Catnip

d'Verse poets Pub

And we talked about time

and how we sometimes wish

we could get past the unmomentous moment

but that's just willing ourselves

one step closer to death

but we never see it that way

we just want to be nearer to that

which makes us feel more alive

And Time

you smirking sack of shit

I study your face as you perform

your sleight of hands

and when the big one's on twelve

and the little one's on eight

I've come full circle again

heading out the door in a groundhog daze

and all this picture needs

is Sonny and Cher

singing "I Got You Babe"

And the hands of time keep circling

like vultures around
my fledgling schemes

but time is well spent

when one's well spent

and I try to think of what

I'm supposed to be thinking

but it always comes back to you

and every song on the radio

has already read my mind

this much I know is true

you make me feel brand new

I say a little prayer for you...

And Time

you old gypsy man

just once I'd like to land

a swift kick to your cojones

as a token of appreciation

for dragging me down

this one way street

And I think I know what it is...

it's this feeling of being alive

that's so heady and bittersweet

Spinning into a moment

that spits in Time's face

like a fortune cookie that reads:

You are living in an eternity...

the time to be happy is now

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Photo by Timoteo Poetry Picnic

Thursday, December 8, 2011

WHEN YOU GET RIGHT DOWN TO IT

Funny Bunny Fridays

All right

NATURE LOVERS--

Let's talk about the NATURAL man

When you get right down to it...

It is UNNATURAL to

trim one's hair

It is unnatural to

shave one's beard

Or to shave one's legs

(and I knew plenty of women in the 70's

who were fully cognizant of this!)

When you get right down to it...

It is unnatural to

get a bikini wax

Or to allow someone

to unceremoniously rip off

the hair

that is naturally growing

on one's back

with that sticky tape...

AAAAAGGGHHHH...son-of-a-BITCH !

When you get right down to it...

Were we to opt for the completely

NATURAL LOOK

we would all

(eventually)

be the spitting image of BIGFOOT

Just like the aggressive

chest-thumping

barely evolved past apehood

species that we are...

And wouldn't the Victoria's Secret fashion show look funny then?

Sunday, November 27, 2011

IN MEMORIAM

Everything starts here

in my composition book

just like the ones I never used

for school work

too busy scribbling my subversive poetry

in study hall

a nasty little parody of Beowulf

or The Night Before Christmas

a drunken Santa staggering around

busting up the furniture

always thought drunks were funny

still do

art imitating life

I guess

I was past the days when dad

barely able to stand

took the car out one New Years Eve

and wrecked it

injuring some innocent family members

in the other vehicle

then

somehow getting a ride back home

and taking our other car out

and wrecking it on the same night

the guy was a gas

one day I said this is such B.S.

this idea of school as a full time job

and I vowed to stop taking homework

completely

and made good on it

my last two years of high school

nobody cared

the funniest thing was

they let me graduate

dear old mom and her Second Big Mistake

would be at the beer joints all night

I'd stay up alone on Saturdays

in that isolated farmhouse

watching Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi on late night TV

I wanted to walk like an Egyptian

I could always count on them

to come home fighting

ripping the phone out of the wall

and busting up some furniture

so comical

I'd pass my nasty rhymes around in class

Teach would be up there with his blah blah

my poem circulating up and down

each row of desks

even the girls snickering

and passing it on

and Teach

protector of impressionable minds

intercepting the paper

beginning to read

beginning to laugh out loud

catching himself

face turning red

going on a diatribe about how such trash

was the product of a sick mind

but it was too late

I'd already caught him

in the act

and gool ol' Mom lying there

in a pile of chicken feathers

from a ripped up pillow

and ol' Doc from town would come out

and patch her up

discreetly

it was a small town

and Doc's young daughter

prettiest girl in my Junior High class

asked me out one time

to a roller skating party

it occurred to me much later

that he must have put the kabosh

on that from ever happening again

with the likes of me

and Santa cursed

and flipped them all the finger

as he rode out of sight

after busting up some furniture

of course

always thought drunks were funny

still do

but only funny

if they're funny

and not morose

more points if he's staggering around

with a lampshade on his head

every comic knows

that comedy comes from pain

so please don't stand there

with that look of disdain

and try to change me now

Sunday, November 13, 2011

CHRISTOPHER STARDUST

You gambled on a sure thing and your losses were incalculable. So you hit the road (after being tossed from a speeding pickup truck).

While hitch hiking, you meet up with an old southern gentleman who is offended by the stars in your eyes and the stripes along the highway. He says, "I SPIT on you, suh!"

"No ya don't," you cry, keeping on the move, bobbing and weaving, increasing the tempo until he runs out of saliva.

You shag a ride with a woman in a Jaguar convertible. She parks along a dirt road and her top comes down. You desperately want to get her home to play a game of Scruples, knowing that she has none.

You say you can never be bought, but she purchases you outright. And though there was a price on your head, she says it can be easily removed with a little soap and water.

Her career is in high gear, so she leaves you at home to play Mister Mom. She sends you a text that says: BANG THE DRUM. BURP THE BRAT. BE SURE THE DOGS ARE BATHED AND PROPERLY TUCKED INTO BED. (It is public knowledge that she has a rash in a private place, but since it's always dark when she gets home, you're the last one to know.)

You become a transvestite, fashioning your own dresses from the burlap bags you buy with your meager allowance. You wear glitter in your hair and call yourself Christopher Stardust.

The newspaper does a human interest story on you. You get your own cable TV show, doing psychic readings for house pets from the way they bark, mew, or snort into the telephone. You tell a cat that its last escape from death was just by a whisker.

You parley your knowledge of animals and your smooth bedside manner into a successful phone sex business for those who are into bestiality. (You imitate all those beastly noises yourself.)

You take all your profits and hit the casino again, intent upon making that one big score.

You put it all on black.

It comes up red.

You borrow money from a guy named Bruno. You don't lose your shirt...you lose your bra, your wig, and your garter belt. They take you back to the highway where they toss you from an even faster moving truck.

Ever the hardheaded one, you gather yourself up and stagger down the road. Glitter falls from your hair and gets stuck in your navel. You look up at the sky and see a shooting star burning itself out. Your woman drives by in her Ford Fiesta.

This time, she doesn't stop.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

STARS ON WATER

We are lost in the darkness

the autumn constellations

like the sparkle of snow

Dreaming

drifting
as milk wagons from a bygone era

on nightbound roads

moving ceaselessly in search

of a vanished dawn

The sleeping forest

crisp and cold

a jewel in the moonlight

Night planes

spiraling stars

deer snorting in the underbrush

Atum spills his seed across the firmament

the great nebula of Andromeda

we need only believe in mysteries

Our campfire

like the summer

fades to glowing embers

Eternity so relentless
and yet so fleeting

springs and autumns flash by

slipping wordlessly away

And we

like stars on water

drifting seaward

In the awe-filled silence

Monday, October 31, 2011

MEMO TO MYSELF

The day doesn't care

what you're doing.

The sun will still

make its arc...

the quail will still

scamper across the yard

in the morning...

and all the nasty little children

will pile off the bus

in the afternoon

screaming epithets

that once were the purview of sailors.

You can lie there

on your dead butt

or you can do something heroic...

but you won't do anything heroic

lying on your dead butt.

The day doesn't care

what you're doing...

it will pass you by

without a moment's regret.

It's all up to you.

Friday, October 21, 2011

RISE OF THE FALL

St.George and the Dragon--by Gustave Moreau.

Night descends

like a straight razor in a morgue...

The cutting edge of the

moon illuminates a blood-spattered

canvas, as art imitates death.

From the tenements there comes a wail--

siren song to the thunderbeat of jackboots

in perfect sync, a mirage or a memory, but

you can't trust a fascist to tell you which.

In the night I sense that he

is soaring over the city

with his searchlight and his megaphone.

Solo flight in a jackdaw dream.

Brownshirt in a black sky.

He wears a silver swastika on a golden chain.

He has come to inspect my paintings.

I tell him that once viewed they

are no longer mine, but belong to the world,

like Saint George and the Dragon.

Pretending to be a Brahman with

high-falutin' ways, his tail switches

like an alligator who disapproves of my shoes.

His lips curl into a sardonic smile.

Flames shoot from the sides of his mouth

as he contemplates his next tactical move.

When I escape, the sky

is on fire in my rear-view mirror.

Pink flambe in a Black Russian's eye.

Is Paris Burning?

Quick, try to remember the year you were born...

and were you in love with Anastasia after all?

Across town it is ladies night at

the poolroom, where Miss Manners

is learning to let down her hair

as she falls off the chair,

lying in a lump like yesterday's oatmeal--

the foam on her lips like white caps

on a sea of unspoken desire.

Her words float in the air like alphabet soup...

Unhand that rainbow, you cad,

and let me color my world like

a purple-assed baboon

walking backwards on the moon!

The hushed gallery waits for her to tee off again.

While I sit lonely

by a fountain

where naked cherubs

are pissing away my dreams,

knowing that collaborationists

stalk their own shadows

while pigeons goose-step

through the square--

but none can tell you whether ghosts

sit up and listen to the footsteps

that echo through an empty museum.

Now, the edges of the world begin

to blur, like a painting by Monet.

I must draw my own conclusions.

And I am running...

RUNNING...

ducking down blind alleys

searching for the truth

that will open my eyes.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

ATTACHMENTS

d'Verse Poetry Pub

Not the kind that come

with your sewing machine

or your vacuum cleaner

but the ones that keep us coming

back to this dubious place

for another merry chase...

love

hate

money

sex

power

food

fame

shame

the love of the game

gambling

rambling

murder

(like a cattle herder)

booze

dope

greed

people

iPads

(EGADS!)

words

perversion

any old diversion

Hypnotized like sleepwalkers

we follow our nose

see how it goes

take off our clothes

any way the wind blows

gleefully ignoring the spectre of karma

So simple

the way Wernher Von Braun put it

For every action

there is an equal but opposite

reaction

Don't need to be a rocket scientist

to get that one

You don't learn to share

what the hell do you care

but you think you're immune

let's go to the ball

and pretend that midnight's pumpkin

isn't waiting down the hall

the unmitigated balls

to think you'll get away with it scot free

now you're hanging from a tree

If the definition of insanity

is doing the same shit repeatedly

while expecting a different outcome

(I'm as guilty of that as any

not like the few

just like the many)

then we are all crazy

to be coming back here and thinking

THIS time

it will be a cakewalk

You know

Fonzie

duality guarantees

that there will always be

heartache

along with happy daze

the more we cling and grasp

the more our grasp is exceeded

Taken away

taken away

To the land of Nevermore

So quick

find a replacement

a sub

a stand-in

a hero coming off the bench

to save the day

isn't that the way

it's always going to go

until finally

at long last

(have you no shame)

we get tired of this game?

Thursday, October 6, 2011

VISIBLE AFTER BLOG OWNER APPROVAL

So is it that you are afraid

I might use your comments section

like the wall

of a public restroom stall?

Hell...y'all should be so lucky.

Some of the best wit

I ever saw

appeared in that little cubicle

where minions sat

and shat

and posted their witticisms

in that minimalist style

so reminiscent of Hemingway

or Raymond Carver

for all succeeding thinkers

and stinkers

to ponder and reflect upon--

next to the phone number

of some girl

who would show you a good time.

I never called

though I was tempted.

And who could ever forget

that timeless classic:

Here I sit

all broken hearted

ran sixteen blocks

and only farted

Those anonymous writers

were carrying forward the legacy

of the prehistoric cave artists--

or less romantic perhaps

they were the forerunners of the taggers.

It was the closest thing to the internet we had--

especially when the crapper

was located inside

an international airport terminal.

So no

I'm not concerned

about offending the laity.

I prefer spontaneity.

So come one

come all

and scribble something

on my wall.

It's only words

(as the Bee Gees once said)

after all.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

HIS COY TOY (a modern-day take on Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress.")

d'Verse Poet's Pub

I'm not interested in the official version

of anything

all sanitized and polite

but lacking any kind of soul

and Nietzsche was right

about one thing

you've spent your whole life

trying to keep your base instincts under control

that's not the way I want to roll

anymore

we'll order moon under glass

a little pinch on the ass

and we're on our way

if there's an inner skank

that's present here

I'll thank

you to acknowledge it

over a beer

would that we could contain our drool

until the third date

then at the crack of the starter's pistol

we'd burst out of the gate

no need to wait

any longer

the requisite number of days having amassed

so you'd feel that you hadn't been cast

in the role of the slut

but that's all a game

such fear of shame

we carry

there's no time to tarry

I know what you're going to say

but hush your mouth

I'm a nomad from the frozen north

poised to explore

your deep south

and yes I've read the official version

that you're not a tart

but I know your heart

wasn't in it

and time is passing by

it's all over in the wink of an eye

would you rather say in the end

you hoarded that

which you had every right to spend?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

NEBRASKA BACKROADS

So I was watching this news show on TV about teenagers and how stupidly mean and cruel they can be to one another, with all the online bullying and that kind of crap that goes on. Suddenly, I flashed back to Elaine. Hadn't thought about her for many a moon. On a whim, I thought I'd try to look her up online. I've had little success trying to find people with ordinary surnames...it's the proverbial needle in the haystack you'll never find unless it pokes you in the butt. But Elaine's last name was unique. I figured there couldn't be more than one of her out there, and I was right. I typed in her name and hit enter. And there it was. A whole extended family photo album from back in the day up to nearly present time had been transferred to the net, with captions identifying who was who. I began to scroll down...

We were both fourteen. Eighth graders in that tiny town. She was sort of cute, and I was attracted to her. One day I found myself walking her home. Somewhere along the way we stopped and engaged in a long, sweet, warm embrace. An innocent, but romantically charged kind of thing to be sure.

Then one night a bunch of us kids were out joyriding, and I ended up in the rear seat of the car as it wended its way along a dark Nebraska back road. Elaine was sandwiched in between me and one of my classmates...I'll call him him Buzz. I was thinking that this might be another opportunity for me and her to get cozy with one another.

And then...

I looked over and Buzz was making out with her. And he was feeling her up.

Everywhere.

And she was letting him.

A myriad of emotions swirled around in my head. I was a bit behind on the learning curve, but it didn't take long to catch up. Elaine was the first "loose" girl that I had encountered at that tender age.

After a few minutes, there was a break in the action and Buzz looked over at me and said, "TAKE OVER."

And Elaine looked at me expectantly.

Now, had we all been ten years older, my response might have drawn some raised eyebrows, and likely some comment about me being a kinky kind of cat. But none of us were that hip at the time. I was nervous. And I think my sense of it was-- at that point--that she was already damaged goods. So I said...

"That's okay...I'd rather just watch."

A couple days later the phone rang and it was for me. Elaine was on the line. Before I could get a word out, she called me a few choice names. Then she said she was calling just to tell me that nobody liked me. In fact, everybody hated me. I was taken aback. Where was all this coming from? (As far as everyone hating me-- that's another story for another time.)

I couldn't believe that someone I was in the clinches with just a few days earlier could turn so hateful and mean. And it's quite likely that she started a one person crusade to turn most of my peers against me. It's taken me till now to grasp that Elaine must have felt rejected by me--in her dissolute sort of way-- in the back seat of the car that night. My first painful experience with a woman scorned.

So I'm scrolling down the family photo album, and there she is. Her high school graduation picture, taken just four years after the last time I ever spoke to her. She was dolled up and decked out, and even cuter looking than I remembered. But if you looked closely at her eyes, they looked sad.

Scrolling further down. There she is, at her sister's wedding. Older and...well...

It's incredible to watch someone you haven't seen since adolescence age before your eyes in a few minutes. And here we are--the new millennium arrived and we partied like it was 1999...and Elaine is a matronly, frumpy looking, somewhat overweight woman who didn't exactly hold her looks. Hey, it happens. I'll never criticize someone on that basis. Oh, and there's her husband. Uh-huh. Suffice it to say she stayed in that same rural area and married one of the local boys. They do look content together in that photo. They look like...well...they deserve each other.

I thought about what her life must have been like. I thought about what my life--alternately crazy, exciting, bizarre, the heights, the bottom, the travel, the glory, the faded glory, the women, the heartache...and, if nothing more, the fodder for writing--had been. There's no way to compare one life to another. In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. I heard that in a song somewhere.

But I will admit to what I felt for a small moment when I had finished looking at that photo album.

It was a feeling of triumph.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

JUST ASK

So here is my card

I hope you'll keep it handy

And when you call my number

Just ask for Love

Don't as for Robert

Don't ask for Bill

Don't ask for Andy

Don't ask for Phil

Don't ask for services

They can't fulfill

When you call my number

Just ask for Love

Don't ask for the doctor

He'll just give you drugs

Get them cheaper on the corner

From your neighborhood thugs

Don't ask for Ms. Anthony

Cuz she's too busy lying

Don't ask for Obama

Cuz he's too busy crying

Don't ask for no truffles

Or them fancy dishes

Don't ask for Osama

Cuz he sleeps with the fishes

Don't ask for Mr. Gibson

Cuz he's been black-listed

Don't ask for Mr. Cheney

He's too sick and twisted

I'll make you squirm

and squeal with delight

the neighbors will hear us

all through the night

So don't ask for Rhonda

Don't ask for Kathleen

Don't ask for Shlomo

Or for Mr. Clean

Don't ask for rainy day people

They only love you when it's raining

Don't ask for the plumber

You know it's too draining

Don't ask for sex tapes

No classy or trashy 'uns

What more do you need

To see of the Kardashians?

Don't ask for Yoda

Don't ask for the Klingons

Don't be that person

My dog wants to pee on

When you call my number

Be ready to get your freak on

I guarantee you

we will fit like a glove

When you call my number

Just ask for LOVE !

Friday, September 9, 2011

HAPPY FOOL

dVerse Poets Pub

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' it as it comes

day by day

Market's in a free-fall

Cops yelling " Up against the wall!"

London is burning

(not Paris for a change)

yet the world keeps turning

think I'll go to the mall

Economy teeters on the brink

Ask the man in the street what he think

gas prices are through the roof

think I'll go out and have a drink

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' it as it comes

day by day

TV screamin'

'bout all that's wrong

and here's a new movie 'bout monsters

stay tuned for more doom and gloom

after these words from our sponsors

If you're gonna try to fly

then don your clean underwear

'cause the perverts now wear uniforms

and they'll be touching you "down there"

Folks are easily manipulated

we follow along like ants

one news story

after another

designed to make you crap your pants

Makes some folks wonder

why they should get up in the morning

but all I see

is a new day dawning

Ten years after and people gettin' jittery

'cause Al Qaeda's playing their games

turn it all off

save the aggravation

and your life will be the same

I'm just a happy fool

don't know that I'm s'posed to be miserable

takin' life as it comes

day by day

Friday, September 2, 2011

STREETS OF GOLD

d'Verse Poet's Pub

Through the dark

glassily

in a neighborhood where

loneliness is but a salt

shaker of dreams

in a port of stormy

maggots

leaning toward the light

toward heaven and its

prospects

prospecting for streets

of gold

to its holiest depths

when what is hell

is growing old

kicked to the curb

out in some suburb

of grease and candlelight

making the best of

one's shittiest days

where you wear

your scars on the inside

for all to see as something

that seems to be something

else

that seems to be something

else

that may not be what you think it

are you mental

too sentimental

it's elemental

to the essential meaning

of nothing

take the train to nowhere

where thinking invites pain

visions of a country lane

two sides of the same

coin

in a Buddhist trance

and I just want to see you

without any pants

and we can prance

into a frenzied night

from here to eternity

if you'll only

Be My Baby

be my baby now--a oww

oh whoah oh oh oh...

Friday, August 26, 2011

DE FIRST THING YOU MUST LEARN

You go to de sink

and de cat, he is in de sink

an' he look up at you

wit dat look

an' you know he want a drink

so you turn on de faucet

and de cat, he start to drink

den de telephone ring an'

you go to answer it--

meanwhile de cat,

he has drunked his fill

an' he hop down from de sink...

he don't turn off de faucet,

an' he don't come by to tell

you dat he be done wit his drink...

instead he go to de box an' scratch around

an' den he make poopy

an' den he run outside

becuz first thing you must learn about de cat

is dat he don't care how long de faucet run

so you talk and talk on de phone

an' den you take a drive to de store

becuz you forget all about de faucet

an' you come home FOUR hours later

an' you see dat de faucet, she be still running

an' what is de first thing you say?

Come on now,

becuz you know dat de first thing you say is not

OH, HOW STUPID OF ME!

dat is not de first thing you say...

becuz de first thing you always gonna say is...

DAMN CAT!

Sunday, August 21, 2011

OOH BABY...OOH

d'Verse Poet's Pub

Ooh baby, the storm's a comin

I can feel it right here

right here in my HEART

you see where my hand is baby

right here on my heart

and you can put your-

ooh LOOK baby

LOOK

the cloud is touching down

and it's BLACK

so black baby

like death

and it's coming this way

coming right for us daddy

no WAIT

stop the car

oh yes I know we need to run

need to kick it in gear

and squeal on outta here

but oh what a picture it'll make baby

WHAT A PICTURE

get the camera

come on get out

I'll stand right here

at the side of the road

and oh I KNOW I'm crazy honey

crazy as a goddamn bedbug

and the wind now

is ripping through my hair

and that sound

like a freight train bearing down on us

and no I can't hear you anymore

and I know you're screaming at me baby

I know

but just snap the picture

JUST TAKE THE PICTURE

that's it

line me up in front of the cloud

my sweater the color of blood

right there in front of the black cloud

the cloud of death honey

and OOH God what a picture

oh you've got it now

so let's RUN

run to the car

and oh GOD baby

what if it doesn't start

oh my GOD baby

it's coming right for us now

LET'S GO BABY GO

Oh baby...

we made it...

ooh

I love you so much...

I can't believe how high I am baby...

never felt so alive in all my life.

Put your hand on it, honey,

put your hand on my heart...

can you feel it pounding?

Can you feel it?

Right here--up underneath

my blood red sweater...

ooh baby

I love you so much...

love you so much...

OOH baby...ooh

Sunday, August 14, 2011

PERV...2011

dVerse Poets Pub

I had a dream that Sarah Palin

was letting me feel her up--

and during those few moments

when my hands

were running wild over her body,

fingers even slipping inside her pants,

I thought that I might even

get to like her a little--

even though I find her politics

alarming,

and her cavalier disregard for living creatures

appalling,

but getting a feel for her was

pleasing--

and no, she didn't mind at all--

so I felt a bit confused

when she said she would do

whatever it took to win my vote,

and so I said okay

you've got my vote...

cuz that was what it took.

Then I allowed her to get back in line,

and she boarded her flight.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

THIS POEM (inspired by the debt crisis, the economy, war, rampant paranoia and...you name it.)

This is not your father's poem

we must admit it's true...

this poem belches at the dinner table

picks its nose at the opera

and passes gas in church...PEW!

This poem is a nasty little bugger that will sneak a peek up your dress

or bite you on the rear if you don't stand clear.

This poem stepped on a crack and broke your mother's back.

This poem wants you to wear your stiletto heels and give its ass a whack.

This poem doesn't give a damn if you're black or if you're white.

This poem IS black...this poem IS white.

This poem don't care if you're gay or if you're straight.

This poem IS pretty gay...and this poem WILL set you straight.

This poem needs no critique,

nor will it ever appear in some anal-retentive academic journal.

This poem possesses no mystique,

but its heart is pure and its message eternal.

This poem don't care about what's "PC" or what isn't...

This poem is free to sing My Country 'Tis of Thee...or 'tisn't.

This poem makes no apology to any lace-panty wearing pantywaists

who may be offended by words--

who believe that speech should be free

only when they agree.

This poem don't cotton to no flag waving love-it-or-leave-it hypocrites

who tell us we should love the symbol more

than what the symbol stands for.

(Do you KNOW what it stands for?)

This poem believes that life, liberty, and the pursuit of "hap"

is being threatened by the whiners and all of their crap.

This poem knows that our minds have been brainwashed

by those whose misdeeds have been whitewashed

until everything we believe is hogwash.

This poem advises you to murder your television.

This poem has had a hell of a vision

that your television is out to murder you.

This poem wants us to get our heads together--

this poem wants us to get our shit together,

but this poem doubts whether SHITHEADS can ever get it together!

This poem is bi-coastal.

This poem went postal.

This poem is headed for a fall...

this poem banged its head against the wall

and passed out in the toilet stall.

This poem is a celebration of what America once thought she could be...

and a requiem for what she has become.

This poem is done.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

MEMO TO A LANGUAGE POET

dVerse Poets Pub

Poetry Potluck

To get the most out of this poem, one should be at least somewhat familiar with what is referred to as Language Poetry. Please take a moment to read some lines from Leslie Scalapino, and then come back.

I think Scalapino's poems are prime examples of what I'm referring to in "Memo To A Language Poet." By the way, I read "Memo To A Language Poet" in a literal den of Language Poets on one occasion, knowing what I was getting into, and somewhat apprehensive about how it would be received. When I finished, a young dude got up and read something that was just as disjointed as Scalapino's lines--glancing over at me in defiance a number of times. I applauded him at the end, because I think it's important for all poets to support other poets...no matter how their work strikes us.

MEMO TO A LANGUAGE POET

As a toddler you rejoiced not in stacking the blocks

but in knocking them down--

and it must have been difficult for you

when the teacher said to diagram a complete sentence

because you refused to write one.

And I understand that your favorite

game was DISCONNECT...the...dots.

Now, you say, the idea is to separate

language

from

meaning.

Life has no meaning,

so why should poetry?

Imbued with ambiguity,

it's not just a poem--

it's an adventure.

But your fits and starts

are starting to give me fits--

and it would surely give me pause

if I could find one independent clause.

And it must seem like a ball

and chain, this societal expectation

to make a little sense--

for to write with coherence

would be grave interference

with your disjunctive conjunctive experience.

Now I'll admit that I've enjoyed your work--

this Chinese food of the literary world,

for three or four seconds at a time.

But I find that I'm always hungry again

when I reach the next line...

and I keep thinking that if you'd

only hold that thought for a few

syllables longer, you might at least

come up with some haiku.

In your defense, I know a guy who was on

a step ladder one day,

and stuck his head a little too close to the ceiling fan...

now he has a short attention span

and he thinks you're a genius!

But you're forgetting one thing:

Language was invented

for the purpose of COMMUNICATION--

otherwise we'd still be sitting around

the fire saying UUGHH...

and beating each other over the head

with clubs, and eating with our fingers...

otherwise you are mentally masturbating

on my eyes, so put that pen back

in your pants and get a grip

on reality this time.

Don't get me wrong--

I like to play as much as the next poet,

and I can be as cryptic as an Egyptologist

sometimes

but to disconnect language

from meaning--

you might as well remove the ball and chain

from inside your toilet tank.

Either way you end up with shit.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

ADJUSTABLE WENCH