AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE IN TEACHING

ya know that old song
a raincoat makes
when the arms swing
back and forth against its side?

times fifty?

perhaps you were expecting
something more intangible
like a gold watch?

POP GOES THE MIRACLE

everybody back to work!

MOM'S THE WORD

organized religion
arrives at my privates

THE PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM

if i pray hard enough
I'll just know it
when the teacher calls on me

CAPTION

for a photo
of a demolished trailer park
possessions and body parts
scattered everywhere
I just wanted to lure a few nuthatches to my feeder

RAINY DAY

there is a drop
on a mission
to find me
to flower me

DRAGONFLY

I wind up parked
on a mountain of a belly
scratching my legs together
using my peripheral vision
on the human – one wrong move
and I’ll take back the whole universe again

LIFE HAS NO MEANING

around every corner
a woman has a project
she wants to play get in the way

I beg her pardon for bumping
I touch her hip excuse me
cartwheels handstands bobbing and weaving

if I can’t elude
I’ll have to go through her
anything to stay free radical and tangent

THE PRICK

I’m sitting on my bubble
exercising

inside the bubble
it is clear

I can see the billions
dead and dying

keeping the outer skin of the pudgy ball
supportive for me

though giving a little more
with each of my springs and landings

what a gay decay
is my luxury

PATTI

patti never calls
I have a very close relationship with my phone

patti doesn’t write
I am a prolific poet

patti doesn’t visit
my life is full of possibility

*

patti is my frog
my turtle and my fox

my pig says “Patti!”
every time I drop a penny in

if I patti my cat too much
she bites me

*

I drink patti like adrenalin

I patti back and forth on my bike

I pour patti on my pancakes

I climb patti to reach the peak

*

oh wicked wick in my wax

oh spark

oh black gems dropping
from the deer’s behind

oh crash trip
oh splat and bounce and roll and snuggle

*

I’m up to my flood stage in giraffes

worm that I am
I throw my line out for a patti

the heart of rotten wood all to myself
the dark cavity where I multiply

*

keep your pity for yourself
drop a patti in my cup

a thought is worth a thousand havings

she’s a maybe with all the extras

tartar sauce oozing out of a sandwich smile

22nd Century girl

*

TREATISE

the lung of philosophy
crawls across the floor
coughing

there is no other way
for a human being
to breathe

CLEANING MY GLASSES

sated with the crumbs of having

money love family work

what have you

muddle aged man

unbeautiful woman

lonely forever

in the monastery of consumerism

life is a marathon

even the teeth are sweating

if you are crawling about, press 1

every minute of want the fungus grows

THE NEXT PERSON WHO SAYS CELTIC TO ME WILL LOSE A FINGER

I am fourteen
a small bird that wants to die
selects my head

this occurs at an art institute
where lots of curvy young women
overemote about inconsequential matters

Gene Hackman and Peter Lorre are the resident villains
America is the leading manufacturer
of violent thunderstorms and applause signs

my expertise concerning the whimsical nature of smoke
has so far gone unreported there is a blog
to that effect which you will not find on Google

the odd half-naked Japanese girl
draped provocatively over downward flowing marble stairs
I do think moving but not enough to linger

the dogs the lightning the chatter
what else can I say
I don’t have anyone decapitated

the typewriter does it
that’s how antiquated we are
as far as I can tell I am not yet worshipped

there are moist wipes
and Dove beauty body wash squeeze bottles
displayed in offbeat places

thank you for reading this far by the way
the dream continues for approximately 47 years
I hope you’re not just another speed reader

masquerading as part of the intelligentsia
I can only take so much D-League showboating
thousands of franchises etc.

I use big words because size matters
I don’t waste time ogling the tropical fish
I order something in black bean sauce efficiently

I used to think females are different
the protuberances were blocking my vision –
they continue to shave in strange places though!

SCHONBERG

everyone is a pigeon
flying is always away from
Notre Dame means osteoporosis to me
where would I be without adultery
some days river like chocolate
she’s asleep while Paris forwards by
this is line #7 it’s doing its best
now we move to the transmission repair
the two left thumbs I bought for $2400
small is all
fifty degrees smiles the angular weather man
where the legs come together where the arms brush the ribs
deodorants are losing
quicksand is the name of my computer
I am not even a gulp

FLOORBOARD REVERIE

if I were wood I woodn’t
have to dance anymore
I could take it all lying down
beside myself
I’d able to relax with my knots
to remain silent
except for an occasional Zen squeak
to collect particles of dust
let the feet drag and pound against me
without recrimination
not answer the phone
not answer the call of the vagina
not always be filling up and emptying
no blood required
to hell with spelling and grammar
I could study the Klee calendar for decades
fuck the transmission guy
I’d keep it in the same gear permanently
and if some kid gets down on its knees
and starts blabbing at me
I might just snap in my warped way
KO the little bugger with one slap
and then sit back in my slot of oblivion
nobody the wiser

THE CARDINAL RULES

one may fly and eliminate at the same time

wearing red doesn’t mean you’re gay or a slut

just whistle if you want to get laid


love means eggs

if you are wanted, leave town

with “Three Pieces in the Shape of a Pear”

playing in your ears


blue jays are abortionists

sunsets are cheap imitations

Pollock is Art


we do not “borrow” books from the library

we have no need for a sheriff

all human beings are evil

HAIR AND FINGERS

my girl friend plays the hair on my chest
she has a talent I murmur
she whispers it’s just love
we are right

music is a combination of say
hard rigid strings and soft flexible fingers
we disappear into
become one with

we sleep peacefully
in a world being shelled and shattered
hair and fingers…hair and fingers…
later we will argue over the toast

THE FARMER DOCTOR MOORE

Celtic music was playing in the halls
The time machine was working

Stuff rarely happened on Sundays
So staff was minimal

Just Miriam a stacked nurse
and me the blissful intern at Intake

I should have been suspicious
as soon as he said his name

Gram without the ha! Iago
A loaded throwback

When I turned to get his file
he must have slipped a tab into my Earl Grey

Next shift reported Monday morning
to find me sprawled on the tiles

wearing nothing but a stark Miriam
and all the psychos sprung

My DNA was on everything
Even the upside down toilet seat was an eyewitness

CORRECT! YOU'VE WON A HALF-EATEN MOUSE!

I’m watching the collected poems of Ant’ny Soprano

I have my list of things to do

it doesn’t include someone who wants to do them

my days are numbered but they still don’t add up

I don’t know which exit to take and the toll keeps increasing

the pro-lifers won’t let me punctuate my own sentence

that’s right, double or nothing on that entendre

what’s behind it? the most treacherous philosophy:

two plus two equals four

followed by a showroom model infinity?

steam rising from a fresh dump

let’s face it

along with putting all the victims together in prison

we change the diapers every four years with our votes

the bottom line is a crack where the two cheeks separate

so we he-apes know where to aim our johnsons when the time comes

I was told to bring binoculars

but I’m afraid of getting too close to distant things

waiter, I have a tip for you: this life is overdone

I should have another bowl of oatmeal

yes that’ll perk me up!

REVISION

I GIVE A HEARTBEAT TO THE WEATHER


And, in return, it keeps me grounded, overlooking my smithereens. To be happy would require an Esmeralda under my umbrella. For this continuous being out of sorts there is nothing but Ocean Spray.

It wasn’t always like this. I had a tennis ball once. A greenness and a bounce. Everything was mythological. Dem Bums versus The Giants. In a broken down coliseum.

That’s why every mustard takes me back. Where the precip. ain’t schizophrenic. And the long range forecast is stalagmites. Show me what you can do with a paper clip.

We have but two choices here: Art or maggots. It all begins with cranberry juice. And the dreams disturb the sleep magnificently.

A clearance of throat, a glob of poetry.

#675

a small naked stone
along the shore
is being licked by an ocean

the discovery of fire is
a very personal matter

LONG ISLAND

the sound side
a woman
in a raincoat

the ocean side
a thong
with a woman billowing out of it