Like a dot on the

                       Pagewhite, snowwisped

                      Mountain peak, scrubbrush

                    Hiding   her  like   pronouns.





                           I was a fat tub

                        Standing on squat legs

                          Young and begging

                            To be entered

                   But you gave me a diamond scrub

                     Descended upon me from above

                    And, in bubblebath crystals,

                        You brought me lilacs.


                           Hand above eyes,

                   Squinting, I search the ecliptic

                  For words in precession, wobbling

                      Along the Van Allan Belts

             Like a toboggan ride down the dark dandruff

                         Of a permanent wave




                         SWATTING ASTEROIDS,


                              FLIES FLY

                       IN THE FACE OF REALITY.




                         The young complexity

                          That never was me

                          Jams my strawberry





                        I ride the jambiguity

                     Down the gullets of Ganymede

                         Dressed in icy froth

                       Along horsebrown paths

                              Of panting

                          Icecream saliva,


                      To speed the dappled Sugar








                         Small blue thesaurus

                           Sits dioxidizing

                         Dinosaur creations,

                            Penned plumage

                      Of toothless tripescented

                      Feline, pharaohfollowing,

                      Ankhishly holding sparrows

                       Like Teflon pterodactyls





                     Mr. Potatohead in the drawer

                       Growing eyes in the dark

                     Waits for the dust to settle

                       So he can see some place

                    To root, suspended and stabbed





               He has no bouquets, in pretty positions

             To sweeten the smell of putrefying thoughts

                  Poverty has taken his indignation,

                  He savages himself into submission

               Keeps fertilizing his dreams with manure

                       To, maybe, grow a flower

                        To place on her grave.





                          Inside the camera,

                        We watch the shutter,

                          Safe for emotion,

                        Film touched by light,


                      But destroyed if drenched

                        By the subject’s tears





                 The condo cries with lonely abandon

                     When they move on once more,

                       Is soothed by the caress

                    Of the paintbrush and spackle

                   Another color, yellow this time,

                To cover the waterstains and wrinkles






                             OMEGA FLARES


                           ALPHA BEAT SOUP




                          Porcelain yellows

                   With the thinstreamed truth

                         After the love juice








         Hitting my flufilled head with the heel of my palm

               Moving my jaw to massage an itchy throat

          Trying to clear my ears to hear the sucking sounds

                              Of Sucrets


                           Speedy swallows

             Sneezing projectiles like darts in an ocean

                            Of Rhinovirus

                          I try to skew time

                        To cure a radish nose



                          Cher(ig)noble care

                               In waves

                          Radiates from you






                  Waves beauty in the wake of trucks

                       Pieces of poetry scatter

                    Like a storm cloud, billowing

                        Backward into the past




                              Bra (burn)

                             Bran (buns)

                              Brand (X)

                           Brandish (eek!)




                          Under mossy rocks

                        Under (water) pressure

                          In the muck miasma

                     Under the big toe of poverty

                              The sponge

                      Dreams starfish darknesses

                            And separation





                          You drive your car


                           But not without

                             A seat belt







             Centered, the silly line soothes and sates.






                         We went for a walk.

                         Usedtobe hillside


                         An ecological niche

                         Death spares nothing

                            Entropy always

                         Worms live within us

                         Hope hangs in there

                            Like red meat

       (Unless we make a god of death, forgetting any religion

                       and any reason for life)

                      Cold, cold, soothing peace

                      (Full enough? Full enough)


                              WORN PATH


                              WILD TRAIL

                             WITH TOILETS






                         Mirror morning lake

                     Ripples with a loon’s light

                        Frolic, escaping under

                    To leave only laughing echoes




                         Posthumous accolades

                   Are better than being forgotten,

                         Rotten, swamp succor

                  In the everglades of the immediate

                       Handicapped vocal cords

                      Scrape against hot breath.

                  If I thought you wouldn’t be bored

               I’d just say “I love you” until my death





                         I remember waking up

                    With a bad poem in my headache

                       Coughing up cupie dolls





                      How to think in modernity

                     Make existence a greedy glut

                    Of lowdollar barrels, rolling

                    Out to sea.  We don’t all get

                      Bombed but all need energy





                            Iris is black

                             When tossed















                       In tandem, maybe in toto

                  We all bicycled through depravity

                  And veiled virginity within lines

                  Of reasonable length (for no food)

                   And fought back at their hunger

             By seeing the paint chips on withered walls

                 By hearing the hum of antique motors

                    By naming the smells as filth,

                 Not rot, and noting the weather for

                 Our crisp, clean, debutante diaries



                             If you come

                             And be nice

                           To your brother

                          I’ll bake a cake.





                        One single diverseness

                           Sit on your arse

                       And cherish an appetite

               For looking at the solemn, the foolish,

                Looking for the dark spots on the sun,





                          Hamhock, sirloin,

                           Filet, shoulder,

                          Butt and Chuck

                       He separates his lovers

                              Into parts





                  We were taking a tour of the farm

                Until, suddenly I screamed with alarm

                   Just seventeen goats and a bunny

                    So I thought it rather unfunny

                To feel a goose on my bountiful charms






                          Picking contagion,

                        Cleaning like slaves,

                        Born to janitorial joy

                    Without mops or Spic and Span

                      Without really loving man

                     The maggot makes its living

                    On a quest of germ destruction






             If Superman, writing memoirs about his deeds

               While trolling for pickerel in the reeds

              Slipped and fell upon his big red initial

       And swam with supper, would his words be superfishal?



                     I can not color in your eyes

                     The oil on that old canvas,

                      Unfinished, dry, in cream

                    Skincolor sits.  The studio,

                     Empty, I study your thighs;

                     I don’t think they’re right,





                      We were talking philosophy

                       Aunt Grace said “family”

                   I said “Thanksgiving together?”

                       She said, “Not anymore”

                          I said, “Grandma?”

              She said, “Both of them, two weeks apart”

                            “Just us now?”

                      “Just us now.” she replied

                      Neither of us said “Why?”

                              NO, no

                        I said “Grandpa too?”

                          She said “Uh huh.”

                            I said “Why?”

                           She said nothing

                              No, no

                  She said, “Do you want their car?”

               I said, “I told them I wanted the Luger”

               She said, “They threw it into the lake.”

                      I said, “I do need a car.”

                              NO, no

              She said “Are you coming to the funeral?”

       I talked about how poor I am and, now, I don’t even know

                    the address of the graveyard.







                         Name the news event

                           Blame the blood

                          Versify variations

                   Of Voltaire’s  What Frenchman

                          Was it?  maggots

                        Growing out of a cat’s

                      Vagina; telling the whore

                       “That soon will be you”

                         And hit the stomach

                         The groin, the heart

                         The brain, with one

                  Tiny, little, rosecolored stain.



                         Somehow, the maggots

                             And oatmeal


                             But my scorn

                       Tries to put a hierarchy

                         Upon the food chain

                  Tries to separate the superficial

                        From a shotgun facial





                                on joy

                               oh, joy!

                      enjoy on joy.  enjoy joy.

                          enjoy joy on joy.

                          on joy, enjoy joy.





                            That’s the way


                          Delicate delights

                       No noise in the kitchen

                     Ingredients and temperature

                     Just right, perfect texture

                         On the cooling tray

                   And someone with a sledge hammer

                          Comes in to smash

                        The table and counter

                         The cookies and sink




                   I’ve got a chair and a stray dog

            That comes by for food.  I’ve got trees diing,

            Invaded by insects.  They belong to the city,

                 Both larvae and leaves, and the air

                    Comes in stinky from Pasadena;

                      It rains white ash flakes,

           Late at night when no one is supposed to notice

       When the smell is only registered upon aloevera dreams.






                        over the constipation

                          boy, you are sure

                                a pure


               fusing modal patterns of solids and gas

                   musical notes and all (analyzed)

                   your tritone farts are melifluid

                      your dissonance is divine

               (and a bit of a chuckle, too, mess pas?)






                     I cranked up the Grand Prix

                  For his girlfriend from Australia

                   While we were awaiting her plane

                     Said, “let’s go for a ride”

                  Told her, in secret, “I’m a storm

                    Buster.  See that thunderhead?

                    We’re going into it.”  We did.

                  At about a hundred, hydroplaning,

               We rode the length of the storm and then

             Turned around and rode the storm backwards.

            She said her fear of airplanes had been cured.

                (please note, it wasn’t written like

            Turned around and rode the storm backward


       Daisychaining with the other wild women, rough riders.

            She said her fear of flying had been cured.

                             Now was it?)





                        Love fell in splinters

                           From our French

                         Provincial furniture







                             BLUE GUITAR

                       Player with blue fingers

                      Plucks pensively, painted

                     For effect, he watches t.v.

                       Frets about t.b., drips

                     Blood from his fingertips,

                    Examines his sperm, his life,

                      His worth during daytime.





                    The swan flew faster than ever

                        For fearfrozen fish,

                            Dived and then


                Headfirst it glided through clear ice,

                      Outside the Pyrex factory;

                     A feather landed in the snow





                       Room, bed, body, poems


                         I own this rectangle




                  You give yourself too much credit

                          To think the bank

            Will keep your records and give you a history

                    After all your debts are paid.





                         I bounced off of men

                         Like the drunk I was

                      To the player piano rhythm

                       Of dentists socializing

                 Feeling the spikes of their approval

                  Like pollenmasked migrant workers

                      On the side of the highway

         Kerchiefs flapping against the napes of their necks

        Garbage bag dragged in one gloved hand while the other

                   Speared the litter on the edges

                            Of my vagina.




                         Often, awake, I see

                           Mice and rabbits

                       Running across the page,

                       Knowing that your poetry


                    The seen better than the dream





                            Swarming Scold

                         Death’s a nextdoor


                            Someone plays

                         Tennis in the folds

                         Of my brain, cleats

                          Sticking sometimes

                         Drawing blood, ball

                           Bouncing across

                         The corpus colossum





                              GOING GAGA

                           Over ambiguity?

                    I’ll never get over ambiguity

                            Or underpants

              Life is a thousand minuscule mindaltering

                    Amazements every fucking day!







                         Float on sandpaper,


                   More like a roar against silence

              And a whisper replied, “I don’t love you”




                        Sometimes underwater,

                         Plato’s cave echoes

                         With loose theorems

                          And skipped steps

                        Escaping from the cave




                         Even night is light

                           Opening into air

                      As you adjust your vision

                         Getting out of there

                            Into the music

                          After the concert

                             The whistler

                           No one told them

                          That July Seventh

                      Would not be a Tuesday


                           No one told them

                            That the fairy

                            Had a tail


                           No one told them

                        That no one told them






                     They let go of their mother

                         Before she was dead

                       Lost her when the doctor

                        Said, “Two years left”





                        Spiraling anchor cord

                      No anchor shape nor weight

                      At one end, no attachment

                    To the other, floating yellow

                      Nylon in a greygreen sea










                       Your dreams stuck to you

                      No matter how tattered

                         Tails on a box kite



                 The last thing a restaurant ever was

                          Was a food factory

                     The last thing marriage was

                             Was silence.





                          The city at night

                         Hides the hazy pace

                        Of a prisoner released



                 I grow green, deprived of midnight

                    Milky skin with rainbow wings.

                 The trucks scream cranberry, bounce

              Pebbles backwards.  Neon blurs my sodium

                  Yellow lenses.  The wind pushes us

            Like a drunkard.  Leaves, paper, plastic slaps

               Against our faces.  A twenty dollar bill

                      Gets stuck to your shoes.

                     Money was never the problem.






                              The light



                            Of my history


                             Up the light

                            Public streets

                            Of my hosiery

                       Same old Sunday morning

                        Latex in satin sheets




                    Cages of squealing cockatiels

                  Teal highcut gown, cut and ripped

                  Until it was lowcut and then lost

                And tomorrow will be another same old

                Monday, going shopping for formal wear



                       Pins don’t capture it

                       Chaos is not a butterfly





                              Great grit

                          Echoes of swollen



                             I can’t tell

                            You what these

                        Lines are really about


                      Like an insurance adjuster

                           Asking questions

                          After an incident




                             The equator

                               Ate her

                             Canned ants

                         Dipped in chocolate

                             Canned aunts

                        Served with sour cream

                           Fanned “Can’t”s

                       Brighten flames of alien


                          Tighten my gullet

                          Around a chirping


                           Systems succumb

                           To the hauntings

                              Of hunger





                       We would create “beauty”

                               In a box

                              A dark box

                           A cold dark box

                         A closed dark box

                        If it were all we had,

                   We would create beauty in a box






                            Try to outlaw

                         My feminine mystique




                             THE TRUCKERS

                           GATHER IN PACKS

                        THAT’S WHAT MAKES THEM





                          World War Two hero

                       Drives his old green car

                    When the children leave school

                           Screams maniacal

                        Hurls insults at them

                        Through closed windows





                       I heard the steam music

                       From the bankrupt resort

                        Haunting the lake with

                           Whist and melody

                          For one last time

                          To turn us around





                           Farming words

                         Can’t seem to break

                            The weed cycle






                         Set the night before

                          The plates remain

                        Where my grandparents

                          Used to breakfast





                           Soul Sister Q.Z.

              I don’t understand why the women who do so

             So hate me for nothing.  I was first in line

        For equality, still speak out against double standard














                         He devoted his life


                      Two thousand words maximum











                                By sea

                              Filled by


                              River runs

                       Into hydroelectric puns

                       Drowning versal valleys

                       Walking along the shore

                          …….That’s all.





                       Umbilical Amniocentesis

                   So much poetry is from the belly




                           Well, well, well

                     The water’s no good anymore

                         Sewer, sewer, sewer





                             Going to war

                        They gloat about glory

                      Because a bluff is better

                          Than a cliff edge




                             Lah lah lah

                             Lah lah lah

                           You do put down

                          Your own thoughts

                           Putdown pudding

                             Lah lah lah



                           With runny eyes

                             Lah lah lah

                             You swallow





                          Some days deserve

                           A good spanking






                             Snow waters


                              Both melt

                          At their own speed







                           I have a message

                              And it is,

                          “I have a message”






                     The rainbow hit the concrete

                   With a splat of fractured color

                And all that ever was was washed away

                     In the warmth of summer rain



                          It was any morning

                          I woke up with….







                     Three horses galloping free

                           Two had socks on

                              One had me





                           A Brief History

                               Got `em

                               Wore `em

                       Ripped `em with my teeth

                    (Used `em to polish my shoes)



                        They wrote bad poetry

                   Taking me completely by surprise

                          Each fucking time






                      I love you like a modem

                     Our love burns like a modem

            The orange and prune juice taste like a modem

                    The sky and water are a modem

                      The page sits like a modem

                   The like phrase is like a modem

            Liking the like phrase is like liking a modem

                             Like is like

                               Is like

                            Like is modem

         Like is to like as like is to modem is like a modem

                       A modem is like a cherry

                    The cartoon was like a cherry

                Wanting you was like wanting a cherry

                  The shore line burns like a cherry

                  The cherry pie burns like a teacup

                      The cherry is like a burn

                   One burn is just like the other

                         In the fiction game

                            I could go on






                           Swimmers, lean,


                          Into the same lane




                            Music, tongue


                             Brandy dream

                            Sticky dress,


                              Hot piano






                              I mention


                          To get you to read

                             These lines




                  If you need to, use a pickup truck

                           To move the poem

                           Into the present




                           Tell the history

                            Of our society

                     In social security numbers,

                         Credit card records,

                       Passports and obituaries



    Relish the death of those that annoy you?

            Must hard actions be matched by hard thoughts?

                         Catsup, will ya?!!!






                   Peggy’s peonies in warming bathwater







                    He rubbed me with atomic balm

                    I blew up and hit the ceiling




                        Night drops the drapes

                              Lights out

                      Engines humming in the sky

                    The shriek of falling secanols







                        Blue eyes surround me

                            Interior rain

                         Fills my cold brown


                          Ineluctable Joyce

                         Crawls on the grass

                        Like a cherry blossom








                           For his pleasure

                       You search for yourself

                     Without seeing your father,

                       Mortar and brick hands,

                       Squish, squish, stroke,

                        Tweek, nibble; he did

                          Have other rhythm

                  Practiced laying more than bricks,

                  With kisses and butterfly fingers

                   All over your mother’s breasts,

                    Squeek, squish, circle around.

                       Licking, sand sometimes,

                         Memories and houses

                        Were not all he built,

                             All he left,

                        His only healing art.

                              Bare feet

                       Inserted into the maiden







                          Third Line Horizon

                              Third line

                           The picture line

                 Skywheel  Sunlight spokes spinning

                           To turn an image

                     For halffigured philosophy






                           A Vision of Cal


                              Zipping up

                             My miniskirt




                            His breathing




                           Shrubbery verity


                        And humming bird farts

                       For a whiff of the arts


                     Amherst is buried under snow

                   But the pantyhose still come out

                            To aim a dart

                       In broccoli directions.

                        Asparagus takes years

                          To root and settle

                    While Carol contrives herself

                       As a hummingbird feeder


                         Between two of them



                            Licking up dew


                           Verbs have or do

                               Dart up

                               Dart up!

                              Down boy.

                            Climb a tree.

                             To Withstand

                             Sliding dew





                         Darkest stars touch

                       Mooneyed crescent hill

                           An endless girl

                         On couldnot nights

                           Of a gentle hand






                            Species: Poet

                        His lines are arachnid

                        Ararat on a rat’s ass

                        Like antelopes loping

                          Over a cliffedge

                      If edited to the swansong

                            Of an Anatidae








           I Put The Woman and The Fireplace Into The Title

        of a Poem, Felt Free, For Once, And Did Not Need To Go






                 I’m uncertain about the expenditure

                  Of all this time taken to make up

              Smooth and rhythmic internal rhyme without

                  Enjambment, cliché, or sentiment,

           About all this time spent, words worked at hard

            To appear simply worked out, having, as I do,

                So little, of substance, to talk about

              And, feigning distress, no one to address.

             Oh me, oh my! It’s time now to say goodbye,

        But let me take this opportunity to end on a sour note

               And not the kind I make, sucking lemons.






                     Roots growing into eclipsing

                            Airsoup haze

                       Today you are more fiery

                             Than friend







                         An arachnid mandible

                           Chewing away at

                         Our butterfly cocoon

                         That’s democracy now

                          Don’t shoot them,

                             Silence them

                          Make other people

                         Deaf to their words

                          If you don’t like

                             Their poetry

                        Make paper and postage












                         Let’s go, you and I

                       Like a yoyo and a dodo

                       To the brink of our love

                     Or maybe to the Stop and Go





                              Last line

                             Red herring

                 This is about the first line of this





                           Casting a draft

                          Raisins swallow me

                   Dipping wet crackers in the Brie

                  I’m a jacket that’s worn wrinkled

                  The Lawrence Welk of halfberries

                   Your ears bend to listen to Lee

             Clinging to fistsful of rocky road ice cream

                      Widow’s walk tongue slides

                             Walk tongue!

                   Don’t get caught in the plosives










                            To technocracy











                             Razor’s edge





                            Potable Poetry

                  By Wilbur in the woods by a stream





                           Never Say Never

                          “Nothing is right”

          This Spring, but you don’t write (or do you?) that

                          “Nothing is left”








                         Picture pick picture

                  Mood mood mood move mood mood mood





                        Theme in five syllables


                             Is a missed






                                We Two

                        We, too, went through

                           The blazing maze

                       Of our mayonnaise craze.

                         Butter became passé

                    Margarine words spread quicker

                    But left infinite indigestion.


                   We are fatfree polyunsaturated







                          Over grass meadow,

                           Mirrored birds,


                               She went

                        Barefoot to the Buffet





                               So heavy

                          So heavy, you hope

                        It’s all fat in there





                            Lens Occlusion

                          Hunter with scope

                          Thinks he’s bigger




                     They dump their waste on us

                  Saying, “you want the good life?”

                   Hide maps of contaminated areas

                Like they hide their combination safes

                  Inland revenue (for the children)

                               Pay tax

                            To play clean

                     They dump their waste on us

           Saying, “The reason it smells funny, like that,

                         Is because it’s art”




                    Skull skull skull skull skull

                        I think I’ll call this

                         RiverRhythm Poetry

                        (With analogous oars)





                          Sometimes, I pass


                           In thick chunks





                       Death is not the poet’s

                              Only job.

                       My favorite poets use it

                            Like a garnish











                        Barney’s, New York

                          That’s where daddy

                            Got his suits.

                              So, what?

                       So, they were good suits





                            Loaded pistol

                              That’s all

                          It just sits there



                      Words For A Poet’s Funeral

                      “That elegy really sucked”




                       All boundaries are lies

                       And the bullet is a lie

                      And its whistling is a lie

                        And the pain is a lie

                           And falling down

                    Inside some boundary is a lie






                      The magic snowflake of art

                        Melts when the drummer

                   Stops sweeping his jazzbrushes

                           Across the roof





                             Poetry Calm

          Moonwillow words lain out over the shadowy swan,

                     Perfect pitches of serenity

                           To avoid  ANY

      Fuckin asshole coming in and upsetting the fuckin balance



             Swan fluffs its wings into midnight silence




                        Roses, Rues, and Ruses

                   Bouquet in arms in crinkly paper

                We wind our way down French boulevards

                  With names like Sacre CWWWWWWHIC!

                  ………… Cwwwwwwwwwwwhic! ….

                CWWWWWWWHHHIC!!!! (Sorry  hairballs)

                   When is poetry ever like this

                      As dull and as commonplace

                               As zaz?




                                No man

                    Has had his hands up my dress

              And down into the elastic of my pantyhose

                         For years and years,

                  Since one, (that one, that time),

               Who was folding my clean laundry for me

        Asked, stretching those plastic containers of legair,

                “Why do you wear these stupid things?”

               No good answer came and until one does,

                               I won’t.








                     I need an image, a new image

                         I need imagery, NOW,

                        Or I’ll go all prosey

                                Uh, uh

                         Petunia in a pancake

                                Uh, uh

                      Six galloping julien fries

                                Uh, uh

            The moon, sandwiched between lettuce and bacon

                                Uh, uh

            Ice cream dripping onto my sweating cleavage,

      Strawberry bosom, scooped by tender tendrils of butterfly


                               Oh! ….

                            Uh, nevermind.

                     Maybe all I needed was lunch






                      Iguana on a pile of planks



                          It’s just a shadow





         When the blackberry moon rises                      94

         When the grapefruit moon rises

         When the aspirin moon rises

         When the crescent moon rises

         When the dixiecup moon rises

         When the donut moon rises

         When the pastry moon rises

         The pepsi moon

         The bloodshot moon

         The beandip moon

         The umlaut moon

         The incandescent moon

         The silkstockinged moon

         The sugarcane moon

         When the mayonnaise moon rises

         When the starkissed moon

         The bumblebee moon

         The tunafish moon

         The albacore moon

         The dolphin moon

         The blowfish moon

         The whaler’s moon

         When the wornout moon

         When the pizza moon

         When the pockmarked moon

         The chocolate moon

         The coldcoffee moon

         The constant moon

         When the dental floss moon

         When the breakdown moon

         The morning moon

         When the toilet paper moon rises

         When the moon rises

         I’ll be there

         Waiting for your reflection

         Still pulled, like the water

         By a tide of memory.





                     I write these lines to tell

                        You I had a bad year,

                     Feel like a paintbynumber

                           Cardboard clown

                       With the colors mixed up





                  Interlocking Illusions of Imagery

               Elephant, Flowers, grass, night, needle,

                  Trumpets, pebble, Raging, serious,

                Breaststroke (They always just have to

                    Bring sex into it, don’t they?

                Now I’m supposed to remember the touch

                   Of the first man on my nipples,

                      The RUSH of my first woman

                     And how it was a homecoming

                 And how we both were the homecoming

              Queen and the texture of various fingers,

                The indecent roughness, the calloused

              Strength, the tender prodding before lips

           And tongue and teeth and the anticipation of …

            Well, suffice it to say, there’s just too much

                Sex in the body of our poetry today

       And way too much of it is just attached, superfluously,

           Like a penis.)






                       Beware of 1st and Main!

                     That’s where I saw a vision

              Which inspired another poem (not this one)





                        He ripped open the “I”

                      That never again was shut

                        And turned his lover,


                          Into an aging slut





                  Interplanetary Geophysicist Poetry

                           Plural/ singular


                           Mars the reading

                         Of lines about mines

                             And yourses








                   You think the spilling of blood

                       Will make you remembered

                         When anyone anywhere

                    Can spill more than your match

                           See what I mean?

                         Blood, blood, blood

                     Blood and it’s the fourth

                    Blood you’ll always remember?

                            Blood , blood

                       Horror is a hiding place










                          VIETNAM GENERATION

                        Dishonorable discharge

                    Because my brother didn’t keep

                                A good

                  Black book of names and situations

                       A list of embarrassments

                      A list of bare ass minutes

                    With the lieutenant who lied,

                     Took the brunt of the frag,

                   “For the guys”, and my brother’s

                       Dishonorable discharge.







                            VISION SEEKERS

                          Psychic turndown

                          Psychic turnsdown

                        (Psychic turndowns )

                          Psychic turns down

                           A twoway street

                          A westward highway

                          With lost hyphens

                           Under a highway

                        With lots of hyphens.




                        Poems are acts of acts

                              So fax me

                              Axe simile

                          So I can cut down

                              Your poet






                    Trim leg with blond highlights

                  Long thigh, just out of the covers

                  Leg draped over the side of a bed


                         Attached to a “she”

                        That I will never see




               The poem neighed in the saddle of lines

                    Ellipsis was the horse’s name

                        Cantering over a field

                      Of barley in the wind….


                     Maybe it was a field of rye






                             Clearer Than

                The moon roamed even these landscapes

                         Of flying haystacks

            And the pond’s hot buttresses, thunder colors,

                 Mysterious wind of scummed peonies,

                         And magenta poplars.

                      Bleeding blossoms bloomed

                        Like there were clouds

                            And won’t stop

                            It is October

                            Everything is

                       Cool, smells of wholes,

                          Concrete blisters,

                           Ice to fill them


       (And then, of course, it’s going to twist and turn them,

         make them swell out of shape and break through their

      boundaries and have holey babies so that soon there’ll be

        more holes to fill and then leaves will leave, it will

                   leave and be a different season)




                            Rainier Marie

                  Still wrong, MarieCarol Becker

                 The songs, the sonnets, the elegies,

                The prose don’t translate, it’s true,

           But, more still, the mood can’t be left to you,

            Sitting in the Swiss Alps, breathing old air,

             Breaking in hiking boots, deaf to cowbells.

             Do you have Rodin, chipping away every day,

           At the granite of your head, removing every part

         That is not art;  In circular motions with his hands

            Smoothing your bust, the bust of inspiration?

           Do you have a wealthy mistress, who takes you in

          Like the stormcat?  Do you sit with The Panther,

       Shaking your head, stuffing another line in the dresser?

         Well, even if you do, I can’t leave the mood to you,

                  Outside of The Castle’s grandeur,

                   In the fair weather of the now,

       Because it was storming cats and dogs of unrememberance

            Then  Yes, back then, it was rainier, Marie.





                                I lose





                                 B t








                                Ok  .


                          Is a blank day

                          Blank blank blank

                             Blank blank

                             Blank blank

                           But but but but

                               But but







                      Volkswagon bugs reissued

                         Don’t sound the same











                             Oh! Injury!

                         What could mollusks

                             Mean to me?

                             Oh! Injury!

                         Insects are swatted

                              By the sea

                             Oh!  Injury!

                        Fish taken breathless

                           Uneaten, rotting

                             Oh!  Injury!

                          How terribly trite

                  Compared to the way you treated me

                             Oh!  Injury!