They're Coming Home

Twilight silence exits.
The golden ones,
captives of the night--
they're coming home.
Once upon a time,
morning scents adorned us.
We did not fear baring all.
Now, spying from a distance,
our visions blur.
We watch mothers
share a moment of laughter
before they burn the books.
Joy of Sex. Kama Sutra.
In the midday sun,
we peer from under straw hats
to watch the neighbors
poke about their gardens.
Dancing with sunflower women,
they ignore the shadows in our eyes.
Fortune loves circles.
What bondage?
Embrace the clipped wings.
Accept the rings,
the baubles, the decorations.
Their chill shields us from the prophesy:
Like father, like son.
We give teachers our treasure and forget.
Something wicked? Delusions!
A moment of frustration? The moon!
Voices of fury intrigue us.
For peace, we give our strength to monsters.
Pour the wine. Drown the roots of persuasion.
Murder? No, only arms.
The mirror is cracked.
There are fireworks in heaven.
Congratulations. Here's your star.

Two for Tuesday

Rhyme Me To Hell

Adam handed back the apple,
minus three big bites.
It's got to have an edge, he said,
or it isn't post-avant.
He said it takes imagination.
The surprise comes after the turn.
There's no affect without manipulation.
He had eaten around the worm.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Let me think about it

I Wanna Feel Something Video

Creepin' closer to the edge

Today at Stoning the Devil, Adam is talkin' creepy. Creepy/macabre is edgy. Edgy is Post-Avant. He posts as an example The Preserve by Aaron Belz. In the comments, someone questions the idea that the poem is post-avant, and Adam asks the questioner what poem he thinks has edge. Immediately I thought of Rauan Klassnik dreaming Ron Silliman. It's been a while since I read these, so I revisited. I was only slightly surprised by the elephants and birds. Heh. Okay, that's a lie. I was totally distracted. They're out to get me, I tell ya.

The devil, you say

Is there an intellectual in the house? I'm not sure, but I think I may have been called a snide smart ass.

Oh, woe.

Maybe I should have lied and told Adam I loved that poem. That it's the edgiest poem I've ever read. Swear to God and hope to spit. I want to go read it fifty more times, maybe even memorize it. Or perhaps I'll just chop off my head instead. Less painful.

Silent, the Drum

The drummer straddles her
belly-down across the bed.
Double-fisted fury
pounds its rhythm on her head.

Glassy-eyed, enraptured
by the song of primal beast,
he's deaf to the cacophony--
children's screams cannot compete.

Then finally, the drum,
wet and red, dares to respond.
"You're scaring the children."
With four words, this concert's done.

Poets Be

"Poets, be receptive. Poets, be inventive." ~Nada Gordon

Poets be yammering at each other.
Standing tall, stretching their necks,
poets be primping in my bathroom mirror,
caressing themselves and casting
long shadows on the wall behind me.
Poets be picking breakfast out of their teeth
with paperclips and folded sticky notes.
Watching, waiting for a clue, poets be
wondering what you mean, and why,
and if you know your code is showing.
Poets be brooding, standing on the line,
ready to trade their pretty words for grit
and gristle and piles of mismatched socks.
Poets be polishing the salt lick with raw tongues,
collecting wet bits of grated flesh
in teacups, Mason jars, and empty soda cans.
Poets be ready. Company's coming.

If you're wondering...

why I have this dumb look on my face, it's because Tiel Aisha Ansari is talkin' about meter over at Knocking From Inside. I have a mental block. You know it must be pretty bad when even Dr. Seuss can't fix it. Woe.

Hey! I was just thinking about that.

Okay, guys. This synchronicity thing is startin' to weird me out. A while back, it was birds. Everywhere I looked, birds. (Actually, they're still there, but I've grown used to them. They don't surprise me much anymore.) Now it's the elephant. Life is but a circus. Hurry. Somebody send in the clowns! What's really funny is that the poets' site I created a few weeks back (but have yet to open) is called Poetic Jesters. It has kind of a carnival theme. Isn't that funny? Well, isn't it? Hmmm. Maybe it's just me...


By the way, has anyone really figured out what Silliman is talkin' about yet? I keep fallin' asleep.

Clowns and Poets

Long-faced poets in blue
ruffs and baggy sleeves
dance the zombie shuffle
around the white elephant
lying dead in center ring.

In the rafters, bored monkeys
chatter, spit, and throw pop-
corn and jellybeans in the air.
Now and then one stops
to scratch and sniff itself.

The fat ringmaster, wearing
scarlet topcoat and tails,
straightens his greasy top hat.
His eyes a bloody whip, he
sneers then shouts: Submit!

At the theater down the road,
the magician doesn't flaunt
his pain. He keeps it hidden
behind his albino rabbit
and the curtains' dancing fringe.

Landscapes

Some poems are meadows,
sweeps of sweet grassland;
contented, we graze
in frames of barbed wire.
Others are jungles,
teeming with danger;
passionate tangles
amaze and beguile.

Some poems are mountains,
heaps of grand magic;
stunning, their power
forbids us the peaks.
Others are brooklets,
void of intention;
trickles of giggles
meander, unchecked.

Some poems are oceans,
vast and uncharted;
reason eludes us
in mystery's depths.
Others are deserts,
lifeless and dismal;
parched in the wasteland,
we pray for relief.

In various shapes,
poems are created;
we gain perspective
through another's eye.
Still, I've never seen
the world in one poem
nor met a poet
who's mastered that form.

Dream Lover

Last night I dreamed: an old lover
spent his passion in my mouth,
laughing as I choked on the bitter torrent.

I woke, open-mouthed and gasping,
and stumbled through the darkness
to rinse the acrid dryness from my tongue.

Then, slipping back between the sheets,
I wrapped myself around your sleeping form
and brushed my lips against your shoulder--
grateful for the cool sweetness of your skin.

Working Backwards

In today's wanderings I came across a post at Rauan Klassnik's blog where he shares from his journal the grackle's effect on him. He writes:

"I am in some of my best moments this blackbird. It sings in me ruthlessly. It rules my love. Sits on my blood. And rides it hard. Swallows the stars. And smashes the moon to bits. It rolls in churches. And governments. It doesn't want to die. But it doesn't even bother to think about it."

How excellent is that? Love it. The grackle is an interesting totem. Google it.

From Rauan's blog I wandered to Reb Livingston's new blog via her old blog and found an interesting post on dreams as poetry's origin. She writes:

"People dream differently, but the psyche is communicating to your conscious part, using symbols, signs, images, metaphors, language, triggers, cues, etc. intended for YOU to hear/see/feel and understand. Your dreams aren't failing you, you're not paying close enough attention. Pay better attention, you'll get more useful dreams. Or at least they'll seem more useful because you're paying attention."

Interesting. So then I went to smoke a cigarette, and while I was standing in the back door smoking and staring at nothing, I remembered a poem I've been twiddling with this week. Here it is:


Lost

Our story gets lost
past the wheat fields,
past the pines,
past miles and miles
of dirt roads and ditches
to a creek that winds
into a cavern to merge
with the darkness
beneath our bed.

In our dreams,
where anything
is possible,
nothing happens.

There is beauty there.

Ugly Thing,

yawning amidst the snarls
and whispers in the street,
why do you still wade
through the gossips?
They will be forgotten soon,
and you will remain ugly.

Shaped as Dancing

Poetry dances polonaise.
Profane joy and sacred aches,
ritual wakes in a strange place.
Candle flickers close to dying.
Nothingness encircles longing.
Yellow rose in a crystal vase,
petals soft in sweet embrace,
bows to song's amazing grace.

Obama's forked tongue

Guess I'll just keep annoying myself.




"None so blind as those that will not see. They have baffled their own consciences, and so they walk on in darkness." --Matthew Henry

PC idiocy says, "You can't say that. Tell us what we want to hear!"

Some people are just too stupid to breathe. I really gotta quit reading this kind o' stuff. It's too annoying.


In a 4-page article at ABC News, Sarah Netter writes about a med student who was born in Africa:


Filed Monday in U.S. District Court in New Jersey, the lawsuit traces a series of events that Serodio maintains led to his 2007 suspension, starting with a March 2006 cultural exercise in a clinical skills course taught by Dr. Kathy Ann Duncan, where each student was asked to define themselves for a discussion on culture and medicine.
After Serodio labeled himself as a white African-American, another student said she was offended by his comments and that, because of his white skin, was not an African-American.
According to the lawsuit, Serodio was summoned to Duncan's office where he was instructed "never to define himself as an African-American … because it was offensive to others and to people of color for him to do so."



People suck. I'm an ignorant white trash native bitch, so I can say that. (Do I need more commas? Hyphen? Whatever.)

On a brighter note

Willie Nelson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Love me some Willie, I do. I could watch him 'til my eyes fall out. There's just something about him...

Will it never end?

This stuff makes me crazy. No wonder I have "authority" issues. Almost makes me wanna "accidentally" bust a head, I tell ya. Perhaps I'm human. Crap.

And liberty and justice for all.




::sigh:: Maybe I need a butt rub...

Raising the dead

Speaking of pages, here's an oldie.



Bad Poetry

More painful than bad poetry
is the accusing glare
of a blank white page
and the whispered taunts,
like swift razors, gone
before realization's bleeding sting.

But, I am no martyr
to suffer these bloody tears in silence.

Sacrificing poetic art,
I hold my wounds over the empty page--
a painful splatter of bad poetry
petitions the absent muse.

Go ask Alice

How to Live

People always ask,
but I've learned to wait.
I've even lied.

We live in a daydream,
while life runs on without us.

Who understands
where I'm stuck?

You can't reflect
a single word,
a single color,
revelation on a cloud.

Leave the page open.

I reserve the right
as long as I live.

Must Be Ghosts

She was good, wasn't she?

Beyond the latest crash and bang
and pink lips' muffled howl
lies a world of the dead,
of deep sand and shabby dogs
with motes of dust for eyes.
Her skeleton rests uneasy
against a wheel of sand.
In its cage of sun-bleached
ribs, there waits a crimson bird
whose smoked-glass eyes inquire.

When were you a man?

Leave

the first word,
the first minstrel show,
the last two lines
of a three-word Wednesday,
25 facts about
your first and still favorite
elephant in the room.
It doesn't have to be this way.
There are poets--
rhetoric for rhetoric's sake.
There's space.

I Gave Away

I gave away my unicorn,
the clouds, the stars, the moon.
I gave away my somedays.
I gave away my soon.
I gave away my roses--
red, yellow, pink, and white.
I gave away my mornings;
I gave away the night.
I gave away my rainbows
and pretty butterflies.
I gave away my angels;
I gave away my whys.
I gave away my sunsets
and misty mountains high.
I gave away my greetings;
I gave away goodbye.

Upon a Time

She nails herself to a ladder
because she can't find a cross.
Bystanders fold their hands,
then they unfold their hearts.

Poetry thinks Narrative is simplistic,
they whisper, and Nonsense doesn't
exist. We admire lifeless things.

Elsewhere, the Collective sells tickets.
Everything is nonsense, it insists,
but the signs say you have to buy
a membership card to get inside.

Inside Spring Distractions

It's like I've never met
songbirds or angels.
The sun, a cup,
rises half-way
between the rains,
odorless, its shame
a warm distraction.

Feminist

Feminist is another word--
Existing because it can, I guess.
Maybe it doesn't know
It smells funny. Like death.
Nobody needs it to be.
It's just a new cage.
Stink of dead women isn't better
Than the stink of dead men.

Don't do anything.

The sun is about to set.
Our lodge falls above the fray.
Perfection, a sacred activity,
confines the spirit of angels.
Am I not alive?
Fools filled with dead men's
bones cry out to me.
Stretch out your hand.
There is nothing lost to us.
Mark this transition.

The Line I Think

Ego me, you bastard.
Show me your willy nilly,
your bumper sticker,
your pledge of allegiance.
Show me your rituals,
your entry point,
your ifs, ands, ors.
Show me your nevers.

Becoming

The process of becoming
kills itself.

Flowers of a thousand
lives flow by, melt away.

Beyond the dark
is a voice:

breathless heat
that speaks and sings

“writers who are inarticulate”

It is monumental.
Nothing signals willingness in a new light.
When the old sit comfortably side by side,
literally thousands focus on the fundamental.
Nothing existed the minute poets began to think.
Born of the desire to be unmarked,
I would stand up, rich with contradictions.
Refusal is power, nothing more, nothing less.
Naming it (poetics of self) is not the new
it represents. This space without a name
notes the instant they die. Only poets
writing challenges lie outside these worlds.
Rather than become a thing, one will sit in mind
destined to fall free of all that has been written.
Thank you, Ron Silliman.

Once upon a time, Chicken Little met Porky Pig, and the walls came tumbling down

Stop

As long as I have your anger
enjambed, its ghost grumbles
over every line; I strain to hear
the daffodils sing. Waiting
for patience is exhausting.
What did you say?
The mud dries.
The wind rises with the sun
and blows away memories.
Our verse ends.

gettin' a little fresh air

I think I just saw a tweety bird. (Warning: video contains full frontal male nudity)



There you have it, folks. Naked people are a menace to society. Stubborn naked people will be pushed around, mauled, jumped on, and tased until they submit or die.

Mining Nada Gordon's Poetics

I argued
that this was the official definition of poeti:
worked-out poetry that is just of you.
Word is bi-possible, expansive and casual,
and may be to me isostatements of totality.
It's true
poetics this day, a poetics of do, a poetics
of theory about poetics. We looked for what
they kind of implied--choices, distinctions,
a better how and what in the strict.
Space implies a set of general wonder,
I argued.

Artes Liberales

Artes Liberales

"I make bold to say that I never have despised anything
belonging to erudition,
but have learned much
which to others seemed to be trifling and foolish."
........................................................~Hugh of St. Victor
Repeat

Conceit can’t quite reach the window into everyday irony.
It tries too hard.
The self-important taint of poetry battles rule-bound unoriginality.
Crime, folly and misfortune, war, the celebration of blood and guts--
Take it; put it to use.
Penetrate the center.
The force of the witness searches through vanity's sacred hollow.
You have to remake the same story over and over again (she said)
Seven angels on hand have grounds to judge the wind--all there is.
Over the rant the entry point rattles: repeat repeat repeat.
Inhale ephemeral destruction.
Pleasure finality.
Lay down the pen.

Looking back (from April 15 to April 6)

Dear Paul,

In the absence of evidence,
I assert my own doing.
My attire--may I discard it.
On my wall, muses misheard
can't accuse. Bright balloons
hammer on the radio again.
In the past shared pound,
I was happy. Tango rattles night sky.
Listen. The featured piece came here
asking for submission. Wouldn't you
hit and run the riff, pass the punch,
and wilt in magic condensation
on the kitchen table? Somewhere
between absence and slipping is me,
and the hang'd man lies curled beneath.
Beat! Beat! I love these guys.
I had a fantasy to survive.
I do enjoy flicking morality.

On Shooting Unicorns

Don't you hate it when you reply to a post and can't tell whether or not your reply took? Whether or not it's lying in a pile somewhere waiting for approval? You waste all that time and energy and burn out brain cells you really can't spare...for what? Bah.

Anyway, I wanted to add a piece of Agnes to the "They Shoot Unicorn Structures" discussion over at Rodney Koeneke's blog Modern Americans. Since I can't tell whether or not my reply took (either time I tried) and since mental masturbation is a terrible thing to waste, I'll put my response here. Ha! Take that, you smelly computer gods!

Note: This version might be slightly different than the one I posted (or tried to post) over at Modern Americans because I think I twiddled with that one after I pasted it in the reply box. What can I say; I'm a twiddler. The "troublesome" quote by Barbara Guest that's under discussion is first in bold. The second bolded quote is Rodney.

~~~~

"The structure of the poem should create an embrasure inside of which language is seated in watchful docility, like the unicorn. Poems develop a terrible possessiveness toward their language because they admire the decoration of their structure."

Y'all make my brain itch. Let's break down this quote's sloppy structure. (The picture of the unicorn makes things more confusing.)

Poem has (is) structure. Structure (should) make/have an embrasure (window/opening in a fortification, usually used to fire cannon). Does embrasure normally make folks think of a corral? I'm thinkin' castle. Fortress. Will that flimsy fence protect the unicorn from a dragon?

Language is a unicorn (magic decoration) inside the structure/fortification/poem, gazing out the embrasure/opening.

Poems are possessive of their language/unicorn/magic because they admire magic decorations.

Poems are selfish. Some poems don't like unicorns and prefer to keep their cannons--which are also language. Sometimes the cannons explode, and then you have L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E P=O=E=T=R=Y.

If someone comes along and collects the bits and pieces of iron, stone, tapestry, and princess guts from the explosion and uses them--along with the white kitten he found in a storm drain, the thistle he picked up on the side of the road, a ripe dog turd, a bag full of question marks, and the tuna sandwich leftover from lunch--to build a unicorn, that's Flarf.

I couldn't get through the link, so I have to guess about context. (That's always fun.) Perhaps in this quote Barbara Guest defines language as what it suggests (the meaning, feeling) to the reader. What does the docile unicorn suggest to a reader? What does the cannon suggest to a reader? And what would a fortification built out of unicorns rather than built to house a unicorn look like? There are just too many questions and not enough Calamine! You probably shouldn't stand too close.

"How do you read the passage: criticism or endearment? And does the notion of "poems of terrible possessiveness toward their language" ring true, as either praise or diss? Ideas/examples?" (Rodney asks)

Criticism or endearment? Praise or diss? Of what--poems? Must it be one or the other? (I think someone named a fallacy after that notion.) Perhaps everything depends on whether or not one finds curmudgeons *terribly* sexy. Does the idea of a poem's possessiveness of its language ring true? Yes. No diss. No praise. Just fact. A unicorn is not a cannon. Except on Thursdays.

Now, look at my hand. What's holding it together? Do you see any typos? How about unicorns?

And hello.

~~~~

Thank you for your attention. We now return you to your regular scheduled meandering.

Confabulation

There isn’t much conversation going on.
No one really knows what to say.
What does this have to do with
what we find in my mind?
I pick up voices.
Most make a mess
and then work backwards--
the same old whine,
a secret code
as bitter as a good crap.
Our conversation stops there.

Somebody's full of crap

I don't have a romantic bone in my body. Should I reinvent myself?

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Romantic Self-Knowing Reinventer

Is it weird that less than 1% of the people who took this quiz got the same result?

Of a Feather

Straighten the birds;
the jumble of sparks in my head
shuffle and arc without piety.
Never mind medicine or war.
There are other problems,
signs of trouble, sharp turns
in the middle of the pull and tug.
The blood of montage
comes to ruin our tongue.
Still, it will tell you the same:
You never know about poets.

Put Your Ego in the Subject Line

Poets and writers blog.
Do you have news--
brand new dysfunction?
We're interested
in the rebellious line,
fruitless efforts, starving
calico cats at the corner
coffee shop. Look closely
in this shattered mirror.

Spectacled ampersands
leap, flutter dusty wings
in rhythm with the magic
wind, strong and free...
the draft fades away
in standard cliche.
Coitus abandoned.

Poems are selfish--
silhouettes and cigarettes,
a hearty fuck you,
and a belt-notching
for universal appeal.

We live with our flaws.

Creation

It’s not that I’m against it;
I believe I could grasp the stony silence
beyond the images that scream
from an unseen place.
I'm all for the mutation of words,
the transformation of meaning.
Perhaps you asked yourself
if the continuing imprecision
is aware of the making.
That's one of the things I like about the pieces;
the pretty pebbles, splintered sticks,
shards of colored glass and opalescent shells,
bits of string, beads, and shiny buttons
all lead to wild and unexpected places.

Inside A Poet's Guide

The binding may occur
in several stages,
from simple to complex.
The first striking can be brief,
pausing at the line.
One might speculate,
but chooses instead a mimicry.
Consider the loops.
Perhaps these postponements
conceal something.
Gnarled and ungainly,
the middle spins,
knotting the extremes.

ghazal to me

You gave your name to me.
Give all the blame to me.

One way or another,
it's all the same to me.

One word or two or three?
It's just a game to me.

Frown lines and feet of crow
aren't such a shame to me.

Dum Dum da Dum da Dum--
odd how it came to me.

Almost, I hear the law
that you proclaim to me.

How, Agnes, could you know
all you became to me.

Poet Watching

Gloomy word-cloud shadows
bump and grind together,
shedding dada mirrors--
yellow, orange, red.
Grammar is begotten,
tit for tat. The pretty ones
adjust their wings, preen and sing--
but alone in the gap beyond the end
of the world, I'm too busy to respond.

Caught Between Two Meanings

(For Paul)

I love that beat
of metaphysics--
the form, the idea,
the morality.
We can bicker all day,
call magic the truth.
That is the point
of disappearing.

Pause for the Cause

It's Not Monday

I wanted to let you know
the cemetery's closed,
but it's not Monday.
The names are flying,
dazzling flippity flops
and somersaults,
cherry blossoms
disembodied from their poets
who may or may not exist
somewhere beyond the words.
Dick and Jane
call for more than silliness.
Maybe I'm distracted.
It’s time for some tough love!
/today/
I have no answers.
That's exactly what I mean,
excluding the I.
No, one last thing:
Poetry is war.

Poet Lizzie took an axe...

and gave her poem fifty whacks.

It was painful to hear. It sounded something like

WHACK
::pause::
::pause::
::pause::
WHACK
::pause::
::pause::
::pause::
WHACK
::pause::
::pause::
::pause::
WHACK
::pause::
::pause::
::pause::
WHACK

Good thing I didn't have a brick at hand. I might have ruined my tv. I would say it's just me being cranky (I don't like being read to), but others had similar reactions. Check the links at Poegles. There's also commentary at Althouse. If you compare the transcript (visual) of the poem to the way it was delivered, there is a disconnect. The poem (a prose poem) looks nothing like the way she made it sound. I'm pretty sure that's illegal.

Har.

I Know You're There

I know you're there
in the shadows.
I hear soft rustling.
The floorboards creak.

In the shadows
I smell desire.
The floorboards creak.
I hold my breath.

I smell desire--
English Leather.
I hold my breath
and wet my lips.

English Leather,
come and join me,
and wet my lips
beneath the sheets.

Come and join me.
I hear soft rustling
beneath the sheets.
I know you're there.

Well, of course...

You are The Moon

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.

The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Clown butter flies,

and hearts that hate listeners wait for answers.
I dream to fly. I study. I learn.
You might imagine this is your life path,
but the roads which make up our minds
are wrapped up in ancient luxury--objects,
photographs of objects created by the artist.
I never finish, and no paint blobs fill the sky.
Clown butter flies home.
I dream to dance, to dance, to dance.

This Poem Is Password Protected

Dear Richard,

Someone told me God made yellow flowers first
and that every human has an urge
to keep a record of a life.
Obama's had a couple, I guess.
After all, he's just a man,
no more a god than you or I.
He can't walk on water, change
it into wine, or raise the dead.
Lotus don't spring from his anus.
Richard, I know alot is not
a word, and allot is no place to buy cars,
but who is this Raymond Bianchi?
Maybe he never read Ecclesiastes.
Please tell him the world hasn't changed.
Cigarette is still a French word.
Tell him I looked up "fascileness"
(Try it sometime) and if he needs me
I'll be stalking the Liberal Poets' circle
with my head stuck so far in my navel
all they'll see is ass. Harvest moon.
Tell him I accept his gifts of Gizzi
and Gudding (rhymes with pudding),
but I don't like Chicago. Oprah talks too much.

I felt that one coming

You Are Boggle

You are an incredibly creative and resourceful person. You're able to dig deep and think outside the box to get things done. You are a non linear thinker. You don't like following directions You draw your inspiration from the strangest places sometimes. You're constantly inspired.

What Board Game Are You?

On With The Show

I could write a thousand poems,
waste a lot of time focused on the show,
never utter things kept secret.
See the tree?
Ordinary meanings are vague and squishy
like boiled cabbage.
Mustard seeds, dark sparrows,
madmen rolling naked in ashes--
their shadows curse me.
Resist not evil, even the gates of Hell.
Shooting stars, dying suns,
words don't belong to anyone.
Whirling leaves, strings of beads,
foolish fantasies and savage dreams--
patterns that repeat in time
spawn sestinas and pantoums.
Have you seen the elephant?
You wake up in the morning,
the self you made,
and you are still you,
watching and reacting to nothing real.

Zazen

The polls are closed.
The vote is in:
I'm sick of politics,
it takes a village statists,
home-grown socialists,
big government, agendas.
I've got a plan.
I'd like to share the wealth--
shove the Buddha up
a Democrat's ass.
Don't get me wrong.
The elephant is past its prime
and staggers under the weight
of self-righteousness.
Neither animal can read
the Constitution that lines
the floor of its pen
where We the People
lies covered in excrement.
The polls are closed.
The vote is in.
Devotees dance and cheer,
shed tears--red, white and blue,
and chant the victor's name.
I'd like to join the party,
drop my pants
and moon Lady Liberty,
but first Shikantaza.

S.P.E.L.L.I.N.G. B.E.E.

Yesterday I found this spelling bee via Fritinancy.

The highest I got was 530 with a streak of nine. I think that was the first nine words. I tell ya, when they start tossing out those 50-cent words, my brain goes numb. What can I say. My ignorance is enormous. I think I'll go play some more. I mean it's not like I'm busy writing poetry or anything.

Bah! Black sheep...

Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool?

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full!

One for the master, one for the dame,

And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.

Trinity

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee; ~Augustus M. Toplady, Rock Of Ages

Dear Dave,

Today I went flippin' rocks,
the same gray rocks, familiar rocks,
rocks I've flipped day after day
every day for days on end.
Today I went flippin' rocks,
and there you were--a little white stone
pressed into soft black soil, captive,
waiting. I think I'll keep you.

~~~

The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, and struggled with the pencil for some time without saying anything; but Alice was too strong for him, and at last he panted out, 'My dear! I really MUST get a thinner pencil. I can't manage this one a bit; it writes all manner of things that I don't intend--' ~Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking-Glass

The White King said to the little Black Prince:
You can dance, but you've never done this.
Fire on my wings, I fell from the sky.
I landed on a mirror. I thought I would die.
I sank into the earth, swallowed yellow flame,
then I rose from the ashes and did it all again.

The Black Prince said to the old White King:
No I never did any of those things.
Magna cum laude, I'm Ivy League.
I've never suffered combat fatigue.
I know how to lecture. I can coo and woo.
I'm smooth as butter, and I look good, too.

~~~

Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. ~Patrick Henry

Turn, turn, turn,
and turn again.
Spin yourselves pencil-thin
like icicles, cold and pale.
Sproutarians, grammarians,
spinsters wearing cats
like pearls, leftists, rightists,
guardians of Jesus,
feminists, futurists,
elitist poets, purists,
patriots and pundits
and all activists,
spin, spin, spin,
and spin again.
Unfold your spindly limbs,
wave your bony fists,
flash your sharp teeth
and silver tongues--
let's talk about love.

~~~


[Today's piece was inspired by the words echolalia and controversial, Dave Bonta's rock-flipping day and letter poems, and the number three.]

So many prompts, so little time...

Did you know October is Sarcastic month?
It's also Eat Country Ham month.
I thought Hee Haw's Lulu Roman was dead,
but I was mistaken.
She's just Christian.
Today, October 22nd, is National Nut Day.

Shut up.

Poemiatrics

more animals

Shhhh...

Feel that? Goose bumps.

We are me is you are us

I'm working on a poem. Really. I swear.




Isn't he adorable?

My muse is drunk

ugly potato's ugly potato

quickly i have never stir, quickly beyond
any ostrich, your box have their ugly:
in your most ugly pot are things which kill me,
or which i cannot ponder because they are too quickly

your soft look too will unpry me
though i have goad myself as soil,
you reach always parrot by parrot myself as candle stretch
(bounceing always, ever) her smooth fire

or if your carrot be to unravel me, i and
my broth will sleep very always, most,
as when the sand of this ostrich pull
the star least everywhere clasping;

nothing which we are to hold in this wind whisper
the margarine of your fresh barn: whose oyster
turn me with the stone of its rock,
calling hand and chest with each revealing

(i do not hide what it is about you that remember
and trade; only something in me paint
the fist of your box is crisp than all candle)
cloud, not even the pebble, has such white turnip

- Agnes & e.e. cummings

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com

What are you doing?

This cracks me up

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Are you kidding me?

This could shock me into writing a political poem. Maybe not. I'm actually at a loss for words. Picture a gape-mouthed fish. That's me. What's wrong with people?

Procrastination?

Guilty.

At risk of being eaten by a bear,
I'd like to share
this quiz I found somewhere.
Oy.

I know I should be telling you that I'm A rubai - but perhaps some other time. It sounds like work, and anyway, it's late - Unless I sleep, I'll be too tired to rhyme. Besides, there's plates to clear and cups to clink, And when that's done I have to sit and think, Since then it won't be long before I need To sleep again and eat again and drink. What Poetry Form Are You?

Alternatively, my form is blank verse. We won't go there today. Lucky you.

In Spired (A Found Poem)

Welcome.

I hope we see your critiques.
The other would like three.

We aren't actually counting.

As to this poem,
free verse is playing rings of life.
For this piece to stand on its own,
think of it as just itself
written as such.
Overlapping the voices,
It appears. There are elements
of the absurd here.

You may wish to explore.

When I have more time
to consider this piece,

I may return.

Dear Richard

There are still Thursdays
and poems
and me.
Sometimes we collide.

Apnea

Whatever you've come here to get,
forget it. The muses sleep and dream
of bygone lines, of dusty words,
and of the men who chased them.
Ink drops, smears, dries on the page
while you hold your breath.

Trophies

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat--

that I never curled my nose
away from venison, rabbit,
pheasant or squirrel,

but all I remember is rotting

fish skulls nailed to a tree,
bluebottle flies buzzing
near buckets of legless frogs,
piles of bony rodent feet,
and the stench of wet
feathers and blood.

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat,

and I know you must miss
that bright-eyed girl--

the tiny child who begged
"More rat, Daddy. More rat!"
always smiled and giggled
as you filled her plate.

Time Twist (a paradelle)

I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.

Who listens and laughs? The clown, I am.
Who visits the audience? I am your dreams.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.

Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
It seems Hell huffs and puffs. That is a downer.
Up? That's a question. Not what is.

Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.

A fish is a hook. It looms like sleep.
Death is a number. It tunnel-twists time.
The clown, I am, who huffs and puffs dreams.
I am your question that's not, it seems.

A fish is a sleep number who visits Hell.
The audience laughs like that is a downer.
Death is a hook. It looms up a tunnel.
Time, it listens and twists what is.


***The paradelle form is a parody of the villanelle. It was created by Billy Collins.

My Ignorance

My ignorance is amazing.
I could fill this page, a book,
a shelf, this room, this house
with all I do not know.
My ignorance is enormous.
Isn't it astounding how it fits
so neatly in such a tiny brain
wedged inside this swollen head.

Disposable Thoughts

With a flick of my Bic, your butt
and the grasslands are disposable,
like diapers, batteries,
paper plates and Dixie cups,
like paper napkins, tampons,
newspapers and butter tubs.
We are cameras
and cell phones.
I thought to call you.
I have your number, but I lost your name
in a Christmas card.
Disposable: trees, wrapping paper
and dead rappers. Tupac.
I never listened to his music, anyway.
Like vinyl records, we are albums. LP.
We are gas.
With a flick of a Bic, we are disposable.
Old maps, postcards,
we are a dozen dried up roses.
We are daylilies
and plastic razors.
We are sandwich bags.

Loopity Loops

When Jesus Christ came upon the Earth,
you killed Him. The son of your own God.
And only after He was dead did you worship Him
and start killing those who would not. -- Tecumseh

Fire, cancer, home invasions, politicians
on mad horses--yellow gods. Humdingers.
Have you ever seen the rain? Blue on blue.
Daffodils. Daisies. Dodder. Gadzooks!
Win the lottery. Never clean house.
Perfect figure. Perfect health.
One day you must have learned cursive.
Q like two. S like a backwards treble clef.
Now, insert kazoo and blow. Just as I am.

Trickster

I can't pretend to understand
what strange passion compels
your lonely midnight vigils
near the ripe corpse
of a slaughtered hog.

Does hunger
(or curiosity)
lure coyote
to his death?

I can't pretend to understand
the trickster's glory;
but, on my ears I wear your gift--
ivory canines set in silver.
Perhaps their whispers will explain.

I've Never

I've never been to Nebraska.
I've never built a bomb.
I've never swam the Atlantic
or drank a rabbit's blood.
There's a lot I haven't done.
I've never jumped off a roof.
I've never kissed a pig
or slept with Winnie the Pooh
or learned the Watusi.
I've never worn a fez or taj
or wrapped myself in silk.
I've never bathed a camel
or eaten a poison mushroom.
I've never met Willie Nelson
or felt the urge to tango.
I've never liked pea soup.
I've never been to Iraq
or walked along the equator.
I've never run off with the circus
or camped in the Petrified Forest.
I've never joined the ACLU,
nor have I ever needed a shiv.
I've never been to a powwow
or seen 'possums having sex.
I've never visited New Jersey
or written a poem that ends with Z.

Really, I haven't.

Inspiration

I wish I could end this
Nagging dread, send this
Soul-sucking apathy packing,
Pick up a pen, and piss
Inspired words across the page.
Retched poetry is a sloppy kiss,
Aversion therapy, dying bliss.
There must be something
Inspirational, something good
Out there waiting for me, but
Nothing comes to mind.

Deep-dyed Blue

Momma was born with frown lines,
and Gramma cried for eighty years;
so, even if you drench me
with a thousand brilliant smiles,
I'll never be anything
but deep-dyed blue.

Labor Day

Saltwater taffy days end in September.
Part-time carnies pack up their wits,
wheels, and stuffed tabby cats,
and the clowns stow their smiles,
while nervous teens trade rollercoaster screams
and fireworks for study hall, chalk dust,
and twelve days of Christmas.

Best of Show at the County Fair

Diesel fuel, dust-tinged phlegm,
barbecue at 10 a.m.,
seed corn, cows, green John Deere,
pig crap and rabbit fur
delight the red-naped cropper.
Another showstopper,
each brand-new blue ribbon
is good enough reason
to cock-crow victory
and dance rockabilly.

The Lady of Orange

I have always loved The Lady of Orange,
the aunt whose only continuity
(other than the ever-present
tangerine tint on her lips and nails)
is her inconsistency.

As unpredictable and effective
as Death's whim, her moods--
raucous, raunchy, tender,
somber, playful, and vile--
shift and strike unannounced.

Husbands and lovers,
grudges and favors,
wives' tales and truths--
she collects and discards
with equal abandon.

Like a nomad (claiming gypsy blood),
fleeing landlords and boredom,
she uproots her small clan
to move from house to house--
and sometimes back again.

She fabricates creepy tales
of witches, vampires,
demons and ghosts--
not to terrify family or friends,
but to bluff reality's intimidations.

Years ago, as a teenager
in her domain, I was liberated--
free to smoke or drink
and even rendevous with lovers,
often men of her acquaintance.

More recently, during a dark moment's reverie,
she asked me if I blamed her for my problems.
Surprised, I answered quite honestly--no.
I still wonder why she claimed the guilt.
I have always loved The Lady of Orange.

Water

I guzzle cool, clean drinking water.
In my glass I see shrinking water.

Sweet bubbles--the happy spring's dancing.
Downstream, dead cows rot--stinking water.

Maybe we'll have a long, wet winter.
Please, don't come inside tracking water.

I spend every day sipping coffee.
I spend all my nights making water.

The bathroom sink sat unused for years.
Today it started leaking water.

Some study chicken guts for answers.
They might as well be asking water.

Remember, Agnes, nothing matters.
Don't waste your lifetime blinking water.

Red Lies War

The morning dust
releases what lies ahead. The tide turns
in a flow of black on white. Lies, all lies.
The morning news rests upon her breast
exposing what they won. Half-truths
lie in the east. No Red or Blue
envisioned an America where everyone
awakes intent on what lies behind,
what lies before, what lies within.
The warning sky lies in her eyes.
Morning is too long. Not that it matters.
Sorted and bagged, I am the root.
Temptation wears a crimson cape.
The morning news is black and white,
but there's red all over.

In the Poetry Corner

Long before the end of summer, she was told to read
before posting requests and announcements.
That was before a gypsy's love song cast its spell.
Now, a letter a day is her addiction,
and she finds herself alone, as morbid as they come,
assembling the pineapple with black ink.
She composes her chapbook: signings, symbols, codes--
much like those dead Christian gnostics. Chop. Chop.
Deep thinking is a depression, a hole, an emotional well,
but there must be 20 times 20 ways to keep from falling
in love with fantasy. Medieval, the way she chants
for your love. The forty-plus crowd ignore her nonsense;
they miss her graduations, her wedding, her haiku:
I hate you/idiots. In the beginning, there are insanities
and kindred spirits: Life, Love, Death and Suicide.
Life, Death and Lost Love woo her with midnight whispers.
Teen nature--now, this is not odd. Lured by contests
and awards, the woman-child doesn't know she should
avoid the spider's web and social commentary
from the over-30 crowd whose hormones have withered.
Really rotten rhyme and silver dreams adorn her.
She seeks sisters and sonnets, only sonnets, straight
from the heart. No one needs tell her: submissions wanted.
She's a swan. Lake be damned. She braves the ocean,
and symbolic rhyming poets like Hannah and Dan show
her the light. Brigades of little fish join her in the quilting
circle. When at last it's time for change, she says goodbye
to best friends, to true love, to war against the well-versed
ladies. She discovers it does not matter what inspires you.
She won't write: Why do I love you? You, only you, Zeitgeist.

Man Song

Man with two hearts, look what you've done.
You made me love you. Rainy day man,
walking man, you're not mine anymore.
Isn't it a pity. You won't see me cry.

Sharp dressed man, good lookin' man,
hoochie coochie man, honky tonk night time man--
somebody to love--tall, dark handsome stranger,
you sexy thing, what's your name?

Mean old man, street fighting man,
branded man, renegades, rebels, and rogues,
all the madmen--bad boys--
Push me. Pull me. Take what you need.

No ordinary man--iron man,
starman, a better man--
the supermen! Oh, you pretty things,
too much heaven, who do you love?

Handy man, jigsaw man,
hard workin' man, don't walk away.
Simple man, family man,
salt of the earth, never let me down.

I'm countin' on you. Mother Nature's son,
piece of my heart, you know what to do.
Stand by me. Do me right.
Love me like a man. I am woman.

Inferos

Their hands are like marshmallows, white and pudgy.
Sticky-sweet, they catch in her throat, then melt
into snakes and wrap themselves around her heart.
Jesus Christ never visited the Vatican.
His hands are hard and dark.
A wine-stained kiss brings cold comfort.
"Open your ears, and I shall speak to you."
The screaming light of eternity rages behind his eyes.
"You are dead, but don't know it."
Mother Agnes trampled the sheep asleep in their pens.
Tomorrow, her bloody footprints will still lead back
to a yesterday that never was. The lambs' song is bleak.

Whiskey Whines and Whispers

Whine.

Twangs and hoots give way to whistles
that dissolve into grunts and whispers.
Backstage at the Whiskey a Go-Go,
the young man mutters, growls
and then whines through the music.
"It sounds too slick, somehow.
She's too sure of her next whiskey bar!"

Bonnie's babe is plump with ashy hair.
It whines as the wrong mother feeds,
smoothes back his son's light curls
and whispers, "I'm sorry."

Used to be when someone whined too much,
she called him on it (and the one beer,
or two wines, or half a dozen whiskey sours),
but she can't think anymore.

Whine.

At Twilight Manor, she feeds her grandfather
one last bite of ham puree, then wipes
a bit of green gelatin from his whiskered chin.
"So, do you think the problem lies
with the man or the whiskey?"

The old man blinks his rhuemy eyes,
shrugs his slight shoulders and coughs.
His voice, once clear and strong,
now wheezes and whines.
"In England men of letters drink wine...."

The man whispers to himself.

Bedtime Story

Night tastes like chocolate pudding.
Spoon after spoon, I swallow.
The aroma burns my eyes
like Tito burned my heart
one cold winter back in Michigan.
Flavorless, long nights pile up, uneaten,
while morning waits, untouched,
and PopTarts dream of warmth.
A caballo dado no se le mira el colmillo.
The keen flashlight of understanding
doesn't run without batteries--
Santa took those along with the milk.
Hush now. Don't tell Agnes.
Her future holds enough sad stories.
Green, the stars scream of madness,
while fairy godmothers lie under our beds
awaiting orders to give needed infusions.
Giggling, sharp needles dance in old hands.
Too bad the dish ran away with the spoon.

Dry and Dry (after Emerson's Blight)

Give me booze,
for I am sick of soft drinks
and die of thirst. If I had
only the brews and spirits of the tavern,
rum, cognac, gin, vodka and applejack,
bock beer and tequila, schnapps, whiskey,
mescal and malt liquor, kvass and sake,
and fine and not-so-fine wines, which to these bars
draw untold lushes with a common need,
not told, not known, and I could smell
their odor, and their chemistry absorbed
by strange osmosis through my flesh,
driving the demons and feeding the angels,
oh, if it were so, I could be a part
of the rounds, caught up in the wild
and crazy world, and be mixer
of their varied combinations.
But these punks, who invade our clubs,
bold as the dealer who runs the hood,
and often using the drug he makes,
don't love the brew they suck; they don't know it.
All they love is gangsta games.
The old men studied magic in suds,
and fortunes in an empty mug,
and omnipotence in a broken bottle,
preferring things to tags, for these were men;
these were drinkers of the drinking world,
and, wherever their bleary eyes fell,
they met the bootprints of the same. Our eyes
are not strangers to the fermented fruit,
are not strangers to the goblet and to the keg.
The hair of the dog says, "No!" and growls.
For we use it selfishly;
we gargle unreligiously,
and pickled, seek its power, not its pardon.
So they push us away,
yield only what our whining tongue is due;
but the sweet wealth of sex and song,
the best of the gods' grapes are withheld;
and in the midst of shots and barmaids, we tipplers
and tosspots of the beer garden, shut out
to drink ginger ale and lemonade,
turn pale and die.

Darling Teddy

Sleepless within the stronghold of night glow,
I spot its head poke up behind my weary bedmate.
Darling is dutiful, well-worn, but smug,
with a soft throttle made to squeeze,
too wanton for marriage and too wary for whoredom,
but perceptive without gold ring or red carpet.
And its button eye shines briefly, as if to say Watch.
And each flicker honors her movement.
And each new position is an eye opener.
The long-lived companion, the queer, patched thing
held head-scissored, wedged in the southland,
this fellow traveler--strange, fuzzy thingamabob--
is eyewitness to this night's desolation.

In a Pawn Shop Window

Made in China,
the upset vase,
in disgrace, hides
its fragile face
and its sorrow
from cut glass eggs
that will not hatch
in nests of wire
and pewter fish
with ruby eyes
that cannot swim
in tattered lace.

We're Caught in an Ancient Pattern

Yesterday, a hundred billion years ago,
patterns started there, Amiga.
Contemplation seems self-indulgent.
We're caught up in a rush. Parasites,
a series of false selves, color our behavior.
We're caught in patterns. In open spaces,
we find ourselves calling resistance
achievement. Fear is the impulse to deny
patterns. Caught in confusion, in this
circular spinning, the ancients are family.

A Little Giddy (for T.S. Eliot)

Critics won't die from explication,
though the burden of their explicating
is to arrest what others stargazed
and recognize the pizzeria is the Promised Land.
Past the unkennelled gastropod
whose earthly remains encourage
turf wars between beggars,
through the soup kitchen of the lollygagging ritualist,
around the vocational school of the hidden water cooler--
unacknowledged and unwanted
by all but headstrong stigmatists
who thrive between waterworks and scuttlebutt,
here, now and forever--
in this condensation of complete single-mindedness
(costing not less than everlastingness)
illusion and allusion suffice;
all mankind's thimblerigs suffice
when bits of bone and flakes of stone decoupage
can be crafted into regal knockoffs
to be studied by freaks and fools;
fine art and the Rorschach test are one.

At the Supermarket

Because Mother raised a gentleman,
I try not to laugh at you sitting there
in a puddle of chocolate milk--
dairy-section centerpiece.

Only minutes ago, I saw your same
wide-eyed, gaped-mouth expression
(pain or bewilderment?)
gracing a trout in the seafood case.

Like any gallant knight,
I swallow my smile
(I will not laugh)
and hold out my hand to rescue you.

But you, demure damsel, will have none of that.
My only warning is a blink, as you grasp my hand,
then give a fierce jerk, and reel me in
to land with a wet thump at your side.

I bite my tongue,
taste blood.
But I will not cry--
because Father raised a real man.