Friday, April 4, 2014


Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

A birthday boy's tendency
is to replay everything
against the purples
and pistachios of spring

The little white lies
from another time

But the past is receding
like the ass-end of a train
from which you've just disembarked
ancient phrases
inside another eternity
and of no import now
the greater truths ignored
for sake of our little tete a tetes

Today I ponder the world's disasters
the worst of which is adding another digit
to that chronological catastrophe
I fondly refer to as me

Everyone gets  a raw deal
and still the clouds roll by 

Coming all this way
drifting across the cosmos
with these inconvenient truths 
on these afternoons without angels
and still we stand
in anticipation of one extraordinary love

Having experienced the moon
in a myriad of exotic positions
I unmask poems
of barking cats
and rats
and elephants
and stand revealed 
to lonesome applause

Waiting for Santa Claus
I blaspheme and bubble
in the center of all infinity
as I bend to softly kiss you
and the world becomes 
my oyster
and you're my clam

Let's go to Amsterdam

Tuesday, March 4, 2014


On a sun-splashed day
in a desert 
where The Horse With No Name
made his claim to fame

With spring making overtures

like a punch-drunk lover

I saw her

in my mind's eye
I heard her
in my mind's ear
I contemplated her
in my mind's belly button

Behold The Sun Goddess

electric rays sparking 
from the tips of her golden hair
she's been there
and back
on a beach with some name
And all because sunshine came
softly through her window that day

Swaying to the beat
of a heavy metal drummer
her gaze is locked on summer

A painted man
walks down the street
blowing bubbles from his butt

How does he do that?

The world is a wondrous
and magical place to be...

The answer blowing
in the tail winds
that are bringing her to me 

Tuesday, February 18, 2014


d'Verse Poets Pub

When I wear a baseball cap,
I'm not wearing it seriously--
like someone who wears a baseball cap.

When I wear a cowboy hat,
I'm not wearing it seriously--
like someone who wears a cowboy hat

I'm masquerading as you
for a little while
while I'm in the neighborhood.

I can talk the talk
and walk the walk
if I want to. 

how a hat
can change everything.

In the 30s and 40s
everyone wore them
and it told you nothing.
A sea of conformity
hiding the deformity
that was your head. 

for those who do
it's like slapping a bumper sticker
across your forehead
displaying to the world
what you're made of.
I can see what's in your heart
by what's on your head--
and I can pinpoint it all
from the kind of wheels you drive
to the radio station you listen to.

I can even tell 
if you're The Queen.

But tipping my hand, well
that's not my style...

I'd rather you not see me comin'
(like a stealth bomber)
and just keep all of that
under my hat. 

Monday, February 10, 2014

MY FUNKY VALENTINE (with apologies to Rodgers & Hart!)

My funky valentine
Reading the comics valentine
Oh, where oh where do I start?

Your looks are laughable
Yet, I'm so affable
I'm just gonna call you abstract art

Oh, your figure's less than chic
And your nose looks like a beak
When you speak
You're speaking Greek
To me-eee

You don't comb your hair for me
There's a pubic hair in my tea
What does it matter to me?

Each day is Valentine's Day

Of your figure I can't speak
A less than noteworthy physique
And there's an odor from your feet
That sets you apar-arrrt.

But don't wash your hair for me
Or change your underwear for me
Stay funky, valentine, stay...

Each day is Valentine's--
unless it's Groundhog,
President's, Saint Patrick's,
April Fool's, Mother's,
Father's, Columbus, or Labor...

Tuesday, February 4, 2014


Woman with thighs
the size
of tree trunks
slicing up big chunks
of ice

Gliding light as a feather

But who will prize
those thunder thighs
when it's bikini weather?

Thursday, January 23, 2014


If I didn't have to pee
I might not get up in the morning
said if I never had to pee
I might just forgo the day
you can take those dancin' slippers
and just throw them away
yeah toss them away

All the boyz told me

that you were so nice
lordy all the boyz told me
that you were so nice
didn't know you were a working girl
and that everything has its price
gonna pay the price

If you live in New York City
you dunno how to sing the blues
said if you live in New York City
ya dunno how to sing the blues
till you meet some chippie from Chicago
who's gonna give you the news
yeah she'll give you the news

Everybody out there

you know they're right on the edge
I said everybody out there
is ridin' right on the edge
and they'll hit you with a hammer
the one that's called a sledge

dah diddly doo
dah diddly day
dah diddly dun da dun da dun dun
da diddly hey
wah wah wah wah wah wah
wha wah wah wah woo
wang wang wang wang wang wang
da diddly diddly OOH

Who's that dude in the mirror

the one I heard somebody call "Pops"
if he don't get outta my house
I'm gonna have to call the cops

Now if I didn't have to pee
I might not get up in the morning
If I never had to pee
might just forgo the day
you can bring me my coffee
and a side of creme brulee

If you live in New York City

you dunno how to sing the blues
if you live in New York City
dunno how to sing the blues
till you meet some chippie from Chicago
who's gonna give you the news
she gave Huey Lewis the news

da diddly doo

da diddly day
da diddly dun dun dun dun dun 
da diddly hey....

Wednesday, January 15, 2014


Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads--d'Verse Poets Pub

Don't want to be no baby again

Don't want to be a cranky little
poop factory
lettin' poor ol' mom & dad
hear about it at all times
of the day and night
what a healthy set of lungs!

Keepin' the diaper makers
rollin' in dough while I'm
rollin' in my own...

don't want to think about it 
I will have none of this
do you hear me?

quit scrubbin' my little thingy
all the time
ain't  a person got any privacy
in this joint? 

Then later in my high chair
picking up my bowl of oatmeal
and dumping it over my head

And going back to school
not SCHOOL again
I already know how to read and write
damn you
just can't seem to remember how that works now
but can't you see I'm a poet
by that wild and desperate look in my eye?
just give me the benefit of the doubt

get those math problems away from me!

I can put two and two
and I know what you're up to
gonna make me a productive
member of society
observing all the rules
 fitting in 
and going with the flow
just to be like all the rest
who don't want to know

don't want to be no baby
but the wheel turns 
round and round
so probably gonna be
probably gonna be


Monday, December 30, 2013


Holidays are the enemy--they mark the passing of the years. 
This time you've defied the bastards
by sleeping straight through midnight on New Years Eve.

The runaway train of time keeps gaining speed--
summer fall winter spring
seasons never pausing
only waving like excited tourists passing through.

Most of the time, sleep comes grudgingly.
You lie in bed and think about old lovers,
inspecting the shards of shattered dreams.
One in particular keeps coming back.
A dusky young girl who said: I don't want to sleep with you
because I'm afraid I will fall in love with you. 
Ever the reassuring one, you replied: No you won't.

After falter, before correction
is the moment of truth
when a man must admit
that he's turned his life to shit
before setting about the business
of rising from the mire.

While driving to work you pass a service station
where a man in camouflage fatigues
wields the gas pump nozzle
as if it were a weapon.
Or a phallus. 
The car in front of you sports a bumper sticker
that says: Never deprive someone of hope--
it may be the only thing they have left.

After falter...before correction. 
The man who seeks to make connection
discovers that the days of infinite possibility are gone--
but only because a world turned deaf and blind has deemed it so.
The ego, in its fatal attraction to the body, must always lose. 

The poet with too much time to think
teeters on the brink
of disaster.

Sleep comes reluctantly,
but sometimes,
in that kaleidoscopic moment between
consciousness and dream
an apparition in white appears. 
A lovely vision
in her gossamer gown
through which the mounds 
of her breasts are clearly visible.

She reveals  herself as Aphrodite, no less
(who sometimes intervenes on behalf of mere mortals)
and her first appearance ends abruptly
when you find yourself oafishly
reaching for those twin globes.
(Not the first woman you've known
to retreat under like circumstances.)

But she returns the following eve
and on your best behavior
you listen intently to all she has to say--
resolving to pass it along
to anyone who will listen.

She says that every day is a clean slate,
waiting for the touch of the master.
And if you've ever doubted that
you create the world
lie in any meadow and check out the sky.
The elephant in the clouds does not exist without you.

Let your mind become the wind
and it will carry you as far as you want to go. 
And if you don't look at everyone you meet and see yourself,
then you've got a cheapass mirror
you bought at Woolworth's on the day
they turned the freedom riders away,

Laugh like a madman.
You are, you know.

Ask forgiveness like someone who has hurt
everyone he ever loved.
You are, you know.

Fight like that hero
who will stand for what's right.
You are, you know.

Dance the dance of a lover
who is drunk with dreams.
You are, you know. 

Pray that you may have one more day
and possess the clarity of mind to use it well.

Understand that living doesn't happen to you
but that you ARE the living.

Trust in the innate goodness of the universe
for if life is indeed a joke
then we will all share it someday
just as we are doing it now
with our poker faces--
too practiced in the art to let on.

The flame of youthful desire burns undiminished,
even as the seasons grow cold.

The child never dies...
he lives inside the heart of the 90 year-old
just as surely as darkness affirms the sunrise.

As certain as winter implies spring. 

Thursday, November 28, 2013


Why do da player always 
point his finger to da sky
when he make a touchdown
an' never when he make a fumble?

Cuz it all come from da same Source
it all come from Da Man
an' he give you da fumble
to keep you humble
an' make you a better person

So next time you fumble
point dat finger to da sky
an' don't ask why

An' all dem crazy people
on da sidelines
let 'em boo
cuz you got a special finger
reserved for dem too!

Friday, November 22, 2013


November 22nd
a grey and drizzly day in Tucson
befitting the mood of the land
as I watched the somber tributes
to the fallen leader on CNN
fifty years goes by in a heartbeat

And Jackie, on automatic pilot,
in shock--she flew in the rear
of Air Force One next to his casket--

And watching her in her pink coat that day
for some reason made me think of 
that nude poster of her 
I first saw back in the seventies
pasted to the ceiling of this bar 
called My Brother's Place
that no longer exists 

The original had turned up in
Andy Warhol's crap after he passed
and it was even signed by her
To Andy, with enduring affection
what's THAT about, man?
don't even want to know

Found a copy for sale on eBay 
at a beginning bid
of fifty bucks
(man her legs were long)
and I thought what a conversation piece
 to have on your wall
or would it be sacrilege
to remember the Queen of Camelot that way?

she was the ultimate opportunist
parlaying that First Lady gig
into a stint as trophy wife to 
a Greek Billionaire so butt-ugly
it almost made me cry
it was such a blatantly 
such a cynically 
materialistic move
as if to say look what I went through world
I deserve this
and don't you say nuthin'
her signal that innocence was now lost
and we should follow suit

watching that old news footage
I had to wipe away a little tear 
for her 
in her pink hat
for what she once was
for a time and a place that once was
(for what we all once were)
that exists now in a land called