Monday, December 26, 2011


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


All right

Let's talk about the NATURAL man

When you get right down to it...

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...


When you get right down to it...

Were we to opt for the completely
we would all
be the spitting image of BIGFOOT

Just like the aggressive
barely evolved past apehood
species that we are...

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

Sunday, November 27, 2011


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
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
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
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


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 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


Friday Poetry Fest

We are lost in the darkness
the autumn constellations
like the sparkle of snow

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


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


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...
ducking down blind alleys
searching for the truth
that will open my eyes.

Thursday, October 13, 2011


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...

the love of the game
(like a cattle herder)
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

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
duality guarantees
that there will always be
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


Funny Bunny Fridays

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.")

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
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


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'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.


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


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


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


Through the dark
in a neighborhood where
loneliness is but a salt
shaker of dreams
in a port of stormy
leaning toward the light
toward heaven and its
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
that seems to be something
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
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


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


dat is not de first thing you say...
becuz de first thing you always gonna say is...


Sunday, August 21, 2011


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
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
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
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
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

Oh baby...
we made it...
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


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
and her cavalier disregard for living creatures
but getting a feel for her was
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 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


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 matter how their work strikes us.


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




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


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


I'm looking for an adjustable wench.

One that when the grip feels
a little too tight
it can be backed off some
and when it's too loose
it can be tightened some too.

Seems all the ones
I've handled lately
are pretty set
in their ways,
and when I rotate them
a hundred and eighty degrees--
trying to get just the right angle,
they pop off
Seems they only like
certain positions
and it's
to get their heads
back into the task
at hand.

I looked for one
at the hardware store
but the lady there
just gave me a funny stare.

But I need me
an adjustable wench
to get these nuts off properly,
because sometimes my arm
can get pretty tired
trying to do that.

One I can lay down
next to me
and know will stay put
while I take out my screwdriver
to finish the job.

Why looka there...
seems that in my haste
to finish this poem
I omitted an "r"
here and there
in certain...uh... critical spots...

I can be such a tool sometimes!

But now that it's posted
let me know if I should bother
going back and sticking them in..
or if you think you get my drift, anyway.

Friday, July 15, 2011

SENRYU STEW # 7: Potty Talk

women's restroom line

longer than the men's--

more practiced in the art of holding it

we had an outhouse

that was a two-seater--

ma and pa held hands

Kaopectate convention

in Acapulco...

location location location

Friday, July 1, 2011


Mah woman caught me lookin'
at another gal on the street
mah woman looked right up at me
and said in a voice so sweet:


Rehab, rehab,
it's rehab for me and you--
rehab, rehab.
DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!

You'll deal with all those issues
of which your life is fraught
you'll deal with all those issues
you never had till you got caught

You'll have a bunch of counselors
they'll teach you everything
they'll teach you how to think
with something besides your ding-a-ling

Rehab, rehab,
it's rehab for me and you--
rehab, rehab,
DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!

You'll meet those famous philanderers
like Tiger and Jesse James
and all those other celebutards
whose lives went down in flames

They've been turned into robots
the kind of guys a gal can trust
they're caring and they're sensitive
and best of all--MONOGAMOUS!

It's the modern day equivalent
of a frontal lobotomy
gotta go to rehab
just to save me from bein' me!

Oops...ah farted...
gotta go to rehab for fartin'
Oops...I drooled right down mah shirt...
gotta go to rehab for droolin'
Oops...didn't use no deodorant...
gotta go to rehab for stinkin'

Now a man is gonna be a man
no matter what they try to say
if it feels good--DO IT--
just don't hurt no one along the way

Rehab, rehab,
it's rehab for me and you
rehab, rehab,
DON'T ASK--it's just the thing to do!
It's the modern day equivalent
of a frontal lobotomy
gotta go to rehab
just to save me from bein' me...
yeah, ah gotta go to rehab
just to save me from bein' me!

Thursday, June 23, 2011

SENRYU STEW # 6: Adventures With Gypsy

early morning walk--
Gypsy sniffs
the latest Pmail

Gypsy perks up
when other pooches woof at her--
attention hound

strolling past the bank
with Gypsy--
she makes a deposit

Thursday, June 16, 2011


Good morning
Mister I'm Gonna Blow Up The World
And how are y0u today
praying to your God Of Territorial Disputes
getting ready to go out with a bang
probably never considering that
once you've enjoyed each of those 72 virgins
happily waiting for you
it may not seem like heaven any more
knowing the way your mind runs
but we never seem to think of the obvious


it's important to fight for what you believe in
but I draw the line at my humanity

and no

God DOESN'T want you to do that
any more than he wants you to pop a fart and whistle Dixie at the library
and I don't know why you look at Him
and see petty
and vengeful
and finite
when I see infinite
like the classroom teacher who knows
you don't take sides in playground disputes
the main thing is for the little buggers to learn something
so you can pass them on to a higher grade
but we ain't there yet
so it's always us and them
and all we see is
an infidel
a nonbeliever
a heathen
an apostate
an unholy
give me a break
what are the chances there's only one path to follow
and each of them shouting OVER HERE
even I can see
that's a mathematical impossibility
if we are all God's children
wouldn't it make more sense to think that
may have at least a piece of the truth
and if we'd just put our heads together
and compare notes
the bigger picture might come
into sharper focus

but no

you're going to kill
in the name of your God Of The Partial View
in a crowded market
with a bomb strapped to your waist
you are no better
or worse
than the guy
who sends the misguided missile screaming through the sky
the aftermath is going to be just as messy

and oh

a bunch of women and children bit the big one that time
unintentionally of course
collateral damage
back to the drawing board
with a shrug
we're still the good guys
and none of our strutting Suits
have any regrets
I heard them say it
must be nice to sleep at night with NONE
of that on your conscience
power junkies
too blind to sense
that you're going to be
on the wrong side of history
to a man
it's all a game to you
where the end always justifies the means
well hell
I know it's a game
but still I'd like to play
with as much integrity as I can muster
and be able to shake hands with my opponent afterwards
don't know if you can do that
when he's carrying his dead child in his arms
but you never have to view that close up
never once considering that it's all tainted
from beginning to end
and that nothing good can come from that
which proceeds from a starting point of evil
and that it will hound you
through this lifetime
and how many more
I can't say
your only salvation
your only hope
of escaping karma's
massive kick in the ass
is that maybe...
just maybe...
It's all a dream