Day 192

I still walk around

to my side of the bed

even though I sleep 

in the middle 

now

If wars were fought by poets

If wars were fought by poets, the Pentagon would pay five thousand dollars for alliterations in iambic pentameter


If wars were fought by poets, there would be serious statues guarding the gates of Whitman Square Park; Shakespeare would be the fifty-dollar bill.


… there would be a sonnet in every basement.


If wars were fought by poets, every child would learn 4 R’s – readin’, writin’, rhymin’, and ‘rithmetic


If wars were fought by poets, crimson splashed canvas would remind us of birth.


… library cards would be mandatory.



If wars were fought by poets, the only borders would be our minds.


If wars were fought by poets, I would be a soldier.

Is this the Last Villanelle I’ll Write for You?

I own the clock from 4 til 2
striding streets myself again
but 3 am belongs to you

An arrow arced by Japanese yew
the heart of archery & zen
I own the clock from 4 til 2

My head explodes, enfolds Sun Tzu
I command both storm & wind
but 3 am belongs to you

The days are filled with adventures new
& fresh words flowing from my pen
I’m fast asleep at 1 and 2

but in night’s black hole comes something new
like unseen insects across my skin
at 3 am the itch is you

then thoughts of futures lost intrude
& each tick tock’s a raucous din
I own the clock from 4 til 2
but 3 am belongs to you

Ars Poetica

muse fickle words
diamond mined
from carbon thoughts
carbon thoughts
chthonic mind
‘til crystalline
clear
faceted
faced
focused
spare

Bus Beat Drunk M31

(here's a sound poem i wrote while, well, drunk on the bus. people seem to enjoy it whenever i perform it at a reading)


Bus Beat Drunk M31


The guy got off on 23rd
The guy got on on 34th
The guy got off on 23rd & on on 34th
The guy, the guy, got off & on
The guy got off off Off
on 23rd and on
The guy got off on
23rd & on on
The guy got on
on 34th
The same guy got on
on 34th as got off on 23rd
The same guy got off on 23rd
and on The guy
got on
The guy?
Same guy?
Same guy got on
Same guy The guy
got off on 23rd
got on on 34th
And then the guy got on again
@ 43rd & on on
59th The guy
The guy
The bus is full
full of the guy
The guy got off on 23rd
& on & on again

A hit of Whitman

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done.

This hit of acid’s wearing off, up rises gumdrop sun.
Last night's star bright vision’s pigments mix to mud,
their profundity has gone to sleep, not gone but hidden in the blood
that feeds and fools my daytime mind & lifts me from the crud.
The trial of sprightly footprints across unbroken thoughtworld’s snow
tell me more than where I’ve been, but hint of where to go –
where visions are like toadstools grown thickly by the road,
each plucked by chance at leisure’s pace or left to shine unknown.

a million kind of women

There are a million kinds of women in the world
a million kinds million kinds
in the world there are a million kinds
a million kinds of women

Some honeydrip love
feel like you did
when your breath smelled titwarm
on mother’s milk

Some cradle girltime fears
deep into womanhood
& form walls & firebreaks
& roots to stumble on

Some pass on the street
smelling of fresh cut cucumber
or butterfly laden
tangerine blossoms

Some achingly beautiful
& some ache for beauty
& some ache from beauty
& some never know

Some sharp edged & bright bladed
& they cut
& cut & you
beg to bleed

there are 2 kinds of women in the world
2 kinds
those I’ve forgotten &
those I can’t forget

Top 10 tips — for poets (or the open mike lament)

An image a cut flower —
two possibilities
fresh & dead

Line breaks
don’t make
prose — poems

1st word is the best word is
the best way
— for a 1st draft

A poem isn’t a gazelle
— it’s a dead fish
for sustenance sauté
to make it leap electrify
—with 12,000 volts
otherwise it will just lie there and stink

A poem can survive w/out rhythm
or rhyme — but then
you could survive
on bread and wine
in a windowless room

If all your poems sound
the same you
‘ve only written one poem

You can’t transcend what
you’ve never held
Find form 1st
abandon after

Don’t let your tools
rust from disuse
— don’t be afraid to break them.

If it doesn’t add it — doesn’t add it — doesn’t add it
if it doesn’t add —doesn’t add — doesn’t add
If it doesn’t add it doesn’t add
it subtracts

Just because it
happened to you it
doesn’t mean it’s
interesting

sawboned

phantom limb love

hookworm underskin itch

meatworld shaped by negative space

ain'tness outpowers is

Ocelot Peachfish

trip your fingers down my song

tulipbulb my vertebrae

slipknot throb through cock & bone

dip me down an eyelit bay

 

 

frailcap crushed by water weight

nailed to the deck of a capillary ship

hail me by your jetstreamed whisper

exinhale through fingertips

An Ode to the Poet who has Been Kicking my Ass All Week

 

 

nobody

 

hey ee cummings

yous got me humming

witda verses (and stylez) that u

right

 

nobody, not even

 

u - fresh frunt to back

me – slashandburn hack

I roar-roar:red instead of pale

contrite

 

nobody, not even the rain, has

 

difficult  dense

yous plays with spilling and tense

until a  (sudden) line elegant —— sweet like  a newlywed

night

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands