Thursday, July 23, 2015


I had a coupon
for some Grey Poupon
but the wind snatched it
and whisked it away
now I spend my day
stopping strangers
and passersby

They just shake their heads
and walk away
but one day
they will understand
that what they just saw
was the piteous onset
of the final straw

Tuesday, July 7, 2015



Let me put it to you this way
(or maybe put it to you that other way)
if you send a donation
I will send you back
a picture of a
dirty looking child
I cut out of a magazine
to give you a
warm and fuzzy feeling
while my hand is groping around
inside your pocket

(And she's slipping
and sliding
lend her a hand
cuz she's slipping back 
into burger land)


I don't swat flies
I give them names
I'll admit it's sometimes
difficult to tell them
apart, but you look
for little distinguishing
things, birthmarks and such.
Oh, and in turn for sharing
my cozy pad with them
they reciprocate by
eating the dead skin off
my face and body.
That's why my skin is
baby bottom smooth
that and the dish washing liquid
I use, of course.
I regret that I could never
have the same kind of
symbiotic relationship
with another person.
I tried. I offered piggyback
rides, but my passengers
usually balked when they
found out that time and time again
the destination was my bedroom.

(Somebody lend her a hand
someone lend her a helping hand
cuz she's slipping back
yeah she's sliding back
into burger land)


Such a wasted effort
you ringing my doorbell
and I don't feel guilty when
I don't answer cuz sometimes I do
and I am polite 
and I even accept your literature
and look at it some just to see
if you might have changed your tune....


and I don't feel sorry for ignoring you this time
cuz I know you have a quota
of houses you must visit
with documentation and all
to maintain your good standing
so it's not like it's necessarily
coming from the heart
like the cops at the end of the month
working to fulfill their quota
so I see them chasing down cars
who went two miles over the speed limit
like frogs waiting in ambush for flies
you'll be a little lighter in the wallet
cuz that's the game
buckle up and buckle under
or pay thru the nose

(And she's headed down
that slippery slope
sliding back
into burger land
back into the kingdom of 
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
and in the morning
I'll awaken her
with a cattle prod)

Tuesday, June 23, 2015


It was getting harder to detect my image
in the mirror 
as anything recognizably human.
I wasn't disappearing, 
It had been years since the last attack.
Making matters worse, 
I came back here to write this--
and forced him to drive 
to whereabouts unknown.

Do you remember the car wreck scene?
I went kind of nuts
and took a baseball bat
to every mailbox on that road.

I still do not have a clue as to what my mission is.

But it was a good thing
I wore what I did.
He thinks I'm the bad guy. 
But I am merely part of the process.

To wit: 
We were sitting around one evening after tea
cutting the air with farts and exotic bird calls
when suddenly it hit me
that each of us is going to get his nut
in his own way
no matter should aunt Gertie disapprove--
right, my little droogies?  

The next day I waylaid myself over the head 
with a hammer.
How do you think it happened?
I spend a lot of time online...
do the math, dipshit.

One of the nurses banged
on the door. 
They ran about a million tests. 
You don't want to know. 
And then, people started falling,
And then...nothing.

You're fine. 
Drink some water.
I transported myself back to that summer.
I'd stood against the back, 
right by the exit.
I'm putting an end to this, I said.
I smelled the smoke. 
I thought it was romantic
in a demented sort of way.

You know how The Game is played. 
Catch me if you can... 
but be advised
I've still got that hammer, man. 

Tuesday, June 16, 2015


Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

They said that poetry was dead
because most of its superstars
were similarly indisposed.
But they never figured on you
and they never figured on me
to breathe some life back
into that exquisite corpse.
So fix me a salad, Caesar,
for I come to praise poetry--
not to bury it.

Poetry works for the way we live today.
It's bite-sized and makes for
a handy snack, when even the
Cliff Notes version of War and Peace
is bound to give us indigestion.

Prose stands on the corner
and waits for the bus.
Poetry glides by in a pink Cadillac convertible.
Prose beats around the bush
for chapter upon endless chapter.
Poetry says get to the point, SUCKAH,
I haven't got all day!
(If you hold your breath waiting
for the epiphany in prose,
you WILL turn purple.)

A poem has weight--
either heavy or light--
and a poem has depth,
having welled up from somewhere
deep inside you.
You can tell by the way
a poem sits upon the page
whether it's something you
want to sit with.

Poetry is highly individualistic--
no two snowflakes, and no two poems
about snowflakes are exactly alike.
Failed poetry, at the very least,
assists in perfecting one's
trash basket set shot.

Here is a sure-fire formula
for making a poem...
On a sheet of white paper
place several black dots
at random and varying
lengths from one another.

The dots are now your periods.

Connect the dots with words
and you have a poem.

Many of the world's most treasured
works were created in just this manner!

It is incumbent upon the poet
to tell the truth--even when
his truth never really happened--
and even bad poetry is good
when compared with a political speech.

As Gregory Corso said,
"Poetry is the opposite of hypocrisy."

And that's the truth.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Wednesday, May 6, 2015


While strolling about the county fair
that fading American tradition
more reminiscent of bygone days when
folks still believed the games weren't rigged
and the outcome not a foregone conclusion
the wafting odors from myriad booths
hawking fast and greasy food,
the blaring of a country song that goes
"Jack Daniels kicked my ass last night"
the undulating belly dancers onstage
 being viewed by scattered patrons
resting weary legs on foldout metal chairs,
I spotted a sign that read
FIND OUT FREE (by answering two brief quiz questions)
and I stood there slack-jawed gazing at
a line of people who were willing to bite on it,
and then moved on, figuring smugly
I knew pretty much what that was going to be about,
but then got to thinking
if all the poets and philosophers
down through the ages
who had ruminated on that very question
could be here now...I mean, who knew
that two crusty-lookin' dudes in cowboy hats
in a booth at the county fair would hold the key--
the definitive answer for every soul
in attendance on a personal basis...
(The Lord works in mysterious ways)
it boggles the mind,
it truly does,
and stupid me,
I walked away without finding out.

Monday, May 4, 2015


By now you have discovered
much to your chagrin
that there are no virgins--
only Joan Rivers 
(far from what you had imagined)
and you are trapped with her
inside this little room
where she is telling you
every rude and biting one-liner
she ever came up with
on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on 
throughout eternity
if need be 
until one day
a light will switch on
inside your head
and you will grin from ear to ear
at long long long long long long long long long long long long 
as you are finally beginning to grasp
The Cosmic Joke

Tuesday, April 28, 2015


  1. Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

meaningful social change
has always been accompanied
by great upheaval
and unrest


polite entreaty
doesn't seem to effectively
 gain the attention of those
 entrenched in the
 arrogance of power


from Bunker Hill
to Selma
to Kent State
to Watts
to Ferguson
to Baltimore
the pattern has always been the same


when voices
(the voice of the people)
fall upon deaf ears
the decibel level must be increased
to a level that may cause sharp pain
in the eardrum
to a level that will make them turn
and glare at you
like an angry parent
and say at long last