

warm curves of air 
gingerly inch 

their way 
all the way 

up to plump balconies—and their 
manifold rows

of cracked 
and shadowy 
masked faces 

poised—in a fashion
of such
luxurious

disinterest; whereupon 
they settle

gradually 
and 
with discretion

to the 
delicate task 

of moistening—
their nosebleeds.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

DOMINO

Vanishing into a pinprick 
blackhole 
off in the crooked 
distance—

endless blue rows 
of receptacles—
filled with 

receptacle-fulls
of receptacles—most of them largely half-
full or

more—of whichever 

phenomenon—it's been 
supposed

they were empty
of.

Friday, March 13, 2015

CEREMONIAL

As above
so too
below—as

another errant chunk
of blithe 
bike commuter—inclined

by the formidable
rhythm of
traffic lights changing—

is inevitably pressed
lock-
step into slow and interminable

orbital dance—
with the most grotesque
of partners—a klutzy city bus.



Thursday, March 12, 2015

REPRODUCED

am—
not! a rock

I am not
an island!—

Nope; I'm—Target


am 

Walmart—

over-
stocked but 
underserving you

deliberately—
with only
one or two

of my ample 
and future-y 
checkout lanes open.

And—you'll hear me 
here
when I
here-
by declare—no American
icon 

or idol 
or poet 
is safe! 

from the
cheaper
and deeper-
stacked
chittering 
wrath—of 
my 

wrath.

OF PROGRESS

Walt Disney 
declared—there's 
a
great 
big 
beautiful 
tomorrow

shining 
at the end of every day—while 

Dickinson dared—
there's 
that

certain slant of light—
oppressing 
and
investing us
with all
the hurt
that heaven can muster; 

but looking out—
I just see
a great
big

carrot 
up there—

spot-lit fat 
and hairy
and orange
and knobby
and whatever—

on a string that's
suspended
from the drop-
ceiling
of a
carousel
somewhere

on a themepark
lot—
the floor
of which seems
to have been rather 
listlessly littered
with a few 
black 
banana peels

which I'm 
hardly
concerned about—since the whole rig

kind of
more or less
seems
to be 
moving—all
together.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

PREMIERE

Must be
Spring—if you're keen 
enough to guess

with all due
incredulity—how an empty hard pack 
of Newports 

littering 
the new grass—could be 
sincerely 

sub-
labeled "cigarettes".

LAG

On a forlorn corner
several squat 
chalkfaced tuckpointers—each rolled

dolefully 
into his ample overalls—suspend 
momentarily 

as I bend 
and pass—

their monumental undertaking
to squander 
and hoard 

and move back 
and forth 
various

clay colored barrowfulls
of barrow 
coloed clay and mortar—to presumably 

crackwise
in a tongue
which is not mine—and then

to fissure
into fantastically encouraging smiles 
and simple

peels of gentle steam-
dispatching

laughter—in one which 
suddenly is.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

CROWS NEST

Face it Kate—there's absolutely
no risk 
in chasing

after 
any treasure which we didn't
first bury

deep in the earth 
ourselves;
courage—the real stuff,

exists 
in being just—
slightly 

brave! but 
unwaveringly—and without 

caving-
in—to impetuousness.

JUMPING OFF POINT

Intergalactic 
chaos!
Reenacting

itself 
still—there
on the vast black-

top pay lot
outside—hundreds
to dozens

of shards
of anemic 
Heineken-

green glass—appearing
inert
under still-

vaster veils 
of pale 
light refracted—

in reality, slowly 
turning—
Heineken-Greener. 

Monday, March 9, 2015

NONPARTISAN

All these 
small politicians—whose

peeping I 
can't seem to
outpace on the streets—

don't sound 
to me 

quite 
so brave 
as I 

imagine they've fixed-
to—

firing-off 
all their well-provisioned  
lock-stock 

little missives! 
unseen—

and unseeable—save for
some rustling

from deep within 
those

impermeable 
bushes.

FANTASIA ON A THEME

Apologies in advance—for 
whatever they're worth

to every small
morning bird out there
currently chirping—oo-de-lolly! 

oo-de-lolly!
ooh-la-
la—gee! golly! 

up, down and all over
each still-
tender chilly

bald limb on Bosworth—
but today

the much milder March 
air settling in 

across the tired 
shoulders of our shy 
new city has engendered

an entirely different sort
of mass 
all-together—the homily of which regards 

true glory!
as something much quieter;
condensation 

on shop windows—
fog on low 

sidewalks—
the brave blush 
of a little 

sun on ice—reflecting,
refreshing,
reanimating the promise—

that even all 
the glass 
and the muck 
and the ash—

the dogshit and 
Jewel bags and tidal waves
of sidewalk morass—

will not only 
pull-
back, but moreover

will likely—
make truly
great manure someday.

Saturday, March 7, 2015

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS BEGINS

Made plain
only—for that flash
of a second 

separating 
the rollicking downbeat 
at the top of the next measure—and

the last decaying 
crash cymbal—at the 
end of this past one;

the single-
note drone 
of a pale tone wheel organ—which

since at least half-
way through the second-
to-last chorus—has been 

stunningly unobtrusively!
deployed 
by the producer

with the ultimate 
and the thankless 
objective—of gluing 

two unbelievable—
if a little 
disparate—song fragments together.


Friday, March 6, 2015

EPITAPH FOR A COPYWRITER

Dark—
now 

and 
again—but then not really 
half-

bad with his 
bright daily 
brainfingers—which, 

significantly—never aspired
to tell

the whole truth—

only
the bits—worth describing.

NOT IDEAS ABOUT THE SONG BUT THE SONG ITSELF

Mellow and delicately
yawning—the slow throats 
of your ears

stretch without strain
near the dark 
end of winter
and then—tentatively affording one another 

the momentarily
decadent
opportunity to savor—soon snap

to a sound—still faint 
fuzzy
faraway 
beguiling—

a sound that could only
have come from outside—because never!
in your right mind

could you have dreamt 
of concocting—

the curiously vernal melody—now inviting 
itself inward nonstop 
through your cartilage-

thin walls—from the uncharted wealth 
of such possible worlds 
as might just exist somewhere
off in the alley—

the unmistakably—rattletrap clamoring
organ and clapping 

hands—
of the goddamn J. Geils Band!