PURE DRIVEL

Behold! the poetry
there on your breath

as you conjure—making spongesoft
words

kiss more
words
kiss

more words—
with no
effort, and very

little concentration
on the warm

splatter
that's accumulating—an expressionistic picture

which best
approximates—blindness.

SEPTEMBER 30

Hallelujah—
little

second-
to-
last-

impetuous
chiffon morning glory—just as lonely

clinging
to your freedom—not yet
near-

ly
as desperate.

TRICKLE DOWN THEORY

Eventually! 

Even 

the 

most 

unhinged

and unbound— 

of all

home-

less men 

far and 

wide's filthy

hand-

me-

down pant-

legs—are 

destined

to fit 

him 

like this—

super-skinny.

TRAP DOORS

However eager 

in the mornings—

the genial self-

appointed Judge
and Jury 

were—so often,

by mid-

afternoon,

disappointed—and longing 

more than anything!

to hang 

the whole thing altogether 

that—eventually 

the menial 

Executioner,

moved 

by a curious

compassionate sensation—and exercising, 

without
much hesitation—

let alone

conviction

or deliberation 

or show of emotion— 

the position

of his 

meager office,

proceeded
to pitch

his only 

switch—and 

do them 

both a hefty favor.

THE PROBLEM IS NOT—

How to stay small
and still

keep growing;
After all—

history
has never recorded

a
ruthless and bloodthirsty—flower.

SIMMER DOWN

Once—I was
a mighty glacier!

so huge
as to border
on vague.

I ate rocks—
and spit back great
lake basins;

and, though slow—I worked
with such deliberate
superfluous fury

that, eventually—
the sheer vehemence
of my ardent
passion seemed to leave me

no choice!
but to relax
and gradually—take

the shape
of my
container.

CLEVER PACKAGING

On the sopping muddy road

home post-war,

met a man—

rag-bandaged,

bloody,

yet cartoony—

chipped, 

and dried-

out like 

a tough bit 

of old liver sausage would be—

and with damp gauzy medieval 

claptraps of shoes 

on each foot

that happened to hamper even

the decisiveness 

of his limp;

and as we passed 

he said 

to me—

but only

with his one 

protruding eyeball,

and with 

the little filthy 

harmonica at his lips—

Son,

it ain't enough 

to have good ideas—or consistently.

You have

to learn how 

to have quick ones—and shit 'em out constantly;

not to mention the gumption,

the start-up cash,

and all that machinery.

And one more thing!

he whistled: 

a gimmick—

somethin' silvery 

slick—to distract 'em

from the stink

of the attack 

that you're leveling—such as 

a charmin'—

disarmin'—

colloquial way of speakin'.