On Bad Poetry (Excerpts From Found Poetry in the Titles and Some Lines From The Poet's Market) by Q.Z. Blaze

AARDVARK (94)

I AM

CALLED THIS

TO BE FIRST

ABATTOIR ‑‑ (92)

SLAUGHTERHOUSE:

PICTURE THAT, POOR POETS;

When the image, not imagination, 91‑93

When the warp of the words, not ideas

When the hidden rhyme, not the timed

Impact

Of what is being expressed

And colors, black day, orange mailbox,

Green waiting, salmon resistance,

Try to tell the formula of it,

The soul, seldom done justice, is cheapened

She 94

Disappeared

Like a dot on the

Page‑white, snow‑wisped

Mountain peak, scrub‑brush

Hiding her like pronouns.

Grief is my (moon) beam, 94

Sucking breeze.

An orange smog carpet of clouds,

The sky is a walnut, 93

A prune,

A lady in waiting

For yet another

Eruption,

Another immortal moment

Inside the rock,

ABSOLUTE. INTERZONE BIZZARE, (94)

ABSCOND (91)

WITH SOME WORDS;

Nouner am I, verbing very little ‑‑ 91

After all, isn’t it fortyish to adjectivize?

We William Carlos Williams the wrong heroes

And orange you into poverty

Tame hurricanes, blue lightning,

“no boiling waters”,

Stasis poetry

Bad poetry is a miasma of molten mulch, 91

Making more muck grow in the dawn

Of unrelenting reason and foregone promise.

ACUMEN, IS AN EMBER. (94)

Oh, Summer night! Night without war, 92

Night without the supremacy of white

Snow, don’t you know we all love peace?

(Unless we’re doing the left or right hand twist, 93

dancing to the unvarying beat of stuck feet ‑‑bah boom.)

It was the second time 94

We’d met, the very second time

Our eyes brushed against the aura‑

Tinted air and minute‑measured

Time became second time.

NOW

Hard‑eyed, I tell you 94

Love, never a code word,

Forbad

Words of experience

That sounded similar to

“I love you…

On the ocean, the waves should purify 91

With waste‑ravenous fauna,

In diamonds and froth

Iris seed on full lawn 94

The silos swim into solstice clouded

Tubers of dark. Bearded grackles

Heavy the metal weeds ‑‑ come, feet,

Dance the empty ‑‑

HE HIDES BEHIND

THE ADROIT EXPRESSION (92)

TIED TO THE VIVID

EXPLOSION

The sky is not a velvet cock 92

Nor the earth a womb

Of only warmth

I was a fat tub 94

Standing on squat legs

Young and begging

To be entered

But you gave me a diamond scrub

Descended upon me from above

And, in bubble‑bath crystals,

You brought me lilacs.

LIGHT PURPLE ANGINA

LIGHTS UP MY HEART

Cancerous crocuses 93

Cry captured breath.

Buying bedpan beauty

Admiration,

Angina anticipates anxiety

A PRETTY BALLOON ABOUT TO POP ‑‑

Hand above eyes, 94

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 (the kind you go back to get redone)

SWATTING ASTEROIDS,

AERIAL (94)

FLIES FLY

IN THE FACE OF REALITY.

OKAY, JUST

Statisticate to be unlike meaninglessness 92

GO AHEAD ‑‑ GO AHEAD AND LIVE!!!!

AESTHETIC RAPTURE ‑‑ THE FIVE SENSES (91)

How will you complete the soaring flight of thought 92

Your bird sense, like songs on high, over skyscape

skyscrapers,

Resting on concrete cracks where beautiful seeds hide

In dormancy, unable to reach fertile ground

Fat‑faced editors consume your time 91

With rejects, unmetered rhyme

Your sage advice and printed slime

My poetry, here, sits safe, sublime

You think it’s fun 92

To remind me of pigeons

Pecking at the celluloid eyes

Of market‑version, imitated audiences,

Pictures of pictures.

Chewing cannibal ribs,

You avoid the true horror

Of the human heart

THE FLIGHTY HEART

AG‑PILOT, CROP DUSTER (94)

THAT IT IS,

THE AGUILAR EXPRESSION (94)

(AGUILAR?) AGILE PUMPS

The young complexity 93

That never was me

Jams my strawberry

Memories

I ride the jam‑biguity 94

Down the gullets of Ganymede

Dressed in icy froth

Along horse‑brown paths

Of panting

Ice‑cream saliva,

Miracle‑whipped

To speed the dappled Sugar

Homeward

Machines rust 93

Entropy, entropy

Time is electrons

If geometry is corralled.

My horse loves me

All the time.

My tiller tills

Petroleum‑leased land.

AILERON TAKES A VOWEL MOVEMENT, (94)

Small blue thesaurus 94

Sits dioxidizing

Dinosaur creations,

Penned plumage

Of toothless tripe‑scented

Feline, pharaoh‑following,

Ankhishly holding sparrows

Like Teflon pterodactyls

LIKE BAD

AIM. (94)

AIREINGS (94)

OF AIRELINGS,

Houseflies humming in incandescence 91

While the war raged on television,

Hovering over the maggot‑ridden beer‑bellies

Of the boys we sent to prime (rib) time.

I go to war 93

For my mother’s pasty

Fingers, her orchard,

And glory

I was awake as never before, black rain on oily breeze

A sneeze at the pepper on the potato soup

My Vichyssoise with floating chives distract me from

The smoke outside.

Mr. Potatohead in the drawer 92

Growing eyes in the dark

Waits for the dust to settle

So he can see some place

To root, suspended and stabbed

Okay, 94

I remember a thunderous funnel

Of birds before they

Were beaten down

Migration Miracles

Bird cloud

Tree megaphone

Laughing leaves

Temporary truce between

Man and melody

ANOTHER STATE

ALASKA (94)

UNBAKED

IS TOO COLD FOR MOST

ALBATROSS (94)

TO SKINNY DIP WITHOUT FEATHERS,

HUNG AROUND A POLAR BEAR’S NECK

Birds like 94

Worms

In birds

Fallen flightless

In Iraq 91

The brick and concrete are shattered

“Brilliant” bombs are flying in; chickens

Rebels, eagles and fraternizers

Crawl amongst the wreckage

He has no bouquets, in pretty positions 92

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.

ALLEGHENY (91)

GONE

WOODLANDS

Your tree has more circles, 91

Knots from broken branches, leaves that left,

So I use my chain‑saw, cut you down to my level,

Sculpt a galloping stallion for friends to fawn over

And leave a giant clearing, too empty for does in

Winter.

In the mud‑puddle of metaphors 92

I dig for the wettest bottom dirt

Remove it and squeeze it dry

Sculpt an image of a snow queen

Who gets her gossamer dress wet

Passing by me, dirty, wishing for snow

By Twit Nevershare 91

I am modeling myself in porcelain

Half‑baked highlights, re‑rounded

And re‑routed in the runny clay,

The glint of light does not enter me

As I shape the outside of my poetry

Whining about rusty locks 92

With back porch bramble words

And implied secrets safe,

But only safe when described as can‑openers

Rusting.

Bird songs 94

Bird soarings

Bird pictures

Word moorings

Pellet sentences

Seeking bird‑soup

Nourishment

Bird names

More words

Psychic loop

Lip‑serviced

Bird‑named

Eagle‑stall

Sparrow fall

Dropping leaves

Leaving droppings

Bird word Winter

Skeleton trees

A feather floats

Slowly to the ground

The condo cries with lonely abandon 91

When they move on once more,

Is soothed by the caress

Of the paintbrush and spackle

Another color, yellow this time,

To cover the water‑stains and wrinkles

Scumbled sky 92

Steals the color

From the room I love,

Pasting rainbow reflections

Upon the soaped stains,

Browned against the yellow

I wanted, now darker

Graffiti in a wash

Of orange and purple sunset,

Dimming the yellow‑brown

Creation I paid for

OMEGA FLARES

AGAINST

ALPHA BEAT SOUP, (94)

All over the Lower East Side 92

Art spills into veins

Is guzzled down gullets

Tangos with terror

And then is forgotten

The dust of Summer filters over furniture 92

And snows inside the house. Baby cockroaches,

Weighted down, can’t smell the manure

Cruise the carpet and get their little feet wet.

Lobster inspiration 93

Antennae and eyes

In a high pressure, blood,

Red‑surfaced world,

Without other lives

To live vicariously

Or other‑

Wise

Words got you clogged? 94

Try a tango

Spring 91

The beautiful brown fingers of Oak in Spring

Are malignant with uncontrolled green budding

Against glorious grey clouds, laden with acid

Too soon, Summer’s leaves will make them look flaccid.

Chemical waste 91

And the acid‑soaked paper in permeable sheets

Frozen fantasy that time deletes

As fads fashion a new death, a new age

The ink runs like water away from the page

If you write down 94

The thoughts you have

And then take out

The extraneous,

Is the editing art?

Write

Thought

Take out

Extraneous

Editing

Art

The brown on my rusting crack 92

Grows like a puckered wound

To expand into meaning where Papa sat

As Grandpa waits to unroll the paper

Waits outside the door

Waits, wincing, for me to hear him

Porcelain yellows 92

With the thin‑streamed truth ‑‑

After the love juice

My cyan indignation 94

At cyanide coloration

Of craft and capability

Cher(ig)noble care 92

In waves

Radiates from you

RED PAGODA

NO TERMITES TREMBLE

AT RED DYE NUMBER TWO

Why waste a woman’s life 92

With postage sent for vanity

Training her thoughts toward Gothic strife

When she could blow revolution’s fife

Instead of “mine”, instead of flirting with insanity?

OH, THAT

PAISLEY VOICE

That resonance, 92

Nasal,

Constricted,

Is abuse itself

Is neither ignored

Nor as natural

As shallow breathing

When in an ocean

Of wave‑blustery life

The road looks like a ladder 92

In median point perspective

The black backward, the deep horizon

Ahead, the painted lines

Take my attention until a truck‑

Wake washes me in road mist and diesel blast

Jung in slant rhymes ‑‑ 94

An archetypal “din”

Not to get lost in

Horny hitchhiker‑housewife 91

Waves beauty in the wake of trucks

Pieces of poetry scatter

Like a storm cloud, billowing

Backward into the past

Tolkien’s poetry 92

Schooooooooshes in aluminum

Like the pop‑top

Of a soda can

THE ALUMINUM TRANSITION OF THE

AMERICAN VOICE (94)

IS SO CLOSE TO THE CHANTS

OF OARSMEN ON SLAVE SHIPS

BUT WE ARE ….. WE ARE

SAVING OURSELVES FOR POSTERITY

AMERICAN WRITING (94)

FIZZLES

IN THE SODA CAN

Cave dwellers 93

Used friction

To spark stripes;

Hissing snakes sizzled

For their satings.

Now, book worms

Use fiction

To stimulate limbs,

Simulating flame

With crinkles

Not crackles

Waiting 94

Called destination

Unpromising

But not promising nothing

AMERICAS REVIEW (94)

Get up, do it again 94

Don’t just douche it with your pen

Sweat ‑‑ the paper must be stained…

And not with blood

Under mossy rocks 92

Under (water) pressure

In the muck miasma

Under the big toe of poverty

The sponge

Dreams starfish darknesses

And separation

STRANGLING

ANACONDA (94)

SLITHERING

ANALECTA (94)

DELECTABLE

EAT IT!

Garbage glistened in the round receptacle 91

Frost glazed the morning meadow

Flies made babies, not knowing

The trash men come at noon.

APPLE

AND CORE (91)

AND CORE

Centered, the silly line soothes and sates. 91

We went for a walk.

Entropy poetry 92

Falls from the form

Of voiced verse ‑‑

Asphasia forever

We gather words 92

Like lonely ladies

Calling for demons

To impregnate the pauses

Entropy always

Worms live within us

Hope hangs in there

Like red meat

ANIMAL TALES. (93)

FLOUNDERING

FOUNDER

FOUND HER

ANJOU? (94)

DOES FISH SUIT YOU?

ANSUDA (94)

THE

BUSTLES ENCASE

YOUR GLUTES

HIDING HARRIED PRE‑

OCCUPATIONS

Does our fence really need 93

Feathers from the dead bird

ANTHOLOGY (94)

OF NAMES ‑‑ BIG NAMES

Ancient grave site 93

Angel orange

Granite lilies

Any old sky

Only whole type of thinking equals poem?

Poem equals sunset equals

Only whole type of thinking equals poem?

Poem equals entropy equals….

ANTIPOETRY CORRUPTION (93)

INTO ANTI‑ANTI UNTIL

……… prayers …… 93

… wiped ….. tears ……

…………… falling ….

… angel ………

……….. hell ……

….. death ……… flames

(editing) wept

APPALACHIA (94)

WILD TRAIL

WITH TOILETS

We went up with fat orange back‑packs 92

Puffing morning mist into thin scrub‑brush

Offered quail Familia crumbs

APROPOS (94)

TO SOME PROPAGANDA

Rhyming verse is the curse 93

Of the poetry universe

When the rhythm

Is not apropos

And every day is wonder

I listen to the falling snow

And thank God for my blindness

Mirror morning lake 91

Ripples with a loon’s light

To leave only laughing echoes

BOVINE

POSTHUMEROUS ACCOLADES

Posthumous accolades 93

Are better than being forgotten,

Rotten, swamp succor

CHEWING ON LONG CUD

WORDS MAKE THE

THIRSTY

ARIZONA UNCONSERVATIVE (94)

DRY

I remember waking up 94

Coughing up cupie dolls

And the next one 92

Came forth from an editor,

Tuned to the frequency

Of dot, dot, dot……

TRYING SO HARD TO TALK GOOD NONSENSE, ALL, MERRILY,

FILE

ONE BY ONE

INTO

THE ARK (94)

PORCUPINED TREE OF YOUR

ARS (93)

UP YOUR ART!

Pile 92

The

Poor poets’

Tools

Patiently

Though they

Probably

Take turns

Perceiving perfect

Truth ‑‑ That

Pinafore poetry

That

Perpetuates pity

Takes the time that they that

Paint prim

Thimble‑topped

Primrose poetry

Tattoo to themselves to

Preoccupy

The

Precious

Time they take to

Pontificate

About their sleeveless arms in Winter

LICK POETRY’S FROZEN METAL

POSTS WITH

ART‑CORE (94)

ARTCRIMES (91)

IN PRIVATE SHOWINGS OF

ARTE PUBLICO (94)

ARTFUL DODGE (94)

TO FORGET

ART’S END (94)

The poet, her typing table, the poet 92

Brain‑dead inside a cluttered inspiration trap

The coke bottle behind the book

The ashtray sticky with chewing gum

Wishing the last page preceded this one

The poet, the poet

Never knows

When daylight disturbs her lists of losses

INDELIBLE

ASCENT (94)

EYES’ ASSENT

WATER BRAIDS

DESCENT

The 93

Iris is black

When tossed

away.

Chewing on your words 92

I see an old “B” movie

Not pain

But self‑flatuation

Of a twisted sort

Drooling your blood

Like a glass‑splintering

Baby

I saw the blood‑soaked body 92

The stain on the cool carpet

Of the crack house we razed

Then I remembered the green oil

Leaking from my mother’s unfixed car

AND NOW….

I dream 94

Pin pricks

Pins and needles

On your fallen‑asleep

Pin‑pricked pen,

Prick

And you love it, don’t you?

A REGULAR STORM IN A REALLY FUN EXOTIC PLACE

In tandem, maybe in toto 91

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

I write rhyme this very way 94

And don’t give my rhythm away.

I’m published now. I’m on my way

And I’m a really real, real poet today

Message to Michelle 94

Translate me

With a little taste

Lick the words clean

Sucking sounds out

Before filleting them

THE ATLANTIC (94)

Warned 94

Against “I reject you”

In the present indicative

This toilet 91

Has a stain

I’ll call it

“Brown throne”

Never more

When I notice

The speckles on

The door

Beneathness 93

You want

A city frozen

Under ice

So that you won’t

Need to put up

With pity

For the chilly mollusks

Creeping into your heart

AURA (94)

ENTICING ORANGE

I read a poem, once; 92

There was a series of pictures

Of bells clanging without narration ‑‑

Movies are like that.

So, so the so‑so’s 91

Sip some monks’ ale

And each try their hand at

An Autumn’s tale

Questions about what color gave 92

What to what color ‑‑

Who wants to blame

White light or blackness

For supplementary conditions of complement?

Isn’t it enough to be

In the musical singing,

Even the blues?

Don’t disparage the drone ‑‑ 93

Look,

The sly part is that those New

York drones don’t need

A queen

‘Cus you’re a friggin’ poet 91

Pretender

Trying to match the “black lacquer” 92

Trees and “gauzy” moon

With words like “showers”

And with leaking secrets,

You leech your work

FOR

Progress?????????!!??? 94

Progress?

I remember what Joyce did

With the “day” you progressed through

Winter watercolors 92

The grey and white and brown

Are all God’s colors, too,

So stop always putting them down.

Stacking bones 94

Of poetry dregs

Lincoln Log bones

And a pitiless child

Poetry isn’t just a flashback 91

Some sixties sops

Who sold serotonin

Substitutes, try to

Do the same with

“Imagery” and poetry

Pictures without silver 92

For sombrero tourists

In china town moods

When being freaky

Isn’t enough of a freak

To be, (freak being

Only a suffix for “Jesus”

Or a prefix of “for crack”)

Need less words than dis‑

Ambiguity

Big balls bounce 91

Red and brown, down

The slopes of San Francisco

In pairs, past flower shops

Past the bakery, and into

The traffic below

coiled distance 94

snapped felt

felt wings

of shape flood???????????wha\////????

…. whirled…

…… snapped…

.. wheeled….

….. rush…..

… wheeled?

Sit on your arse 94

And cherish an appetite

For looking at the solemn, the foolish,

Looking for the dark spots on the sun,

Retina‑frying

FOR A BARE TRIBE

BEAR TRIBE (94)

The pretty names, 91

Like colors

And amethyst‑studded rings,

Are less in their abundance

BELLFLOWER (94)

DING DONG

STAMEN AND PISTOL

CLAPPER AND CLAP

CUT THE GREEN WIRE

ALL BREEDS OF IGNORANCE

Joyce creeps in 91

To every poetic

Sin

Dogs and kids 92

And moons and

Julys or Junes

To soothe the

Sting of silence

DISCONTENT ‑‑

BARK

Fig yesterday 93

Cicada cast

Long legs lured

My baited breath

Worm cast

Plaster cast

The whole noisy

Play of fig‑eating,

Loud, insect actors

With broken spirits

And brittle‑marrowed souls.

Picture made, 92

My head crashes

Against the poet’s

Philosophy

The lost snail 91

Slugging along the bricks ‑‑

Slime sister on concrete

LITTLE

BELITTLE

BELOIT (94)

AND OBSTRUCTION TO ABSTRACTION

What abstraction is defined 93

By the door itself?

People write books about it 91

Collect photos for years,

But what was important

To tell was the dis‑

Solution of memory???

The potassium storage 92

Sodium and serotonine

In cytoplasm surrounded

By a science of emotion

And photo albums of words

Mystical acid queen 94

Becomes

Blind, mute ‑‑

Secret herbal

Donor of flightless

Frustration

DOING THE MENTAL

BENCH PRESS (92)

THE PECK BUILDER

NEEDS WEIGHT

BENEATH THE SURFACE (94)

Flame‑flaked? 92

Snow‑baked?

The dandruff of dissolution?

The clanging cross‑references?

Currents through the past?

Will this moment last?

She stuck a flower 94

In his barrel

He stuck a barrel

In her flower

Chaos is not a butterfly; 92

Butterflies live within

Slipstream geometry

Hamiltonians,

Half‑truths to cover

Our waxed and polished,

Shine‑glossed,

Shellac mistakes

We were taking a tour of the farm 91

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

Chaos is not a butterfly 94

Butterfly

Butterfly chaos, chaos butterfly

Can rational metaphor describe it

Without, somehow, unbecoming it?

MORE THAN IN A

BILINGUAL (94)

DOUBLE‑ENTENDRE,

BIRD WATCHER’S DIGEST (94)

CHICKEN

Picking contagion, 92

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 94

While trolling for pickerel in the reeds

Slipped and fell upon his big red initial

And swam with supper, would his words be super‑fish‑al?

It has been a long time going 91

But after post‑modern man

The word will try for wisdom

Again, not just “Bauhaus” concrete

But organic concrete

And shape won’t matter so much

As long as there are some shoes,

Then, to fit those funny, flat feet.

SHRIVELING

BITTERROOT (91)

I can not color in your eyes 91

The oil on that old canvas,

Unfinished, dry, in cream

Skin‑color sits. The studio,

Empty, I study your thighs;

I don’t think they’re right,

Either.

His Lap Dog 91

Too rich to drive

Myself away,

I stay, sitting

Sad, a tad tipsy,

Isolated like

The litter’s runt

BLACK AMERICAN (93)

BLACK APPLE (92)

BLACK BEAR (94)

Clapping its intestine 93

Name the news event 91

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, rose‑colored stain.

Somehow, the maggots 92

And oatmeal

Connect

By my scorn

Tries to put a hierarchy

Upon the food chain

Tries to separate the superficial

From a shotgun facial

Tapioca from Topeka 94

Toast on a Buttered Tray

Tea to the Side

Visit from A Boyfriend Who Smelled of Perfume and Stale Sex

Sickly ‑‑ drowsed

Sickly ‑‑ heard weeping

Sickly ‑‑ survived

To write

Sickly ‑‑ verse

BLACK BOOKS (94)

BLACK THOUGHTS

BACK‑STABBED BY BAD IMPRESSIONS

BLACK BOUGH (94)

BLACK BUZZARD (94)

Impression of other art 92

To make art

A telling of effect

Not just direct color

Configurations and

Sailboats on stormy seas

CONSECRATED, THE BLIND MAN BEGINS TO LOVE

COLOR POETRY, LISTENS TO THE

BLACK FLY (94)

The rain hurt you harder

Than laying with snakes?

BLACK HORSE (91)

BLACK MOUNTAIN (94)

BLACK RIVER

RUNNING FROM MY TWAT

(WHAT A THOUGHT)

BLACK SCHOLAR (94)

BLACK SPARROW (94)

That’s the way 92

Baking

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

BLACK TAPE (92)

BLACK TIE (94)

The grass is the cousin 91

Of my ass

She is the motorized hum

Of a lawnmower

She is the growing

Prune‑doctor

She is the weed‑eater

And sod‑layer

She is the trimmer

Fingernails pulling at me

BLACK WARRIOR (94)

I’ve got a chair and a stray dog 92

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 aloe‑vera dreams.

YOU KNOW I HATE TO PICK ON THE LITTLE GUYS

BUT POETS ARE ALL BIG IN MY EYES

HAVE TWENTY‑INCH PENII AND BASKETBALLS

OR AT LEAST DILDOS TO STRAP ON

TO REAM THE EDGES OF THE TRUTH,

AND TONGUES AND LIPS AND FINGERS FOR LATER

TO SOOTHE ANY PAIN THAT’S CAUSED TO

YOU PECKER‑HEADS,

YOU PUCKERED PUSSIES,

BLUE LIPS STUCK TO

BLUE BUILDINGS (91)

BLUE GUITAR (92)

Player with blue fingers 92

Plucks pensively, painted

For effect, he watches t.v.

Frets about t.b., drips

Blood from his finger‑tips,

Examines his sperm, his life,

His worth during daytime.

BLUE LIGHT (94)

Houston has its Blue Light Cemetery 94

With silky ghosts and Spanish Moss

Mythology, appearing in weak moments,

Every so often, blue vapor phosphorescence

Explained away as swamp gas

BLUE LIGHT, RED LIGHT (91)

Ditty to Dog‑Catchers 91

My cat needs a licence

To drive your prey wild

BLUE LIGHT (93)

STROBING

BLUE RYDER (94)

HUMMING ALONG

LIKE A

EUNUCH

BLUE UNICORN (94)

WITH BLUE BALLS

SUGARED AND BUTTERED

Self‑conscious 92

Still see

Depth

In her newmade

Love poetry

The swan flew faster than ever 94

For fear‑frozen fish,

Dived and then

BAM!!!!

Headfirst it glided through clear ice,

Outside the Pyrex factory;

A feather landed in the snow

I’ll bet there’s a poet 93

Today

Living on the docks

WRITING

THE CHEWED

BLUELINE (94)

CUD‑BALLS YELLOW

THICK, GUMMY MUCUS GREEN

LIKE BUBBLE‑CUD BROWN

THE NAMED

COLORS

SQUEEZE LIKE A

BOA (94)

Lines 94

Columns

A Waitress Visiting Chicago Yells 94

“Na na na poo poo

Owwwww‑her

Jazz

Is better than

Yoooooouuur

Jazz!”

And I call it finders‑keepers poetry

But you do see the deep meaning, don’t you?

Alice Walker from fiction class 94

Shows up in Marilyn’s poetry

Often, awake, I see 94

Mice and rabbits

Running across the page,

Knowing that your poetry

Understands

The seen better than the dream

My poetry 91

Makes

You nuts

Falling from a

Poet tree

THE

BOSTON PHOENIX (94)

SPRINGS FROM

BOSTON (94)

BOTTOMFISH (94)

You keep falling deeper 94

Into suicidal bliss,

Imagining how pretty

All the red will be

Against this season’s fashions

Sleep tight 91

Blanket’s big enough

To ward off

Fitful images

WELL

DONE WITH THOSE BLACK AND BLUE‑LINED EYES

DONE WITH

BOUILLABAISSE (94)

Promenading 94

Names

Tappanzee

Spanning soggy lines

To bridge the watery gaps

Between the high‑and‑dry truth

Promenading

Names

Tappanzee

(wasn’t that all I needed all along?)

Mixing 94

Wake metaphors

With ski‑boat meanings

Mercury syntax

With

Bowline moorings

Loosed, lapping the gunnels

Of your tongue,

You float and glide

From ship to shore

Famous people 92

Pop into my

Poetry

So some fool reader

Might hope to find

Their secrets

Madonna‑penned

Or Prince Charles

Endowed

Mention manila 91

If your words

Don’t define

The envelope

Tachyphrasia 94

Was was better

Than that slow

Tick talk that

Spread like oleo

From Lyme

To infect the forest

With dry‑rot

Philosophizing,

Rooted only to a tree‑flea

Or deer‑mite’s sense of purpose

Past the travelogue 93

Rome’s ruins

Take more space

In the guidebook

Than on land

Pantheism poetry 92

And all religion

Is religion;

The isolationist universal

The singular sunset

The whole enchilada

Sauce and teeth and chopped liver

BROODING HERON (94)

BROOKLYN (94)

Poem waits for words 91

Looking looking

Like a page

Winter 92

Cicada‑

Silence

Moon and willow 94

Evening shade

Over cool grass

I GOTTA GET A

BUYLINE

BYLINE (94)

Sleep poet sleep 92

Your dreams are more true

Your apathy

Your nature,

The searching for sounds

Degrades your sense,

Your blanket more comforter

Than an untangled phrase

CACHE (91)

Cash crop 91

Confused

Corn‑

A‑

Cop(e)‑

Modern man

Turns around to embrace

The haphazard hedge‑rows

SAY

“GOOD‑BYE, JOHN CAGE”

How far underground? 92

Even the underground

Is dug today. Dig it?

Doo‑da 92

Poetry defiles

Da‑da

They forced her to pose 92

She’s the one with the cocaine

Eyes, strawberry thighs

And a mouthful of

Muttered, fluttering

Obscenities

Horniness is to handguns 91

Shopping is to babies

no….

Horniness is to handguns

Sun is to pudding

no….

Horniness is to handguns

Poetry is to propaganda

(the big lie kind, not like good bullshit,

not tainted by only truth and omission)

Why try 93

To do

Oil toil

To fake paint to make faint

Untrue blue

Ink links?

Oh! 94

Freak me fucking out!

A poem about a woman with grey eyes

Reacting to that very same poem!

How deep!

Birds 93

How pretty they are

Before the pellets hit them

I see 94

Icy crocuses

The icy crow

Cusses

$@&*!@#$%^&

(And that’s a word too)

I see!

Ink pink links 94

Improvise blues

Barrenness was planted 92

In that Winter field

By only one frost

And a proclivity for gold

Rather than the green

Shoots of family farming

With heaters and husbandry

Calculus doesn’t count 92

What’s important

By the coloring of curves

Ice flow, creamy quartz 92

Ugly meadow, long bermuda shorts

Tattered Petunias, teetering stalks ‑‑

Not ready to shiver, I walk

Watching the road

You were supposed to change slowly,

Not become silver Winter

Without warning, without fluffy snow

CAPERS AWEIGH (94)

MY BUDS

SALAD ALL DAY

Names 92

Below

Moody title

Melon‑mush ‑‑ 94

Is the honeydew

Green or orange?

Is the daughter seed

White inside?

A CAROLINA? (91)

Or does she see 91

Colors as tripping

Tools over poetry

Stumps

And taboo humps

CAROLINA (93)

Anything sucking 91

Reminds me of

What you said

About my poetry

Everything creaking

And wrinkled and poor

Glows on the wet face

Of youth you adore

Dropping bombs 93

Into

Cross‑haired poetry

CAROLINA WREN (94)

CHIRPING

Poetry lives as long 92

As pen meets paper

In any gutter or penthouse

Where there is feeling to express

Or thought to share

But good poetry goes

Where great poetry doesn’t dare

And will until the penthouse pet

Kisses the gutter dog with glee

And calls the barking “great poetry”

I sit with Superman, Margaret Sanger, 94

Martin Luther King, Mother Theresa,

Ghandi, and any other great name

I can think of, pretending

To hold their hands, in my attempt

To hold your attention.

Mention 91

Sex and death:

Advertiser’s

Poetry of imprisonment

And plain appreciation

Of life unspent

Becomes premium

Insurance bait

ON THE

CAROUSEL (94)

BOTHERING THE

CARPENTER (93)

WHO CARRIES FOUR

CARREFOUR (94)

SHOTGUNS

WREN‑ATTRACTING WHISTLES

RED AND GREEN AND YELLOW SHELLS

HONEY‑INTENDED AIM OF THE ALLEGORY LIKE

CARRIONFLOWER (92)

Fancy cat claws 92

The Blue Jay

Feathers in its

Frisky little

Mouth

Is the poetry 94

Lipid or water soluble?

(entering the heart or the brain?)

TO BE A POET, YOUR DAD MUST HAVE BEEN A DRUNK

OR YOU MUST PRETEND HE WAS

AND IF HE ABUSED YOU SEXUALLY OR HIT YOU, ALL THE BETTER

FOR THIS NEW DADDY PRETENSE.

MINE LOVED TO BITE NECK

MOUNT A CAT

CELERY (92)

STALKS

Favorite words connected 92

Less is more 92

In a celluloid world

Without twinkling stars

Sign on door ‑‑ 93

“Gone here”

A pacman eclipse 94

A Poem Diver 92

To anyone who’ll listen

I mutter “Just what do you think?

My big complaint with words

Is that they have to suck to sink.”

But then

I have, he has, he and I have

Edited for grammar

Smells of syntax 92

The brown‑colored images

Floating logs of imagined journeys

The shiver and sweat, sometimes,

When reading, the tingling

Of fallen‑asleep thighs,

The flush after rejection

The fertilized mind, somewhere,

Down the (sewer) line

My leather briefcase spoke ‑‑ 94

‑‑ No!

My coffee cup spoke to me

Saying everything, all at once

Planes (made me almost deaf) landing 92

Nearby; John Lennon’s “Imagine”

Comes on the television this Sunday

Morning; Cat’s crazed, knocking over

The books from their shelves

And, as far as I know, the rest

Of the family is still alive.

An empty mug reminds me

Sunlight calls for coffee

To be dripped and drunk ‑‑

My imagination grasps for Scotch Tape

Paranoia 92

Is the modern

Classic

Found poetry 91

Cantos in quarter time

Mountain ‑‑ so big 94

Me ‑‑ so small

Mention mountain

To excuse “me” extrapolations

Is Minsk the only specific 92

With accordion flowers,

Expanding stars,

Hill‑haloed sky

And a thousand million smiles

To share?

So that’s the end of the story, 92

No web to wonder over and remember

No tales of spider glory,

An arachnid dismembered

And a poem about life?

From a seething pool 94

Of industrial pollutants

Grow pretty, little flower mutants

Les Grands Mots a la Cote des Mots 94

Go ahead!

Tell me you know

More about war

Because you went to a school

That taught you French

Down by the Colon 94

by Cyan

Here:

Punks turn punctual

In DADFAD tuning, slam dancing, loose teeth,

Eye shadow dried, conceiving new hairstyles,

Studs, safety pins, earwax, spit.

Explain me 92

Analyze

Talk about

Word usage

Shape and size

The type, the page

The lonely trout‑

Speckled lake

Doesn’t take

Its beauty

From reason

Or season

I’LL EXPLAIN WHAT I WILL

BUT, DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KILL

MY LOVE FOR LIFE

WITH A LAH‑DEE‑DAH TALE OF YOUR DYING DUCK’S STRIFE?

THE DEER ON HIS HOOD

STARED BLANKLY DOWN AT ME

LEAKING INTO THE WHOLE

How did you know the whole? 92

Add one ripple more

And your lake wasn’t whole

Neither was the day nor the day before

Take one ripple away

Was the lake any less?

Was it an incomplete day?

Did you know or was it just a wild guess,

In the near noon light

That the lake was not a hole

For God’s universe of night?

Did you really know the whole?

Did you? I bid you to tell me

That that wasn’t the poem you were trying to sell me.

miserable poets 93

bum me out

bum out my self

make me bummed out

not only 92

unclear

thoughts trees

with no connecting

roots but

also rhythm

made leafy

by line breaks

and short‑stanza

branches

Oh, run on run‑on sentence without punctuation 94

if that is the only way to get a flow from the

ship channel of these words

On Washington Square 92

Bug carpet leaves

Sail on the wind

Multiple visions

Of a grey‑brown

Day, insect eyes

That don’t see

“The Bottom Line”

And you blame your wife 92

For dustpan inspiration

In a nation of roses

And false posers

And lonely, wrecked lives?

Oh, the oh poems 92

That sit and sing

Of fictional Egypt

And don’t do a thing

Certain times 93

New‑born certain time

In timeless now

Times within the now

Oh, yeah, and love moving universes

Celestial music and

“Calm” fucking “the storm”

I will seal some strawberries 94

In the hubcap of my orneryness

And throw them in the pamplemousse pudding,

Like fate with a twist of lemon,

For your mother to eat

A white pillar of blanks 92

Rises like a paper feather

From my angry hand

Flowerless husband 92

Bearing bulbs

Removes his wife’s leg

From his flatulence.

Outside, bed bugs

Run to the warmth

Of hot air

Under satin sheets

Whoa, bloodstone! 92

Flowers catch fire 91

Her words were like curds? 94

So they expose themselves to a rose? 92

Raven keeps its bill clean 94

Snowy crocuses 91

Snowy crow cusses

Entropy and the hermit’s ears 91

My fear has been that no fir

Would grow, and Summer heat

Would beat me down under fallow ground

Hah! Travelogue ‑‑ 91

I tell you

Stuck stories

Of small motion

Carbohydrate cravings 92

Abridge an asphalt escape

You are distracted by pizza smells

On our drive to a glistening garden

Salt lick suckers 93

Froglike toads

Weather or not

We wear our thick skin

Clown delight 93

Alright, alright! 94

Let’s save some trees

I’m going to say 94

Some really nice

Sensitive things

And then say,

“Hey! Trust me.”

Grey skies 91

Give me

Great joy

Looking deeper into dawn 93

I see that “God’s Peace”

Includes mollusks crushed

By those same seagulls

And crabs clawing at

Each other

CREATIVITY (94)

Your fertilizer falls 94

Unto other people’s lawns

“The language of objects” 94

Is just another excuse

For deniable ambiguity

(the kind that doesn’t plan in all the

possible meanings before printing it )

We all know that green is jealous

Or is it new life?

Or is it the complement of red?

Or is it “not the favorite color of car”?

Or is it pukey?

Or some liver bile?

Or brackish water?

Or a stuck stone?

Or menthol?

Or cool?

Or Oxygen breeding?

Or go ahead go?

Or Light/primary, pigment/secondary?

Or ghastly on the Caucasian skin?

“The language of objects”

Is just another excuse

For deniable ambiguity

Like so many poems

That poets think mean a certain

Thing. They strain against frustration

Veins against fore(head) skin

When their poems, like strippers

And movie stars, are loved

For “all the wrong reasons”

In a Cadilac world 94

Nymphs attend

Another painting

CRICKET (94)

IS A CHIRPING

CRITIC (94)

Shocked by blue sky? 92

Senses tuned to wild life 94

She was never alone

EXPERIENCES

CRYSTAL RAINBOW (93)

WAKE‑UP CALLS

CUMBERLAND (94)

FARMS

Bubbling udder juice 94

Yellow, like me

Pruned to the Absolute 92

Absolute

The red pen’s not the best 92

Tool

If you want to draw

Blood

Weather 94

Rain………

Wind…..

Sleet…….

…. Turbulence….

Whether or not

You notate the chorus

With roof pitches

Plummet faces

Object drops

And freefall

A poet who pulls words 93

From her alphabet soup

To make noodle art,

To make it a job

Crashes to spill

More than crackers

Yesterday’s words 92

Writer’s cramp

Crumpled paper

First Eight Pen‑Pricked 93

Pen‑Picked Words From a Dictionary

Enlist

Bemuse implode

Claim beautician

At fault communism

Give me a poetry I don’t understand, 94

A boy who walks like capital letters

And runs like a semi‑colon.

Machine poetry, 93

I presume

Armature of sky

Governor of stones

Carburetor of clouds

Transmission of worn

And broken words

From

A six‑stroke engine

Cyl‑

in‑

ders

Misfiring from bad gas

Water wells 92

Dream folds

Light washes

This squashes

Offense, pretense,

Any sense ‑‑ the poem

Dies in the colors

Of sunset and song

Wells up to take its place

Paint a picture with your best colors 91

If black oil be on your brush

And a black spot in the heart

Of your canvas, why paste minced words?

EXTRAPOLATION

ESCHEWS BLUES

DEVIANCE (92)

I, we, love peace 91

No poetry is needed

To say that

Monologue 91

Of foreign intrigue

From a flower vision

Familial ties

Your crest on your chest

Baretta behind you

Smoking in the brains

Of your alien words’

Bullet marks

DIALOGUE

About other senses ‑‑ 91

For the blind poets

The flowers have different meaning

Trying to PUMP!… this poem up, 94

Another oily feather falls

You 92

Twist the words

Like mountains,

To fit a faceless

Sky

(But, why?)

Donuts 92

With words

Slipping through

The holes

Soaking the edges,

Brown, like coffee

Walk on a paisley pattern 91

Run to exercise the dragon

Invent flame alchemy

So the smoke falls like snow

Under dragon‑breath rain

Invent a city maze to amaze

Yourself, wish spatial variety

Travel the tenuous borders

Kissing children, crying rainbow

Colors, filled with all

Like an unpoppable balloon

Casting no shadow on the earth

Remind me of the razor 91

For your simple delight.

The candles can now do nothing for you,

Sharing hollow night.

I know when the blood comes out.

Stare into my eyes.

The horror hacks knees, lacks impact on me.

Your cold cruel cuts get old and tired;

The rusty razor holds no surprise,

But the soft, reoccurring warmth of the candle’s glow,

That, is the one great surprise I know.

Comma typo sometimes confuses 94

Last line joins, “them”, floating muses

Do I really ever want 92

To ride the interstate

Through Alabama, sit up straight,

Startled to see those very

Trees the poem sang about,

Hear real red‑tailed hawks

In heavy rain. Will their song sound the same?

Or will there be a soggy silence

And, unable to feel the awe from that scene,

Captured more by reality than

The vision of beauty I used to see,

Will I still love poetry?

Cowboying for rich folks 93

Bought nitro to blow

Them away with words

Murdered Moments 94

Unfolding face

Drinking the “rivulets

Between my breasts”,

But then he had to go

And chant and pop out

Into “night”, “earth”, “time”.

Personalizing night 94

Without knowing its personality

Is stereotyping

(to say nothing of my music)

Poetry published 93

Misopoetists

OF S & M

DUST EGO (94)

Hawk’s Flight 94

Diving into the last line,

Captured by a hunger for the beautiful

Stuffed rabbit on display,

Smashing against the plate glass,

Falling into a pile of feathers,

A couple of which I pick up for luck,

Stick them into the defrost vent,

Under my car window.

Water Poems 91

Next line

Falls frozen

Time distortion 93

For poetry’s line

I could mention my lost lovers’ 92

Names if they alone told the story,

If they were in the rhythm of lost

Love poetry

If poetry is painting 93

Why not paint?

Gargoyles 94

Don’t grab

At your gut

But give

You excuse

For vomit

Words and curses

Get only visuals from bird names 93

And flowers named and blood,

Got lazy imaginations but try to

Get an image of this ‑‑ In my shower cap

I envied the elephant

Painters paint clouds 94

On billboards. Poets

Think then of rain

Cats are immune to the hairy greens 91

Of okra poetry

Listening to lizards 93

LSD poetry 91

Flashbacks

Cheap thrills

Once, 94

Was so soon ago

EXPERIMENTAL BASEMENT (94)

ExPeRiMeNt WiTh WoRdS? 94

wOrD wOrLdS wOw!

T.S. 92

T.M.

What’s the difference

Between them?

Sparky 94

Hallucinating rodeo spirits

Bucking through life

Broken, spurred

Bridled to some light angel

Is also the most precious,

Digest‑sized, photocopied

THIS PAGE FOREMOST

MUST BE GOOD

MUST GRAB THE ATTENTION

MUST BEGIN AGAIN FRESH

LIKE THE UNDRESSER FROM ODESSA

WHO TAKES HER CLOTHING OFF

FOR THE TEN‑THOUSANDTH TIME

BUT MUST MAKE IT NEW AND EXCITING

FOR THE LONELY MEN WHO LOVE HER

Battle writer’s block 91

With barren fields?

Everything old is new before 93

Everything trash becomes of war

Everything good is worthy of questioning

None of these words are worth digestioning

Once, 93

And call telling you

About it, poetry

A pretty line to punctuate the purposelessness 94

Of reading on

Vatican III 92

Through bad poetry?

SHOCK WARRIORS GET AWAY

WITH POETRY THEY WOULD HATE

IF NOT FOR CAUSE, COOKED OVER

A CAMPFIRE OF TINDER,

BITTER SAUCE WITH TOO MUCH SEASONING

FENNEL (93)

Slice of fiction poetry pies 93

We are here 94

Well,

You are there

But I am here

This is my picture painted

Do you see it? Do you feel it,

At least? It, the mood ‑‑ you know?

There is something here…

Well, not here. I’m here.

Prop‑ 94

Gand(er)‑Ganda

Columns

(But not stacked)

I set the rules 94

You cheated because

The main rule (of mine)

Is that the rules don’t matter

When it’s love or war

The rules don’t matter

Any more than they do in poetry

Bulbous blather about figurines 92

Figures to be bought

Finally saying,

“Stars are stars and amazing enough”

NO!

Stars are the explosions in my head!

FIREBRAND (94)

ON HER RUMP

COULD BE MORE DEGRADING

I’m a lesbian, 94

Publish me!

FIRST HAND (94)

Cock‑crazed! 94

I’m a gay guy,

Publish me!

Nacitur 91

Plagiarizing or legally stealing for your tainted

poetry?

Hoplophobia 94

Street‑sweeper words

Chicken‑pecked imagery

Alphabetical hallucinations

Multi‑syllabic semi‑automatic

2 down one to go

Pressed religion brown dandelions in yellow books

The militia of the new monarchy ‑‑ wait a second ‑‑

Amend or become outlaw

What can still be painted

Tax words tax bullets

Drive‑by media law

Oh, gosh, how much, how terribly much, I do miss. 94

The good, old, sentimental verse

Tram 94

(“In whose”, so as to avoid in whiches)

Called The Future with dreamers riding

Driver’s unseen and all

And nothing but lists of dreams

Of topographic differences

Of images made readily

Of specifics like fish and chips

In wax paper

After a sold‑out stadium night

The elbow pressing

Against the blue lady

In Red’s frock where her breasts

Tighten the fabric

The holes in the soles

Of the sleeping workman

Whose “whose” is really his

Poets unite 92

Your tongues

on THIS!

Your big fucking words 94

That enfold mistaken meaning

The detritus of premature ejaculation

Ergo: No Dialogue 94

What about my teeth?

Will they soon be lost?

Poor poet gums gracious garble,

Kiss‑ass words, hoping for reprieve

While poor poet warriors with braids

And only bad teeth, worsening, cry against

Neglect, trying to keep that snowflake

With a warm heart (“cold hands…”, etc.)

“Can’t come up with any new subjects 92

‘Cus I’ve written so fuckin’ B.Z. many poems”

Door hinge blowing in the wind 93

Where a door was

Before the bad poet, in a vandal mood

Forgot to put it into the picture

Of that impossible wind

Rhyming Hyphens 94

I celebrate a free lunch,

Okra grown in sun‑toil

And gumbo soil, veggies

With well‑water

EVERY LINE MAKES A CIRCLE

OUTSIDE OF GEOMETRY,

SO THE STRAIGHT

AND NARROW,

THE RIGHT PATH

IS A PRETTY LIE,

A SELF‑FULFILLING GHOUL,

TRUTH CONCURRED

Home soon 91

You harness your hatred

In bald critiques

Moment sharp 93

Keenly perceived with

Nothing realized

Head in hands 92

Whose head?

Whose hands?

Doesn’t matter

Does it?

In those words 93

I hear that droning voice

That “This is poetry” voice

That “this has religious sanctity”

Voice

Hypnotizing

Without

Hip‑

Mo‑

tizing

What is bad? 94

What is badly?

What is badly written

If this is not?

This is the panting oxen

Of blue cheer

Tullied and sullied

And caught by the balls

Roses against a log cabin wall 94

Roses anywhere

Roses and fragrance

In Montana, too.

Fuck any considerations of anything poetic, 94

Throw in Tina and What’s Love Got to Do With It?

GOING GAGA (92)

Over ambiguity? 92

I’ll never get over ambiguity

Or underpants

Must photos of sunsets and relatives 91

And pictures painted with colored

Words and the names of certain

Fauna or flora enter every poem?

Have we so tightly defined what is

And is not the beauty of existence?

Is it Tiger Lily time

Or the grey goose down?

Piss poetry 92

Effluence

Yellow journal‑ism

Life is a thousand minuscule mind‑altering 94

Amazements every fucking day!

To be a poet 92

Don’t be impressed

By lifeless lines

Funny how the smog makes 91

Such beautiful sunsets

What the fuck does a Yucca look like? 92

The air is full of bird‑shit 94

Wasn’t the pause 92

Williams’ poetic cause?

How can you call it

“William Carlos Williams”

When you

Don’t

Put pauses

Where they

Don’t

Normally belong?

This is the sound of my trigger.

Make me look up a lot of words 91

Help me find new wonder at language

Not my cats mating 92

They rape and are raped

No poetry here for me

I, too, miss the dead, sometimes 93

Babylon! 91

A poem so tame

For that old name?

HAIKU ALIVE (92)

One line alone? 92

Haiku has more tao than 92

Other, even similar, form

Separate from the words inside?

Random words 94

Random, random

99 luftballoons

And Red Rover falling

Into the quagmire of a question ‑‑

Does the pause (do the paws?)

Of dot, dot, dot, (…) count as a syllable?

My poem welds me to the slag 93

In the middle of a word 92

In the muddle of a word

In the meddle of absurd

modal

constructs

All these words 94

All these unnecessary words

About wishing for great poetry

(And all I really want to say is that I love you

and have you believe it)

I now write 91

A perfect line

No one told them 94

That July Seventh

Would not be a Tuesday ‑‑

No!

No one told them

That the fairy

Had a tail ‑‑

No!

No one told them

That no one told them

Dowser 94

Drowsy

Water‑witch words

(Which way did she go?)

(The hollow way?)

Artichoke 92

I never saw a rainstorm of children

Or an art

Choke

At the throttle of fad

Sewing poetry like mis‑matched socks 93

I leave buttons off

I wear away the bottoms of long pants

Until they fit

“Fuck You!” (Jim Morrison) 94

The notes float

The note floats

The word pictures

Picture words

Etc. 91

Of words for the sound

Of a floating whip, etc.

Before the stinging

Trying to be playboy pictures 92

Without paying models

Poetry pictures 94

Because they censor t.v.

‘Snuff 94

Snuff poetry

You’re not half done yet, hamburger, 91

Don’t make me eat you raw

Secret sex is a thrill 91

If you like dishonesty

Picture poetry paints

Pretty lies of sunset sex

Sometimes, soothes

Cat and dog love analogies 92

Are wrong

Because cats are not bitches

An exchange of allusions 94

In tattered photographs

Of old friends

Pigeon 93

Poetry

Pecking

The pavement

(do they coo or only poo?)

Syllables 94

4 more of them

Would call it by another

Name if it were 5 of them

Rhino 91

Gross misconceptions

Of tusk poaching

Poets

Who’s a Hecht? 94

What the Hecht? ‑‑

That’s okay,

Any memoriam of yours

Is a memoriam of mine

GANGBANGERS GOING WILD,

WITHOUT SUFFIXES

Your husband made such a fuss about your diary 94

And you, of course, sent it to me

I grow green, deprived of midnight 94

ΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨ 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.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨ

These lines did not need to be written ‑‑ 94

Actors and birds slamming against an invisible wall

The bough of boyhood 91

Bent under the high top

The guilty discipline

ΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨ For its entire life thereafter

Poet 94

Visualizes

Visions

Visualizing

Poet

ΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨ Chaos is not a butterfly

Poetry 94

I got lost in the translation

NO LONGER AN

INFINITY (94)

OF ANYWHERE

ΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨΨ Hear it?

Cicada 92

Crazy legs Chirping

Into my tortured brain

Frustration

Even the shotgun

Won’t silence

Cicada Incipience

BLUE RED YELLOW

BLUE RED GREEN

INKY BLUE (94)

SEE‑THROUGH

Yeah, 92

I can’t tell

You what these

Lines are really about

Talking

Like an insurance adjuster

Asking questions

After an incident

Beauty 92

Motivates

What?

What else?

What else

Motivates?

Beauty

Does what else?

We would create “beauty” 93

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

Betrayed by clear vision 91

But not enough information

You beat hollow trees

With rhythmic messages

Haiku is 92

Making me

Silly

Pizza is great American food 94

Spaghetti comes from China

China comes from Wedgewood

Wedge wood works better if metal

Heavy metal is radioactive music

Musical cacophony ‑‑ but still ‑‑

Art is NOT ambiguity (still in the box)

Lank, 94

For a second,

I thought I had spoken

For the third time

With an inch between my legs

Indelibly wounded

Abstract expressionism

No! No! No!

I cancel my subscription 94

Is this what poetry is supposed to be?

THE PROBLEM WITH BIG PRESS

OPERATIONS IS THAT THE WHOLE MACHINE

QUIVERS IF ONE GROUP OF WRENCHES GETS MAD

AT A COG,

AT ONE PIECE OF OBSERVATION,

ONE MONKEY’S WAVE

ANALYZE THE

JOURNAL OF POETRY THERAPY (94)

House symbols 94

More cracks

To lick with love’s

Psychodrama

Painted with spittle

Sinking into the soft foundation

Of mortality

The center sagging

In a wide gaping smile

Editor rewrites 94

Three‑year‑old’s poetry

Recognized for recognizing

Similitude

Random thoughts 92

On a really lazy Sunday

Between someone’s knees

I’m underpaid

Under wear ‑‑ poetry to capture

Smells and dribbles

So street clothes can stay clean

Can’t seem to break

The weed cycle

This is not 93

A form‑

Ula

Winter, Winter, Winter 91

But I understand ‑‑

You purify the bulbous land

Between

The lines

Juxta‑ 93

Hose

He devoted his life 94

Two thousand words maximum

Kid’s Playyard (Two Whys Together)

And boats and combustion sails

And waves and fire extinguishers

And that darn Coast Guard which

Stops you, dead in the water

There were times 92

When these lines

River runs 92

Into hydroelectric puns

Drowning versal valleys

CHOMSKY CHOMPINGS

Injustice fills me with distain 92

Doesn’t discourage But aids resolve

In these tired hands,

Fortifies the soft bread of my life force;

My hurting heart pounds with purpose,

Sometimes pretends to.

Walking along the shore 94

…….That’s all.

Umbilical Amniocentesis 91

So much poetry is from the belly

Once upon a time 93

There used to be men roaming the land

Now men hide in the forest

Of rhetoric

Going to war 92

They gloat about glory

Because a bluff is better

Than a cliff edge

Lah lah lah 92

Lah lah lah

You do put down

Your own thoughts

Put‑down pudding

Lah lah lah

Tapioca

Philosophy

With runny eyes

Lah lah lah

You swallow

Anyway

Colors for a blind man? 91

Poetry for the emotionally barren?

Feel the photo? Find the flower

In a reference book?

I write in rhythm but what the fuck 94

When I need meaning the beat I duck

Yeah, right, all the good ones are already dead 94

Might as well give up then, huh?

Loneliness 94

Is a dry marker

And fear

A broken ball

No!

Loneliness is

Peat moss

And fear

A plate of beans

No!

Loneliness is….

I have a message 92

And it is,

“I have a message”

The rainbow hit the concrete 94

With a splat of fractured color

And all that ever was was washed away

In the warmth of summer rain

It was any morning 93

I woke up with….

Whomever

Three horses galloping free 94

Two had socks on

One had me

My excrementation 93

Is a kind of loving

Being a generous soul

I wish nutrients for plants

And trees

LOCKHART (94)

LOCKED HEARTS ARE OFTEN

ALL THAT ARE LEFT

WHEN FINALLY HEARD

Rewriting history 94

Through today’s

Wobbling mirror

Is like

Siting on a baby

Because it

Reminds you of what you looked like,

Once upon a time

Editing with … (dot, dot, dot) 92

I make them see their poetry

Rooted only in poetic words

I give punctuation to their verse

OUT OF SKEW ON THE TREADLE

LOOM (94)

LOP‑SIDED, DROP‑STITCHED LINES

Ooooooooooh faaaahhhhhhhh! 93

Loom 92

Over

A carpet of lies

Loons are in style 92

This year

In Mid‑New Hampshire, the herons

Are resting, still barely nesting

Oh, Poetry! 93

Where is perfection?

Paint me a picture of a perfectly normal place 94

Then throw up on it

They wrote bad poetry 94

Taking me completely by surprise

Each fucking time

Dear Editor, 94

Let me make it clear

The water in Houston is soapy

Poetry/History Lesson 92

This was not being read by Einstein when he died

Sometimes, even good lines bother me 93

Gobbeldy‑gook sticks a knife 92

Into its own mumbly‑peg leg

Liver‑wurster 94

Glycerine glyph‑cyst

Assists extra words

‑‑‑‑‑

Quasi‑plings

Neck springs

Economy of manifest wavy collapse

Fragment anything

Mid‑length lakeside

One syllable, two syllables 92

Three syllables, four and more

Five syllables, six syllables

Seven syllables and then ten of them

Didactic song 91

Exposes our refusal

To be taught

Grossetto? 91

I thought myself a bit of a genius

Until I discovered how many words were

Missing from my family’s abridged dictionary

The sadness of your eye 94

Eye sad

Sad looking eye

Me sad to your eye

Yellow Journal‑ism

Piss professor

Calls himself “Urologist”

Says, “According to my analysis

Urinalysis is yellow”

I love you like a modem 94

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

William 91

Carlos

Williams

Carlots

You should

Be selling

Used cars

From

A cherry teacup is the embers of Christmas 93

Like a New Year’s toddy, like a Thanksgiving

Turkey is a panda poet

Rain is a symbol for what? 91

Sun is a symbol for what?

In this poem, rain grows okra

And the sun causes skin cancer

Syllabic

I count the spoken

Sounds of a language that gets

Its meaning from prose

I should have crumpled 94

These lines

How many layers are contained in the 91

Blank page?

I guess insects are easy to see 94

REAMS WRITTEN

ELITISM REDISTRIBUTED

MEMORABLE MOMENTS BY INVITATION ONLY (91)

Typo‑Titles 93

Artsy indications of error

Typographical “Mendsongs”

I mention 92

Shakespeare

To get you to read

These lines

I hug him with my poetry 91

Pretend emotion 94

With a pseudo name

“And away go troubles down the drain”

How bored bored people get in boring company 92

Is boring to me unless they say it well

Or interestingly.

If you need to, use a pickup truck 94

To move the poem

Into the present

Throwing a simple line 91

Baited for poetry fish

But as long as men drink their lives away 91

They’re not a threat to my picnic‑pink day

Writing drought poems 94

While St. Louis sits

Under ten feet of water

Twisting definitions to tame the confabulation 94

I’m a saddle‑stapled 92

Matte card

Cover girl

Fuzzy but fun

The Earth may stop turning for lack of 91

Revolution

Statistics confuse for a ruse 93

So that even “normal” is abused

And when the perception you choose

Includes even happy blues, misconstrues

News about fire and blood‑red hues for

Anything but eye‑grabbing schmooze, and

Everyone is driving on booze, prepared for

Baby hell the whole year of those terrible

Twos, I tell you, I’m not amused.

With that kind of truth you’re bound to lose

Doo‑doo 94

Dropped in the crack

Between poetry and concrete

They told us poetry was worth something 91

SITTING IN THE FREEZER

CAN BITE AT THE TOES

Do I dare 94

As a poet

Put a word

Upon the page

MINIBUS AND MOUTH‑CAPADE

Tell the history 94

Of our society

In social security numbers,

Credit card records,

Passports and obituaries

Concrete poetry ‑‑ 94

Limestone, pebbles, sand

No prose for poets ‑‑ 92

Is poetry found in the incomplete

Sentence. Two words.

I’m not sure this sentence is anything but a prose poem 94

MIXED MEDIA (94)

Excited 94

He says,

“I went to this

Wonderful, almost inaccessible

Place

Isn’t that great?!

With my foreign accent

I ascended the description”

Softly squeezing out colors 93

The gentle beast strangles

For purple‑blue‑yellow‑green

Face effects

MODERN HAIKU (94)

Life almost ended 93

And still writing only

As plum dead

Two nesting grounds 91

And herons are mentioned more

Than they lay eggs

One, two, three 92

Four syllables

Five more `til you die

What did the image do for you? 94

Six syllables to soothe

A moon that never was

Color makes the poem versal 92

But not universal to the blind

I’m a tin snip 92

Tearing malleability

To shreds

Red shift blues 94

Rods and cones

Cooling filament

So indescribably beautiful

That I try to describe it

As beyond my description

Turnback treachery

With a minor downbeat

MYSTERY TIME (94)

It’s a mystery how many mags survive 94

Any cartoon picture that comes to mind 93

Any drawn image,

Any knowledge is not all knowledge, is it?

IMPRESSED BY A LONG TITLE

entitled 93

The Cat/Gas Engine/My Soul/ The Laser Printer/

The Baby/ The Dog/ The Spider/ The Line/

The Coke Machine/ The Riot/ The Garbage Disposal/ The Head/

The Air Mailer/ The C.O.2 Tree/

What it wanted

Was to be fed.

Like a whole bunch of things that sound really good 94

It’s what follows that counts on a menu

The price tag that exposes the lie

Aliens crawling up the toilet bowl 94

And into your ….

Poetry

Larvae of the morning 94

Sunshine blows my mind

Seeking, ever‑laughing

She’s my lady, stealing lines.

Babel Babble 92

In the fight for reality realized, words

Are the fudge over a chocolate sundae

You can’t copyright pictures you create 94

In other peoples’ heads

Marching petunias 94

Marching to war

Against Hyacinth

For the sake of Morning Glory

Crying for better water

And integration

More militant flora 94

Conspire against

The farmer

Who imprisons them

In mounds and rows

Denizens eat venison 93

Wrong moon, right moon, it’s still the moon 92

We fell in love under

Ants in our underwear

Too true 94

It’s often the name that gets published

Instead of the poem

Where the doe dies is today’s poetry 92

The magazine is dull and dead 93

But the idea of the magazine lives on

Doubletalk double‑standard double‑dipped dick 92

Wordjumble wasteland and not the good kind either

The day it is yours 94

Carp and catfish

Lines dropped into mud

Title Poetry 92

Almost as bad as verse

That isn’t explained

Until the last line

Marooned, spare words 91

Making abstraction of all women 92

In the objecting to fictional objectification

The glistening page is just that, nor subjectivized

Apprehension of what others think.

Poets try that when they begin, before they control

Not only words, but themselves as well.

The poem is always loved for the wrong reasons

The highlit woman becomes more real than

Assonance

The birthday boy on a Sopwith Camel 92

(add blood somewhere)

Poets always want to revise their acceptance 92

Editors usually want to revise their lives

Waves and wind want to revise the beach

My ear calls ‑‑ 91

Oh! Ooooops ‑‑ should

Be a big name;

Osiris, my ear,

Calls my mouth

To be silent

Translate the poetry 92

Not the meaning

Poems are the “show‑ems” 94

We write every day

If we would have readers

We wouldn’t spend all our fucking time writing

Tieing up your poetry with sausage links 92

I fear I’m lost in your “Son’s Sonnet” 93

Beyond the cosmic quasi’s grid

And the forsaking.

In a Hitchhiker’s‑Guide‑like answering way ‑‑

Was it 42 or 41? Or 27?

Any truth or myth’s okay

In this poetry vacuum

Under an instant sun.

Did you ever pause to think 94

What poetry really is?

Epilepsy curse 92

Dropsy lines

Drowned wit‑mouse

Floating on torpid lines

Knots in wood are dead eyes.

Every dirty space between planks

Is a prison bar.

Every boat on every lake or ocean

Is a forefinger pressed into the Earth’s belly

Every Sunrise covers a gaping black hole

In the universe.

Every bed is a galaxy of insects and germs

Moving the print‑patterned sheets with vaporous

vibrations.

Every sound tells of the atmosphere splitting in quakes

at various distances,

Here, in paranoia, death‑poetry.

Road kill poetry 94

The pus of squeezed pimples

We make new words 92

So the syllables will fit

syntaxscrawlwording

I start each line with a preposition 93

Or an article or a conjunction

Or a pronoun that takes direction

From an internal sense

Or order trying to get out

And into the world

When I picture strawberry leviathan cheesecake

On the horizon of his darkening mouth

Got a quarter smile from me. 93

There is no need here for a semi‑colon(;)

Which, when well‑used, is such a treat;

It is ice‑cream when you’re not thirsty,

Dripping on an outstretched tongue,

A real recognition of attention and care

Ineluctable Joyce 92

Crawls on the grass

Like a cherry blossom

So what, to your artsy‑fartsy abstraction? 91

Three naked girls used to dance

In the bouncing geometric refraction

When the four o’clock sun hit all the cut crystal

Every afternoon, in the windows of Rainbow Time,

Running colors colliding on sweet young flesh

Stuck saying those same damn lines 93

Over and over, operatic, it

Is immortality

Of costumes and scenery more

Journal poetry 92

Immortalizing a moment

And your eyes again

Dickweed 94

Peckerwood

No line to remember

Just another list

Of picture words,

With “I”s like hers

Third Line Horizon 94

Third line

The picture line

Skywheel ‑‑ Sunlight spokes spinning

To turn an image

For half‑figured philosophy

(I wish.) 92

A cute political awareness 93

Bouncing against my conventions

A Nancy By Any Other Name

Oh, Emily, where are you now?

Shrubbery verity 94

“Ni!”

And humming bird farts

For a whiff of the arts

“Ni!”

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

“Ni!”

Between two of them

Grateful

Cheese

Licking up dew

Sentences.

Verbs have or do

Dart up

Dart up!

Down boy.

Climb a tree.

Naaaaannncy! 91

How many times do I have to tell you

You don’t have to leave open the bathroom door

To swim through it?

Da nang 92

Da nang

A burst and a bang

Politics tosses

A grenade of losses

Now,

How does your poetry

Hang?

It’s Lot in a car lot 93

Of clavicles (semantic z’s and x’s)

Dim song 92

Ended at an arbitrary point

Called a period.

Pom‑poms and poems 92

On pretty legs

In pretty lines of

Please, release me!

Art as dog‑moose‑fly 93

It must be nice 93

To be so sure of what poetry is

Species: Poet 94

His lines are arachnid

Ararat on a rat’s ass

Like antelopes loping

Over a cliff‑edge

If edited to the swansong

Of an Anatidae

I Put The Woman and The Fireplace Into The Title 92

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

Further

You pass your eyes

Over that poem

And wish it were

A sketch.

My, my, my 91

There are seven syllables

In the line above (here, too!)

It is

Monday in Montauk

And why did I come here?

I’m uncertain about the expenditure 92

Of all this time taken to make up

Smooth and rhythmic internal rhyme without

Enjambment, clichJ, 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 good‑bye,

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

And not the kind I make, sucking lemons.

Actions are something else ‑‑ 94

The arrow is so much that is not poem

Paper on concrete instead of concrete on paper

Designing instead of finding words

Fickle music‑lover 94

Haunted by the ghosts

Of one note after another

Haunted, exorcised, haunted, exorcised

Because there has to be something

To fill the silences

Tonight the moon is a bird 93

Tonight the moon is a flower

Tonight the moon is a puppy

Tonight the moon is an aardvark’s hum

…..Or Other Titles, Heads Without Bodies 94

(But Not Without Tales)

If you have to pretend 91

And imagine metaphor and imagery

Pretend/imagine that this is poetry

This poem has the quality of Sears aluminum siding 93

Of color‑safe detergent for dangerous Spandex

Hiding the hormone depletion

We are licking the oilspot on the cement driveway

Of the service area, touching the skin

Of an orange

That only reflects green

Vibrations of the ozone

In an awful uncola

Reebok Relationship

That’s democracy now 92

Don’t shoot them,

Silence them

Make other people

Deaf to their words

If you don’t like

Their poetry

Make paper and postage

Expensive

Few ‑‑ rest 92

Actual ‑‑ pour

Compassion ‑‑ blood

Then ‑‑ quiet

Silenced ‑‑ words

Big/little disPLACEment 94

Holy shit! 70,000 poetry submissions a year to read 94

And still touting your Prufrock prize?

Line line word word (I’m alluding to something right here, 94

right now with these very words)

Line line line (I’m alluding to someone I love)

Line line line (This is and allusion to someone I respect)

Line line line (Time for an allusion to a Greek Myth)

Line line line (How can you possibly think homosexuality is

in here?)

Skeleton of Poetry 94

Sel e ton of poetry

Wants (94)

Patient poets

Who are voluntarily committed

Or in tents but accessible

(With a phone or mailbox)

So they can get in tush

They do not dare you to pick them, 92

They dare you to name them

Color and flower‑based 92

Poetry is not racism

But is something like it

What are translations of poetry? With sounds and words and

sense changed? Is this long series of words I’ve written a

translation of my interpretation?

But the rich pay 92

For translations

Of the poetry of poverty

Had to Give This Title of “Poem”, So You’d Know

Few words

A column

Train of Thought 94

Train, train,

On track,

Stops

At the station

A Poet‑Poem 93

Ponder‑

O‑

About

Paradox of proportions

How much poetry fits into a box? 92

You almost loved me? Did I know? 94

I almost loved your poetry. Did you know?

Last line 94

Red herring

This is about the first line of this

Narration Shivers 92

Ambiguity

Is not automatically

Art

Memory 94

Casting a draft

Raisins swallow me

Dipping wet crackers in the Brie

I’m a jacket that’s worn wrinkled

The Lawrence Welk of half‑berries

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

Potable Poetry 92

By Wilbur in the woods by a stream

Zapper bulldogs 94

A mucus‑wet sky

Won’t release the harvest moon

Never Say Never 94

“Nothing is right”

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

“Nothing is left”

Braless 92

Does the best poetry

Speak “best

With its body?”

After Line 2, I Give Up 92

Rhythm‑making soul‑shaking

Phrases forming words conforming

And then there’s this dragon

Stuck in my tea cup

(Which, by the way, is porcelain

So you know I’m not merely some bohemian)

Picture pick picture 94

Mood mood mood move mood mood mood

Theme in six syllables

Mood Changer 92

Popping poetry

Like it was

Pills

I’m tired of people dying!!!!!!!!!!! 91

What do we have here? ‑‑

Words to remember

People

To remember words?

Pointilism poetry 94

Without the ineluctable

Point

Inging 91

All

Fukka

Up…..uh…upward

A sideways rhyme (not quite absorbed)

Back and forth in time (adsorbed, maybe)

End rhyme on the last word

Not quite absurd (parenthesis for attached entities)

One mind to mind my own business 92

One mind to mind reading this poetry

And then, I have a mind to throw it away

Hard to Make You Count 91

A list of lists

Or a list of live things

Is as hard to count

As a list of dead mementos

So I add a dropped angel wing,

Ripped from her left side

For your violent poetry

Your “Mommy! Mommy!

It’s a mummy!” lines

Your obituary imagery

Your sea‑shore sloth

Preferring poetry penned for lazy tongues

Like aural sex without foreplay for play

Depending, so much, upon who does the reading

And for whom

On chalky lines 94

Of stadium imagery

And contrived crowds

He plays an away game

Of the poetic mind

Life 93

Is a missed

Tree

Weep not for Argentina 91

Angels’ echoes 92

Angels, angels

Flock of seagulls

Descending angels

Down to the depths

Of my crazy, little, manic

Up/down ma, man, manic, maniac, maniacal,

“N”‑”U”‑”T” spells “Nuts”,

Poetic heart.

Apocalyptic Entrails 94

Cryptic conclusions

Tryptic‑folded illusions

Chipped dick delusions

End‑trail conclusions

This poem! 91

It actually sucks ‑‑

But not in (all) the right places

Poetry is not an illegitimate child 92

Over grass meadow, 93

Mirrored birds,

Breathless,

She went

Barefoot to the Buffet

Our protozoa 91

Dance together

Circuitously

Can you smell my anger 91

At having inhaled

The raw, rotten eggs

Of your arhythmic verse?

When advertisements 92

And Hallmark

And the war effort

Take the pretty and heroic poetry (for effect)

Then poetry must be

About something other than (just) flowers

And sunsets

If cut flowers and the sunset

Of life, the inevitable death

Are okay (for adverts, Hallmark and propaganda)

Then poetry must

“Rage, rage against” it.(them)

All these poets trying to be remembered in words 91

All of us, poets,

Trying to be remembered

In words

Rather than words

Remembered

………………..

………..BUT

“I did not kill no cat” 94

Verbal directions 94

Like a director talking

About the scenery and lights

Blueprints in words for (/an invisible canvas in the

minds (of artists who are tired of/ painting by numbers,/

These are not all that poetry is.

Artists to paint in their minds

Are not all that poetry is.

Puce Debussy 94

Cyberspace waves

Pusillanimous tones

The terror of error

New symbols to transpose into

Art/artisan/work translations

And the mother (La MPre) of all C: drives,

Pookie, pecks at her puce computer;

Pucilagenous cellulose keeps time until five

She keeps typing away, drifting in an electron ocean

Into the symphony of a cream‑grey day

All writers are 92

Great

Graded

Grated

rated

But not all

rate

And not all

ate

The celebrity plate

The 92

Blind

Can

Describe

The fan on the IBM XT 93

Winding down after the circuit’s cut ‑‑

That’s an eighties metaphor for death

During a blackout

Boy, oh boy, there’s a dead body, there, 94

And this is a poem about it

TITLE 94

Sometimes

The whole meaning

Is in there

Come share my yearning 94

For… well, not hurricanes nor watermelon

I admit that I am an asshole 92

But I don’t dwell on the thought,

Just write poetry about it

We tear at the scabs 92

Weave word butterfly

Bandages

To seal the wounds

Frigid dark 91

Frigid dark

Future Poet 93

These lines

Are not enough

COLORS AND FLOWERS AND DEATH

AND GOSSAMER

VEILED SEX

EROTICA, BUT NO PORNOGRAPHY

REVERSE DISCRIMINATION

REVERSE HYPOPARISTALSIS

REGULAR OLD LIFE

HEIGHTENED TO THE HEAVENS

OF UNREALITY

BOREDOM AND GRIEF

CHEWED LIKE DELICACIES

IS THIS ALL THERE IS FOR POETRY?

NO MORE SPINE TINGLES?

NO MORE LIFE MADE FRESH?

MEMORIES, MEMORIES

OF OLD IMAGES, IN CREATIVE COMBINATIONS

BUT NOT A NEW VISION

They dump their waste on us 91

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”

Tomorrow, dreams begin 94

Today, dreams begin

Yesterday, dreams began

Yesterday, dreams had been beginning

Day‑before‑yesterday, dreams had begun

The angry poets 91

Who feel and know great injustice

Only to be silenced ‑‑

Are they included in that

“All who love?”

Then, who is not a poet?

Images in the flashing light 91

To avoid what things mean to me.

Is it enough? Is it enough

To let the heart know it means… something?

Isn’t that something like a moon without a sun?

Like an asteroid in a black hole?

Love is a poet unidentified 92

In the right setting ‑‑

Odds 7:5 (demographically)

I am a light among lights 92

A spark screaming, inside brilliance,

Not “and nothing I remember

But the forgotten” ‑‑see how it works?

I would like to say 93

This poetry

“Shimmers like a July rainbow”

But this is not true

Body‑fluid poetry 92

Spurts

Into empty space

Rowing into Summer darkness 94

In only briefs,

He calls himself, “Poet”

I put a flower on the bottom 92

Of these lines so that someone

Will think they might be poetry

Iris

Deer‑Poet 94

Runs forest paths

Scavenging for death

Skull skull skull skull skull 94

I think I’ll call this

River‑Rhythm Poetry

(With analogous oars)

I’m sorry but the words 92

Aren’t inspiring me

So, I will use less of them

Does grammar matter? 91

Does Grandma?

Does new poetry disconnect us,

Looking for obscure connectives?

Writing 92

Lines in car

Auto accident

Tonight, I will not talk 93

About death at all ‑‑

Oops! ‑‑ Already did it.

Don’t juxtapose your words 91

If you don’t want your Cowboy

Doing it the way he did howl

“Up giddy! Up giddy!”

Dream shredder 94

Talking Tolstoy to justify

Common Bovary’s

Stretching Zola stocking‑stalkings

Sometimes, I pass 92

Words

In thick chunks

Singing the greens 94

Because 8 percent of males

Are color‑impaired

Pain, pain 94

What are you telling me?

Now’s the time

To write poetry?

Snow‑blind, 92

I need shadows

To see

Those snakes from 91

Hoop‑snake cartoons

And Indiana Jones

Inspired this poem

Death is not the poet’s 92

Only job.

My favorite poets use it

Like a garnish

Prego, prego 94

Too much salt in the waffles

And I thought the best

Ingredient, the big‑name‑chef‑

Ingredient, was supposed to be love

Orchard Memories 91

Trees growing back

But what does not?

What is this sense of loss

I feel?

What have I forgotten, here?

Waking up with “blue sight” 93

Your blue flowers

And blue sky

Would look

Either black or white

Hey, poet, hey hey 94

Help me make it through

The day

Poet reads the obituaries 93

To think up new ways

To write about death

I need a gas mask for so gassy a poem 92

Legacy of poetry 94

Written now

To describe yesterday’s

Promise for the future

Looking‑at‑a‑painting‑ 92

That‑you‑can’t‑see‑

But‑I‑don’t‑give‑a‑fuck‑

Because‑I‑can‑poetry

The Altar 94

I found the title

And expect you

To do the rest

Of the work of

Knowing what

This poem is

Poet lost 92

In cyberspace ‑‑

Can’t make a game

Of words

With only one winner

My poetry has 94

A footprint fetish

“Hey, Stewy, this is Fred 92

Just thought I’d call to make sure

You knew there’s a crumpled body

Of dead poetry on your front lawn

And it’s starting to stink up the neighborhood”

Poet, But Not For Long 94

I came to the conclusion

That anything human

Is too tainted to touch

Redundant ambiguity 92

He may be a poetry reviewer 92

But is he a reviewer reviewer

Reviewer reviewer reviewer?

Such landscape 91

Such sun

Such an open door

But, where’s the

“Girl in the white wetsuit?”

Cramped smile 92

Is like a

Cramped simile

Black dreams 91

Talent eyes

Taloned eyes

“Got no sight” poetry

Let the poem do something! 91

Paint pretty pictures in my brain 94

And then snap small bones

In the “snowy field of foxtracks”

Dripping blood fluids, all about

Words For A Poet’s Funeral 92

“That elegy really sucked”

BUT, BUT, AT LEAST……..

THE BEAUTY OF SHAKESPEARE

OVERCAME BODY SMELLS, STILL DOES.

TODAY’S POETRY IS SO FRAGILE THAT

IT CAN NOT STAND TO BE PISSED ON.

TODAY’S DELICATE POETRY

DOESN’T DARE EVEN TWEAK

THE NOSES OF UNDERGROUND MONARCHY ‑‑

I REBEL MORE WHEN I STRIP OFF MY CLOTHES

You claim the crack‑dealers 94

As your army

I want mine hooked

On poetry

Death, Disease, Destruction: 91

One would think

Poets could get published

Before them

The black dog of my guilt 92

Eats your white cat

Nah, just kidding

Good poets need not say “fuck” 93

But what the fuck?

If you had any idea of it, 94

You would not invoke

…….. Poetry, so lightly

Sweating and spitting 91

Pages out of you

Your poetry is soggy 93

With the sot‑weed factor

When the poem ends, 92

The world begins

Blood rains and tears rain 91

And coffee rains down drains

And love juice rains

And we dance in the rain

Milking poetry’s shriveled breasts 91

The poem does not know

It’s sucking on a wet‑nurse

While its mother is full,

Ripe, exploding,

But too busy

Wildlife Loving 94

Scamper Camper

I fire the woods

To make sure

The animals

Are not dead

Ram stall 93

Butt out

Bitter scrabble 94

Letters that

Won’t co‑operate

Sky, sky, sky 91

I’m going to do it again. 92

Hope you get fooled this time:

Irises

I am a bit trite 93

As though my worms rain pockets of pages

As though the sun is rising in the feast of potatoes,

like butter

As though the flowers are brooming up bumble‑trees

Desperation Crocuses 92

Planting early

To remind us of life,

Hidden under Winter

(`Cus we can’t seem to remember

There’s life if we don’t see flowers)

If I could paint 94

I wouldn’t waste all my fuckin’ time with poetry

At my poetry readings 91

I do a table dance to pronounce

The beauty of the line

Of my legs and hips

To accentuate the body of my work,

Because men (and most women) will listen to nipples

Stuck out in the middle of a tee‑shirt line

And little lines of poetiferousness, too 91

Forever frozen in mid‑sentence 94

Kick‑boxing karate angels

I will tell you that I really ‑‑…..

Earth 94

Earth

Poet slips in

A spirit

The poem without words 94

Said

Everything I was going to say

SOUNDS OF POETRY (91)

The magic snowflake of art 91

Melts when the drummer

Stops sweeping his jazz‑brushes

Across the roof

Poetry Calm 94

Moon‑willow words lain out over the shadowy swan,

Perfect pitches of serenity

To avoid ‑‑ ANY

Fuckin asshole coming in and upsetting the fuckin balance

Allright?!

…….Okay,

Swan fluffs its wings into midnight silence

Look! See how skillful

The birds are at flying, man?

Wow!

Hey, duck, 93

Duck!

When is poetry ever like this ‑‑ 94

As zaz?

Oh me, oh my 94

Oh, why isn’t life

And awful as it is in books

Of poetry?

I’ll describe a scene 93

To trigger visions

So that you’ll listen,

Like the puppy licking my chocolate breasts,

Throw in as a statement.

Live free or die.

Beach in Soggy Sand at Low Tide 92

When I want you to focus on that solitary footprint

I have to compromise and stain it with mint

Animal Secrets 91

Bitch, Ass, Maggot

That man with blond hair 92

Bought a sport’s car

With my money and ran,

Was riding in the rain

Cruising along, under

A railroad crossing.

In the glare of night

He didn’t see quite right

Didn’t notice the underpass

Was overfilled

With three feet of water

I guess that taught him,

Maybe even taught her.

The car came bubbling

To its eternal rest.

She hit her head.

(I liked that best)

Now, you see?

That was poetry.

Spiritual quest 91

For punctuation to

Untie unintended

Ambiguity

You read these lines, nothing. 94

Man, 92

This ain’t right, man.

I don’t want no fuckin’

Hang gliders

Scaring my fuckin’ birds

Staple this to your brain: 93

You can call the cat with poetry

When I see the pear, 91

Passed over the counter,

I see…..

Ah, shit, I can’t lie ‑‑

I see a pear passed over the counter

I need an image, a new image 93

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

Shrimp ‑‑

Oh! ….

Uh, nevermind.

Maybe all I needed was lunch

Moron of many big words 91

Once there was no imagery worth naming, 92

We had to resort to video

Sea‑Sick Fishing Chum 94

Fishing for poetry,

He vomits imagery,

Bait

Occurred to me that poetry is not 94

In the tone of the voice, song it may be

But just the fact that lines are measured

Without conveyance of feeling, thought,

Philosophy even, as long as it’s strong

In what it conveys and meticulous

About word choice. I think it must

Have a certain mystery about it,

How simple words can shine so

Puke, puke, puke 92

You don’t have to puke

Up poetry

Hey, ice‑hole 93

That’s some bitchin’ lichen

Ooooops! I must end up

Liking lichen

Hey, don’t sing bird songs to a cat like me 94

You 94

Really mean nothing to me

I’d rather have a revolver

Than your face‑down, flat poetry

Iguana on a pile of planks 94

Oops!

No,

It’s just a shadow

It is easier to pen silver lines 92

When you’re born with a spoon in your mouth

When the blackberry moon rises 94

When the grapefruit moon rises

When the aspirin moon rises

When the crescent moon rises

When the dixie‑cup moon rises

When the donut moon rises

When the pastry moon rises

The pepsi moon

The blood‑shot moon

The bean‑dip moon

The umlaut moon

The incandescent moon

The silk‑stockinged moon

The sugar‑cane moon

When the mayonnaise moon rises

When the star‑kissed moon

The bumble‑bee moon

The tunafish moon

The albacore moon

The dolphin moon

The blowfish moon

The whaler’s moon

When the worn‑out moon

When the pizza moon

When the pock‑marked moon

The chocolate moon

The cold‑coffee 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.

She’s a poor girl, but rich inspiration 92

For my, sometimes, slumming poetry

I really don’t need to read the poem ‑‑ 94

Fuck, I saw the movie

I write these lines to tell 94

You I had a bad year,

Feel like a paint‑by‑number

Cardboard clown

With the colors mixed up

Made me simile 92

Made me smile

Made me like simile

Made me smile like simile

Made me like smiling like simile

Made simile like a smile

Bud trees the oh! 92

Tragicly pretty 91

Cyan starburst

Burning out before

It reaches 7 billion

GET OFF IT!!

A pink gesture 92

A purple gallop

An orange indigestion

A green rope

A magenta avalanche

A puce torrent

A sepia sorrow

Fucia forensics

A violet wrong

The Mountains See It Before We Do 92

But we keep the day

And feed it celery.

Colors, 91

Fruit

And what they do

(mostly during the week‑end

and on vacation)

Trying to expose the unique 94

And the __(fill_in_your_choice_here)__

In the ordinary

We make the __(repeat_choice)____

More mundane than it ever was on its own

Almost Nothing Is Not Necessarily More 92

Than Nothing

I say I take

Less than I give

And I type faster

Than I write poetry

Interlocking Illusions of Imagery 93

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.

You know how to waste lines of verse 91

And the trash can colludes

“When Insanity Comes Knocking, 91

Throw Away the Door” by D.C. Berry

Was Such a Good Title, I Decided

To Use It In My Title Too

Doesn’t much matter

What comes after

A title like that

Shut (those damn noisy 94

Birds) Up!

These Tears 94

I won’t be happy

Until the whole world,

Maggot to magistrate,

Plant, vegetable, fish, animal,

All hear me crying these tears

We publish bad poets from 92

All around the world

Creating the monsters of a bad trip, 94

Goofing, they used to call it,

Scaring up images of animals

To inject into our dreams

Scarey scarey animal kingdom

Scary dark Africa ‑‑

You make me wonder

If you aren’t a hunter

Or a land developer

Or a concrete contractor

Or a politician

Poetry Deadlines 91

I have this way of talking

When I’m behind schedule.

I talk about poetry

Because the lines are too prosey

Then I throw in a description

To try to fool the reader

We’ve given up writing poetry 94

It’s all these bills and debts everywhere

All the romance of knights and princesses

Is squashed under a rotting roof, falling

From termites and tradition

Sometimes my pen is full of ink 94

Sometimes it spurts forth words

Sometimes it gets stuck and won’t roll around

And even licking its tip won’t get it going

Cents 91

Sense

One doesn’t make the other

In the poetry biz

I shoved a dildo into your throat 94

To show you what it’s like

To have to mouth your bad poetry

Wrap my lips around

Your twisted psyche

Lick your tortured syllables

Gag on your thrusts and parries of the truth

Kneel before your delicate(ly barren) sensibilities

Smile when you claim

That what it really means is

“I love you, only you.”

TICKLED BY THUNDER (94)

She put an elephant in his coffee 94

Donuts on the side

Called it “mad‑lib” poetry

And left by the window

Brace yourself! 92

Here’s an image ‑‑

My cousin’s braces.

Hee‑hee

Joy 94

Is a time‑release capsule

And grief is a bad cold

No! Wait!

Grief is a time‑release capsule

And joy is a bad cold

TIMBERLINES

CARVED IN TREES

Sweet tree lines 94

(Awash) In fall colors

So to hear the sound of “timber”

ABOVE

Imagery‑scrambled eyes 94

Blanched by clouds

In the shadow of mountains

Gravity is skewed

But is not so much mystery

As is the meaning of “crickets”

You love these lines of poetry, 93

No matter what you know

Zoos and “Zoot alors” 94

Exist, essentially,

As treasures.

Zoo‑keepers

With love

And poets

Build

A natural habitat

For astonishment

Shall I put a moral 92

Or should I, rather, get a job

And make some profit from my time?

Beware of 1st and Main! 94

That’s where I saw a vision

Which inspired another poem (not this one)

After Occupying Hollywood 92

Washerwomen

Mothers, Wives

And whores

Populated poetry

Nah, 94

That never again was shut

And turned his lover,

Poetry,

Into an aging slut

Tramp tree 92

Pulls up its roots

And leaves

Poetry Titles 94

“1989, A Pivot Year”

“1990, A Pivot Year”

“1992, A Pivot Year”

“1993, A Pivot Year”

“1994, A Pivot Year”

Interplanetary Geophysicist Poetry 94

Plural/ singular

Agreement

Mars the reading

Of lines about mines

And yourses

12‑Step Addiction Addiction 92

Poetry is not a drug

If anything is not a

Drug like the little pills

In the brain of prayer

In toto, illiterate, I 91

Envision

Myself endowed

With romance

Languages

but

Well,

That’s no excuse

To “Jclabousse”

The “pamplemousse”

Is it?

Sickness shows up 92

In those Dr. Kildare, Ben Casey poets’ lines

Because they can’t face death and censor sex

And lost their “Birds of North America Guidebook”

And lent flower catalogues to a real gardener

And gave Bullfinch’s Mythology to Grandma

And all they have left for reference

(Since they mostly avoid boisterous life)

Is that yellowed Gray’s Anatomy from when

They thought they might study “Pre‑Med”,

Until they realized that physician’s assistants

Were going to be having all the fun and profit

Was going to be reserved.

Flight Path: A Villanelle 92

Ah, Well, What the Hell?

Flight Path: Free Verse

Dark light

Images images

Moon vector

Cloud blur

Rim‑jets

(With little rust‑trails

In suggested spirals)

Dark light

I still can’t seem to get it

Right

On the road to neither a prairie nor a prayery poem 92

TWISTED

I’m twisted from a color‑spot game 92

Of trying to touch tits with the reverence

Of the word “breasts” and Twister that I am,

I smell mostly plastic

You think the spilling of blood 94

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

From

Mortality

Tompoet 91

Sentient ‑‑ A nice word

Most of the time, my lover is a “guy”

And still is sentient

Maybe I’m the one who sounds male,

In comparison, but

I had a poet big brother

I used to play poetry

With the boys in the schoolyard

Frag‑Pixle‑Monster‑Stretched Skulls 92

In The Highlights

I see,

Through the painted eye,

I see

Tainted by proposals, I 94

Don’t dare approach beauty

With psychology.

Overly impressed

By a good body

I can’t find a model

For my poetry.

I saw a heron 92

Spread its wings

Over the entire horizon

But now loons are in vogue

Spreading wings across the cover

In the very latest fashions

Cry For Me, Argent Tina 91

The seance sucked, tonight

And I missed a mystical flight.

Now all I can do is write

About how my life is so trite

A muck‑raking ox 91

In an Oz of ours

Ran amuck, broke his chain

And trampled the flowers

(And took a big chunk

Out

Of the freedom of the press)

Mortified But Not Fried 92

…. And “she” will be

Ever mortalized

In the dying lines

Of my “she” poetry

He lived with 92

A purple tie

In the closet,

That the moths

Fell in love with

Immediately

So, I’ll just sit in my skinny office, 91

Remembering Moses and Donald and all

Insert my stubby fingers into children’s brains

And sniff the juices while I watch their pain

Then I’ll take the whole thing

Back to Moses again.

Cicada cicada 91

What ‘s your favorite flavor?

VISION SEEKERS

Psychic turn‑down 92

Psychic turns‑down

(Psychic turn‑downs )

Psychic turns down

A two‑way street

A westward highway

With lost hyphens

Under a highway

With lots of hyphens.

VIVO (94)

Durable river on dramamine 94

Luminous air polluted by pollination of words

Where “Death is Granite

With an underwater iris

I can’t bring myself to comment ‑‑ Vivo!

Face in hand………….. 91

I’m an old fart

Publish me!

Here I am in a seashore scene 94

Riding the waves of words

Seeking the shadowy shoreline

Never forget…… 92

Shit!

_{….. I forgot what.}

ALWAYS LEAVE THEM BEGGING

FOR YOU TO STOP

GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO TAKE HOME

TO DIGEST

SOME STICK‑TO‑THE‑BONES POETRY

Stopped! 94

_{Color‑blinded}

What does cobalt‑blue look like?

WEST BLUESTONE (93)

Watching the words 93

I am aware

That the line

Between

_Wisdom

And

Folly

Is also the line between

Folly

And

Wisdom

But not just those

It is also the line between

Love

And

Hate

_Good

And

Evil

Time

And

Circumstance

Guilt

And

Innocence

Winning

And

Losing

WEST ANGLIA (94)

R,_W,_&_B 91

My words

Are blue

Varicose veins

Of patriotic

Coloration

Caucasian

With high high

Blood pressure

It’s August in Atlanta 94

It’s Spring in Siam

It’s May in Madrid

It’s Easter in Rome

It’s October in Malasia

It’s Christmas in Somalia

It’s January in Jamaica

It’s March in Moracco

It’s April in Formosa

It’s September in Boca Raton

It’s Winter in Brazil

It’s Autumn in Bosnia

It’s November in Vietnam

It’s February in the Big Apple

It’s June in that jazz bar on Bleeker

It’s Summer at Fenway

It’s December in Anchorage

It’s Chanuka in the Ukraine

It’s July in Greece

(It’s always the season for love)

It’s October( the) 18th at 2:03 AM (2:30)

On the lot where Nissan

Sales are killing

Oldsmobile ( I’m alone, sometimes frightened,

The watchperson here. I work for Bulldyke Security

And I’m underpaid

And alone

And underworked

And alone

And my baby never came

And there’s no toilet.

Working Outlaw Words 94

Like you or I would write poetry

if we only knew how

Disgust 93

Courses through me

Building pressure

And the only escape

I have is the written turd

A Night With Absolutely Nothing Special About It 91

I sit down to write “special” poetry

Stinging Expansion 92

Don’t try to insert your dry

Wit

Into the arrid desert

Of my vestal verse

Your words are 93

“Merely bulk”

For your style

A Fear of Displacement 93

I misplaced it

Poems are acts of acts 92

So fax me

Axe simile

So I can cut down

Your poet

Tree

WHITE (94)

WITH

WHITE ROSE (91)

WHITE SANDS (94)

Yeah, “A world 94

Only we can build”

AGAINST

WHITE WALL, TIRED,

My pen is not a speedboat 94

Trim leg with blond highlights 93

Long thigh, just out of the covers

Leg draped over the side of a bed

Disembodied

Attached to a “she”

That I will never see

BLACK

AND

WHITE, CROW ABOUT A CIRCLE OF REFLECTIONS (94)

The poem neighed in the saddle of lines 94

Ellipsis was the horse’s name

Cantering over a field

Of barley in the wind….

No,

Maybe it was a field of rye

Horror is conservative 94

Gothic churches

Dripped blood for the party

Line

Cheap nature pictures 91

Without film

October juniper, fleshed civil, 92

Fused to the present

In shrill fidelities,

Deciduous divisions

Wreathe the woodbine.

Cool chatter remembers

Merciless intervals

Separate growth,

Into itself.

Described as poetry 94

In black veils before dancing

Lesbians in a banana

(bandana?)

Dusty, Gated,

Donkey,

shuttered wave,

Dog and children

Land

on the runway

of foreign inflections ?

3 lines forsaken 94

For the “good idea”

Of the following 6 lines

(Which I won’t include here)

Grey sky floats by

Some days are blankets

Don’t tell me ‑‑‑ you’re gifted! 94

So,

Don’t tell me that the bloodstain covered your heart ‑‑ yuck,

The bile made you smile,

The urine puckered your pussy,

The mucus made you remember,

The sperm made you cut yourself.

Don’t you tell me that, if you’re gifted.

A Sighting, A Gift 93

Gulls lifting land crabs to sky

All at once

Dropping them

My passion is warm like the color 92

Don’t give us any more time 91

To excuse our self‑imposed blindness

That’s why images are poetry

We don’t see for ourselves

Discolored Discovery Discourse 93

My gosh!

There’s life outside of our fireplace!

Finding it almost extinct 91

We get worried and begin mating procedures

To save leprosy in our microscope zoo

Clearer Than 94

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 93

Everything is

Cool, smells of wholes,

Concrete blisters,

Ice to fill them

Soon.

(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)

Even the toilet’s scrubbed and foreign.

Someone made the water blue

Domino effect with falling towels

In Lightning colors of hauberked nakedness

Like stiff cotten

And there were flying mistresses of fur‑balls

Against the wall by the spiget

Rainier Marie 92

Still wrong, Marie‑Carol 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 storm‑cat? 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.

This is you, you weak little bimbette octopussy, 94

This poem you didn’t write ‑‑

“Touch me and I’ll be bad

I’ll be bad and touch me

But don’t send me any

Fuckin’ haiku!”

Somehow the word heron 91

Poets the sentence

is it heron

Sounds or awkward beauty

They see as the symbol of the image (mage)?

Scrubbing the dirty bottom 92

Of the two‑headed baby

You bore and called Poetry

Already stinging it sightless with soap

Putting screams in its burbling mouths

Considering murder vicariously

You say they say “Stop, you’re killing me!”

In and out 92

Of an

Iron curtain mood

Prop

Propaganda

Translations

Of bad translations

Where the setting

And the character names are all

That are left to play

Violence is easy 94

So you use it

Because you’re lazy

Fuck me with

Metal head steel tips

Tear the throat of

The entire fucking

WORLD

You call yourself

“Amused”

There once was a man who said nothing

And he was not there

As a shadow

But painted dots

Where his shadow should have been

Wordlife 94

De‑

Fined

Con‑

Notated

Culturally

Accented

Numbered

Hierarchy

Changed by

Usage

Copy‑

Righted

mixed metaphors can be excused 91

in the jumble of picture painting

Clarity turns to water‑color mud

And that’s the purpose

To hide the fact that

The poet really wants to expose

His beastiality

How he likes to be licked

By the family doberman

Likes the tooth danger

Mistakes avid attention

For salt‑lick love

All dogs are bi‑sexual

You saw bearded Blake 92

In airborne paradise pedantry

I saw a vision of Dryden

No, He wasn’t hibernating

He just didn’t want to be forced

To smell the unwaxed fur

Of soggy bears

WRITE NOW (92)

LATER

If you write a book a week 92

Isn’t it a book about

A week’s life?

Should I spend a week reading it?

Lamentation: Limerick Lamentation 94

A writer who courts lamentation

With grief as the seed of gestation

If pumping the pud

Of a world full of crud

And fucking all cause for elation

Let your tongue 92

Swim through the sunken portholes

Of my clichJs, my hack‑knees,

My dog growls,

My dog ma is the bitch

That torpedoed the best of my days

Worshipping ducks 94

The goose

Making decoy art

The Comparison

To quackery and life

Mallard makes green you bow? 94

What would a loon make brown you do?

I lose 93

Letters

Along

Way

B t

Ok .

Pyromaniac Poetry

Never realized

How brightly

Your lines would shine

Until

I heard them crackle

And saw them

Ablaze

In my midnight

Campfire

Putting scientific fad and new 94

But old new discovery

Into words they call poetry

The Greatest Piece 91

Is me ‑‑

See?

(tempered with

humility)

Of course

Beauty heaped upon beauty 91

Pinkly profligate

Mulch pile with carrot peels, broccoli and beets

Hooves Speed Tail 92

In streaming thunder

Turf of scuffed hair

Chestnut thudding black

Girl’s brushed like

A young race horse

Here I Sit, All Broken‑Hearted 93

The editor

Wants

Only

“Garde”

“Apres‑Garde”

Poetry

In a sort

Right

Guard

Anti‑

Perspirent

Mode

Theme 93

t(tee)‑he

hem

He me

Them

The me

Theme

Today 93

Is a ‑‑blank‑‑ day

Blank blank blank

Blank blank

OBEY! 94

Nibbles that tremble

OBEY!

Friends and loved ones

OBEY!

Toast me

Tea me

Cup me in your calloused heart‑strings

In C# Minor

Brazen temple 91

Garden twin

Flame‑flesh sky chalice

Golden, silver, emerald

Turquoise, indigo

Violet ruby blood umbar

(Of the moon, of the sea

Of the Earth sun)

Sex, Followed By Commas and A List 94

Sex, falling and darning

Sex, direction and understanding

Sex, meditation and jogging

Sex, pets and the naming of things

Sex, slouches and shrivels

Sex, bone‑touching and X, Y without a “Z”

To see the sea

Green World! 94

Floral revolution

Under the floral leadership

Of ruling vegetables

Stamen (sta y men?) and pistol stuff

Gun‑toting‑poets

Who don’t leave their wives

Make humans stupid and weak enough 93

And they’ll not fight for love,

Nor land, nor freedom, nor food,

Nor comfort, nor ideals, nor self,

Nor soul

After Any Particular Thing 92

Future family tree

Fucking without aim

Or aiming

Toward a future with ‑‑

‑‑ Oh, my Gosh! Imagine that!

‑‑ A future with things I never

Thought about imagining!

On other worlds, to boot!

Constructivist constructivitis 94

Waking blood

Bound clocks and crocks

Pulley‑ups , bed clothes on sun

Line, birds , mocking house cage

River of blood

In an old bed

Remembering your midnight body

Under glasses that

Shade our talents

Shed your didacticism

If you have to hide it

Propagate 94

Late

Realization

Of helplessness

When I remind

Water pump pumpers

That it was always

Water you kept

To prime the dry walls

Creating a vacuum

Water you kept inside

That made water flow

Dry tunnels?

What’s next?

Images “in your face”

To be licked and sucked

By a universal mouth?

Prime the pump

Oh! Injury! 91

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!

Heroin poets on the roof 91

Describing what’s around them

Because they can not move.

It’s a big world of art, now 93

Commemorate your ass off!