HAPPY FOOL

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

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

STREETS OF GOLD

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

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

is

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...

DE FIRST THING YOU MUST LEARN

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Poetry Picnic

dVerse Poets Pub

Poetry Jam

Funny Bunny Fridays

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,

NO

an' he don't come by to tell

you dat he be done wit his drink...

NO

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!

NO

dat is not de first thing you say...

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

DAMN CAT!

OOH BABY...OOH

Poetry Picnic

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

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.

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.

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.

ADJUSTABLE WENCH

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Potluck

dVerse Poetry Pub

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

LOUDLY.

Seems they only like

certain positions

and it's

hard

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.

OOPS!

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.

SENRYU STEW # 7: Potty Talk

Poetry Potluck

d'Verse Poets Pub

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

REHAB

One Shot Wednesday--Poetry Potluck

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:

YA GOTTA GO TO REHAB, REHAB,

YES YOU DO--

REHAB, REHAB,

OR I JUST CANNOT BE WITH YOU!

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!