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.