[ nothing ] Shouldn’t be anything objectionable
(☼) Perhaps some mild content.
(☼☼) Strong language, drug culture, illicit behavior, etc.
(☼☼☼) Some obvious adult-only content.
NOTICE TO POETS:
The Bureau of Poems' Department of Rhymes,
has outlawed all free verse and similar crimes.
The statement which details the styles which will do,
is found in our manual on page 92.
See paragraph 40, subsection C-9,
which fully expounds on poetic design,
conceiving and writing, then how to bring closure,
plus first-aid protection from free verse exposure.
Read sections that cover "safe" free verse destruction,
with pictures of free verse blast chamber construction.
To put it quite bluntly our country depends,
on having you finger your free verseing friends.
Thank you for your anticipated cooperation,
Bureau of Poems,
Department of Rhymes,
Well it's ninety nine light-years to your heart,
and I know I got off to a pretty bad start;
you were a star ridin', moon glidin' one of a kind,
locked in your universe so well designed.
Now there's a few trillion miles that I won't have to go,
if a milligram of int'rest you are willin' to show;
I was a fast wheelin', card dealin', man on the run,
a true planet player and the scourge of the Sun.
But YOU cooled my rockets and you persuaded me,
that I was in some trouble on my next perigee.
Well I'm a fully changed man in galactic proportions…
no more rude oscillations or chromatic distortions.
I've given up the stardust and the cosmic debris,
and I'm no longer chasin' every quasar I see.
I am happy to be captured as your lone satellite,
we'll be orbiting together in the black of the night.
The Miracle of Hair
When looking at my arm I see,
a bunch of curly hair,
and on my chest I have been blessed,
with just a bit out there.
Hairy too, are both my legs,
and both my underarms,
hair is sprouting everywhere,
as accents to my charms.
Long eyelashes, bushy brows,
a faint mustache and beard—
hairlets in my ears and nose,
I keep them trimmed and sheared.
I run my fingers through my hair,
I twist it and I twirl,
somehow trying to reconcile,
the fact that I'm a girl.
Sequestered in Cheboygan County's hummocks, humps and hills,
suffused with sturgeon, muskellunge, a host of bass and splake,
Cheboygan River empties what the Indian River fills,
the glacial ice abrasion which is known as "Mullett Lake".
When early morning autumn mist intensifies to fog,
its blanket drifting hereabout, across the shore and road,
precocious skunks and 'possums poke their noses through the bog,
where fortune brings a garter snake an unsuspecting toad.
By noon the sun has burned away the lake's amorphous shroud,
canoes and boats begin to dot the rippled blue expanse,
the Southern Sunken Island starts to gather quite a crowd,
where walleyes seem obliged to bite if given half a chance.
Receding in the western sky the sun begins to set,
her mauves and bright magentas range transparent to opaque,
this panoramic vista paints a polychrome duet,
with thousand-mirror glitters coruscating off the lake.
[splake – a speckled trout/lake trout hybrid.]
Six More Weeks of Winter
As Rocky Mountain blizzards start to brew,
a groundhog sleeps in Punxsutawney, Penn.,
but he will rise on February two,
as tourists on this tiny town descend,
and should the storm arrive in time, well you
can bet that “rat” will stay deep in his den,
but if it's clear and sunny skies abound,
he's sure to see his shadow on the ground.
Say there, say, old Locust tree,
whose sting lays low the rough-hewn brute,
who shades the belle and yields the root
that brews a pot of toxic tea.
Say there, say, old Locust tree,
who’s poised to challenge prairie gusts,
who paints the ground with greens and rusts,
when all your leaves are lifted free.
Say there, say, old Locust tree,
whose twigs ensconce the sparrow nests,
who makes a home for many guests,
who have no use for lock and key.
Say there, say, old Locust tree,
whose trunk and branches now stand raw,
who fills the heart with frozen awe
as winter dusts the sylvan sea.
From Black to White
The paradox of winter's quest,
to lay a blanket, heels to chest,
in drifts of snow from north and west,
may thusly be accounted best:
the cloud formations dark and black,
descend from high on jet stream’s back,
and flake by flake the piles stack,
while we're sound sleeping in our sack.
The morning breaks, the sun is bright
our ret'nas blinded by the light,
but as we slowly grasp the sight,
this monochrome of brilliant white,
we're led to wonder how and why,
the blackish clouds in bluish sky,
can lay these mounds which blind the eye,
not one inch deep, but four feet high!
Two ravens on a carcass in the last of springtime snow;
they're dining on some road-kill of an undetermined beast
whose blood and guts are thickening, the ravens caw and crow,
as though this were a smorgasbord, some grand fantastic feast.
One pecks and pulls then gobbles down a lump with severed veins;
the other's digging hard and deep for organs full of jam.
The broken skull's convenient as a dish for frozen brains,
and entrails smell delicious like an August rotted lamb.
The carcass also seems to hold another tasty treat
a couple pounds of fetus that's been growing twenty weeks
the ravens strip and tear it, so delectable and sweet
they shred it into pieces with their sloppy, blood-specked beaks.
The little limbs, the tiny heart, are tugged and ripped with greed,
the baby parts more tender both in liver, leg and lung;
then when the ravens fly back up to where their nest is treed,
they're seconds short preventing hawks from feasting on their young.
Abstract To Be Taken Littorally
In the mangroves of the margins,
through the sub aquatic reeds,
to the fringing reefs and waters,
and the estuary's weeds;
live the isopods and plankton,
with the limpets, clams and krill,
there's a host of microflora,
Near the bed of shallow grasses,
in the silts of long repose,
where the brittle stars and blenny
feed on anything that grows;
to the coral beds and ledges
in these intertidal zones,
there's a field of rising bubbles
which the underworld disowns.
[An entry for a picture-prompt contest that featured artwork by Lesley Haycock]
Four Piece Wardrobe
The cosmic closet’s been unlocked,
for use by Lady Earth,
a host of lovely garments there,
to snugly wrap her girth.
The first one is a brilliant coat,
of sparkling winter white,
she plans to wear it 90 days,
throughout each day and night.
She also has a spring chiffon,
in brilliant yellow-greens,
it dazzles for a season with,
her azure ocean jeans.
With summer heat she does prefer,
a sandy beige or brown,
her forest fire jewelry shines,
against a blackened gown.
Her finest wear is autumn's skirt,
of sprightly woodland hues,
a brilliant orange profusion,
with her prairie colored shoes.
It was just another Wednesday on the road to Heber Springs
when I hit a great blue heron and a couple other things.
I hit a small brown rabbit and I creamed a porcupine,
then hit a skunk and possum when I swerved across the line
to miss a herd of cattle which had wandered in the road,
and when I eased back in my lane I got a spotted toad.
Then just a minute later I collided with a deer
after bumping off a black bear which had wandered very near
that twisty little back road with its path so sharply curved,
and then a hungry vulture got the justice he deserved
for eating in the evening in the middle of the road...
my windshield was all feathers but my car could not be slowed
because it was important that I reach without delay
a dinner in my honor by the town's S.P.C.A.!
Subservience To The Delhi Sands Flower-Loving Fly And Their Ilk
Environmental whack-jobs sue
if they find one dead rat
within a thousand meters of
a petro-driller's plat.
The Greenpeace mind-set seems to thrive
wherever gnats are found,
their precious little habitats
trump crude-oil in the ground.
Our hands are tied by spotted owls
and vermin small and large
Sierra Club would have a fit
if I was left in charge!
For I would man the dozer's,
ev'ry roughneck I'd impress;
they'd perforate the wilderness,
"Drill Here, Drill Now, Pay Less!"
Seasons Without You
Upon the back of Arctic winds, the white cruel snow is carried in.
It drifts, it falls, it fills the air; it clothes the trees which once stood bare,
But through the dark and dreary day, I feel a warmth from far away,
I know that you are smiling.
The dew which sparkles in the grass, as springtime slowly makes its pass,
With warblers singing songs of praise, on lazy April Saturdays,
And flowers bursting into view as butterflies make their debut,
I know that you are pure.
The sun beats down upon the land as summer takes a hellish stand,
Then storms and gales loose all their wrath; tornadoes blot what’s in their path,
The forests burn and mountains shake, the rivers flood and coastlines quake,
I know that you are strong.
Next autumn slowly ambles in, replacing summer’s fading din,
And nature paints a bright collage, upon the forest’s entourage,
Of hickory, maple, oak and elm, and as my eyes are overwhelmed,
I know that you are beautiful.
Six More Weeks of Winter
As Rocky Mountain blizzards start to brew,
a groundhog sleeps in Punxsutawney, Penn.,
but he will rise on February two,
as tourists on this tiny town descend,
and should the storm arrive in time, well you
can bet that “rat” will stay deep in his den,
but if it's clear and sunny skies abound,
he's sure to see his shadow on the ground.
There's deep fried chicken nugget disks
and frozen fish in sticks;
there's bacon smoked and vacuum packed
in harmless oblong bricks;
there's sausage links and patties and,
there's cube steak finely ground;
there's all the sandwich slices which
are either square or round.
The lumps and shapes help hide the truth
behind these tasty treats;
my conscience doesn't lose much sleep
as I consume such meats.
But now I feel a deep remorse
for one specific fate...
the hopeless final judgment of
the lobster on your plate!
No common words, no verbal links
to comfort the accused;
his specie type condemns him to
be boiled and abused.
His eyeballs cook, his mouth is seared,
with massive shocking heat;
a second of discomfort and
his heart fails in defeat.
A lifeless shell, a gray-eyed stare,
the mighty claws gone slack;
your fleshy fingers pull his joints,
then try to break his back.
The boiled meat is pulled apart,
you feast on every shred;
his carcass is discarded--
he is garbage--you are fed.
And that was all that life has brought
this immigrant from Maine,
a scalding pot of water and
a second's worth of pain.
From where do such attachments rise
to scorp'yons of the deep?
Why, for such an ugly face, would
conscience tend to weep?
Were I entangled in a net
beneath a troubled sea,
Do you suppose a lobster would
attempt to set me free?
My sympathies are not, of course,
a simple quid pro quo...
but Inquisition cauldrons seem
an awful way to go.
Annabella the Anaconda
When anacondas sleep walk
they slither here and there;
they sometimes wake up miles from
their anaconda lair.
But Annabella wasn’t
your ordinary snake;
she danced the “Mashed Potato”
and did the “Chocolate Shake”.
So one night she was dreaming
of dancing dot to dot;
she woke up all contorted,
and tied up in a knot.
She wriggled and she jiggled,
she slithered in reverse,
the more she tried unraveling,
the knot just tightened worse.
They called in Dr. Warthog,
but he was so perplexed,
that he called Dr. Mongoose,
though he was no less vexed.
Then finally Spider Monkey,
dreamed up a cogent plan;
he needed certain items,
from all across the land.
When everything was ready
the snake was put to sleep;
the items were made ready,
and stacked up in a heap.
The surgeons worked quite swiftly,
they gave her four large feet,
then smoothed out all her knotting,
with pleat sewn after pleat.
Atop her new smooth body,
with shells of coconut,
they laid out strips of armor,
from neck on down to butt.
And when she finally wakened,
upon her comfy pillow,
the doctors proudly told her,
“You’re now an Armadillo.”
Diffusing dusky cinder skies in gloom and dull regale,
betraying evening's homicides where tint and tone are lain,
the pastel codes of color usher rules which won't prevail,
as chalky mists conceal the sky where solar fires are slain.
Processions march from cloudy throngs beyond horizon's arc,
in long drawn lines of hazy spume beneath the north wind's back;
this gasconade of overcast which ambles through the dark,
has stretched the gaudy veil of grey from reservoirs of black.
And as the chill night settles in where daylight lost its will
to penetrate conspiring clouds assembled in their might;
the blackness claims the victor's spoils of voids it's glad to fill
and color's buried six feet deep beneath the edge of night.
Then sometime in the smallish hours when creation’s sound asleep,
when clouds have all grown weary and allowed their guard to fall,
a single silent shock of light will pierce the blackened keep,
as proof of resurrection by the diehard solar ball.
Atom Jack's Fall From The Heavens
I am Jack's euphoric sideways glance
spinning around and through symmetric arches and spires
of a snowflake dreamscape
mesmerized by crystalline shoots and obelisks,
branches, arms and causeways.
I am Jack's visual captivation with spectral projections
reflected and split into beams and pyrotechnic dots and rays,
gliding through the infinite three-dimensional matrix
like an airborne Venetian gondola cruising atmospheric canals
between hexagonal columns, plates and boulevards.
I am Jack's retinal incredulity
at the immensity of this crystalline universe,
whose dynamic facets, textures and permutations
of perfectly sculpted buttresses and parapets
are amassing here, receding there, in constant flux.
I am Jack's visible disappointment,
as the snowflake melts on a hot headlight lens
and dribbles into steaming vapor.
In marshes, woodlands, seaside coves,
through orchards, meadows, country groves,
there live ten thousand different types,
of Flickers, Swifts and Common Snipes...
of Swallows, Pintails, Winter Wrens,
Eurasian Widgeons, Prairie Hens,
Aleutian Terns and Gambel's Quail,
Northwestern Crow, Virginia Rail...
of Red Knots, Curlews, Guinea Fowl,
plus Magpies, Eagles, Great Horned Owls,
with Kinglets, Towhees, White-tailed Kites,
Flamingo flocks and big Bobwhites...
There's Turkeys, Vultures, Red-tailed Hawks,
Le Conte's Sparrows, Lesser Scaups,
plus Ibis, Egrets, Sandhill Cranes,
and Great Blue Heron swamp domains...
They're hunting, feeding, catching bugs,
ingesting minnows, seeds and slugs.
My fascination never ends,
with habits of our feathered friends.
Mourning For Her Love
From what exotic cut of cloth
has heaven clothed this shoot,
whose blackened outer garment shields
a brilliant scarlet flute?
For what intended purpose did
the floral gods propose,
a pitch-black colored lily
with a throat that gleams and glows?
She's striking in her beauty in
the evenings soft and cool;
she gazes ever upward at
each cosmic colored jewel.
The stars lend inspiration they're her counterparts above;
the lily wears her mourning cloak
while burning for her love.
Photo by Diane Wilson @ www.firelily.com
Gaseous billows rising, roiling
deep within a growing sphere
interstellar vapors boiling
ergs of light will soon appear
Heaving-to just shy of danger
sensors, probes, recording all
proto-star lies in her manger
soon to be a brilliant ball
Surging, pulsing, vi’lent blasting
fusing atoms in her core
arcs of flashing plasma flicker
just three seconds, maybe four...
…Pluming stellar core ignition
six times brighter than the sun
spectral probes check her condition
data’s captured on the run
Eons passed while in the making
culminating in today
First time ever picture taking:
stellar birth in Milky Way
Last Flight of the Questra
Solar windstorms raging,
photons out of phase,
radio-active clouds of,
ominous gamma rays…
Our stout Galactic Galleon,
against the quantum pulses,
a dying quasar sends.
The power's fluctuating,
to all the outer shields,
the hull is slowly bending,
from anti-matter fields.
Bulkheads bulge obscenely,
and cracks creep down her bones,
our forward-looking radar,
shows black subduction zones.
The decks start folding quickly,
the outer skin gives way,
imploding sub-space warp drives,
add color to the fray.
A thousand screaming crewmen,
are sucked out into space;
a plea for quick assistance
is shot out to our base.
I made it to a life pod
ejected just in time,
I see three others out here,
the view is quite sublime!
Assistance will be coming,
dispatched from Main Control,
they won't find any wreckage,
just one well-fed black hole.
Algonquin chants in Mohawk skies
paint steamy lakes through eagle eyes
which Pawnee legends do portend
the Colorado spirits send.
The Kickapoo and Huron too
glide swiftly in their birch canoe
toward Shiawassee fishing streams
envisioned in the Zuni dreams...
...the Zuni dreams of open plains,
consumed by Natchez wind and rains
where buckskin songs of buffalo
are herded by the Navajo.
The thunderstorms give rise to tales
of timber wolves on Paiute trails
where Blackfoot meet the Iroquois
near bands of long lost Illinois.
Before too long an Erie moon
which rises to a Cheyenne tune
dispels the appaloosa quest
to run before the sun is dressed...
...is dressed in palomino hills
...is dressed in Onondaga kills
of beaver, boar and white-tail deer
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Catawba winds blow cold and clear.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Tuscaroran rising sun
southeast of where the mustangs run
bestows the forest's vibrant health
and aids the Fox's hunting stealth.
The Kalispell and Wichita
not so unlike the Ogemaw,
pursue the ancient way of ways
in woodland tracts and fields of maize.
Comanche, Crow, Dakota, Creek
ascend the Hopi mountain peak,
listening for the songs that see
the beauty of the Cherokee.
The slither slakes a thirst for crawl
with fluid sinew slide,
while swimming envies slither's sprawl
in sub-aquatic glide.
The waddle longs for slender hooves
and smoothness breathed by run,
while paddle mimics waddle's moves
in rivers gray and dun.
The undulate parades its flex
with jellyfish and kin,
while ornithopt'ry's flapping treks
are beat by wing and fin.
The sidewind threatens striking fast
on deserts dry and hot,
while canter swings pretentious past
poor gallop, walk and trot.
Science has proven that bodies need groovin'
to rock and roll oldies played loud
the hip and leg junction has one major function
and that is to shake with a crowd
The music's a blessing in helping destressing
the angst from the day to day chores
in nine of ten cases the rhythm erases
the poisons that clog up your pores
The tests are official, to jam's beneficial
it fosters strong bodies 12 ways
the dancers keep jumpin' while Foghat is pumpin'
then Ozzie and Zep join the craze
Those rappers are dyin' as bluesmen are cryin'
The jazzers are spastic and weird
The life support's failin' for Willie and Waylon
But rockers are kicked in high gear!
This healthcare is costin' a CD of Boston
and maybe a download of Queen
I think you'll be glad to see "Aerosmitherapy"
sets you back, maybe, thirteen.
So stand in defiance to all the old science
I s'pose this will come as a shock
Be wiser than Gandhi by jammin' to Blondie
and get your nutrition of rock
Electric senses sizzle to the neon-glow guitars,
Lonely singles hopping under seven-million stars,
Rampage riffs and chain-link chops are stirring up a fray,
Saw-tooth synthesizers paint a dizzying display.
Amplifiers bulging with a heavy handed bass,
Lightning licks from drummer's sticks fill in the empty space.
Everyone is hopping and the sweat pours down in tears,
Minds are numb from all the fun and WAY too many beers.
Bathroom lines begin to form as dancers slowly tire,
But then another song kicks in and re-ignites the fire.
Crazy antics on the floor as dancers crash and burn,
When two come off, two more get on, to take another turn.
All too soon the lights go down, the band walks off the set,
They pack away their instruments and fly off in their jet.
Another town, another round of Rock & Roll and Blues,
Ten thousand more contented pairs of boogie-woogie shoes.
The Me That Could've Been
[Sung to the tune of
the United States Marine Corps Hymn]
From the halls of Monkey Business
to the shores of Sophistry;
I have fought to keep my self awake,
in the classroom eight 'til three.
first to stand up at the recess bell,
and the last one drug back in,
I'm a slacker poet through and through
in a fight I cannot win.
Well I'm graduating from my class
on the very bottom rung
so I tried out for a scholarship
just to find out I was hung.
Got a job now down at Mickey Dee's
flippin' burgers with a grin
don't know how I'm going to pay the rent
in this fight I cannot win.
I'm a welfare zombie with a wife
and eleven screaming kids,
got a mortgage that's ten times my wage
in a life that's hit the skids.
Goofing off sure seemed fun at the time
now I've got a different spin:
had I studied then I would not be
in a fight I cannot win.
Bomb That Office (B.T.O.)
I get up in the mornin' to the air raid warnin'
Take the eight-fifteen into the city,
There's some bombers up above
and buildin's burnin', buildin's puffin',
And the air, is gettin' quite gritty.
And if your train's on fire,
You can find a cab for hire,
To take you where your office used to be.
If you ever get annoyed
cuz the city was destroyed,
Just go and join the mil-i-tar-y...
And you'll be takin' care of business,
Takin' care of business,
If you're not K.I.A.
Take It Easy (take two) (☼☼☼)
Well, I'm a burnin' up the road,
as I'm haulin' a load,
I've got seven coppers on my tail:
four that wanna grill me,
two that wanna kill me,
one says he'll see me in jail.
Take it easy, take it easy,
don't let the flashers on your tail
drive you crazy.
Light one up while you still can,
don't even try to understand,
just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy.
Well, I'm a rottin' in a slammer
in Mobile, Alabammer
and such a damn fright to see:
it's a great big hunk, and he wants my bunk
and he stops to shoot a wink at me.
"Come on, baby, don't say maybe."
He's gotta know if my sweet love’s
gonna save me.
I may lose and he may win,
but I will never be the same again.
So grit my teeth, and let it' in,
and take it easy.
Well, I'm a hidin' in the trash,
as I'm tryin' to make a dash,
got a world of trouble on my mind…
lookin' for a passage
to smoke a little grassage,
but it's so-o-o hard to find.
Take it easy, take it easy,
don't let the sound of sniffing dogs
drive you crazy.
Come on, help me, don't let 'em scalp me.
I gotta know if this sweet trash
is gonna save me.
Oh, we got it easy,
we oughta take it easy.
Twelve Foot Pipeline
You should know I'm only jestin' when I mention "small intestine"
but the French Horn is a strange contorted beast.
Like a sculpted brass spaghetti it's a tiny bit unsteady
for the novice with no inkling in the least.
There's a mouth piece thread connection to the hairpin tube collection
with some stubby little valve keys for control—
there's a note that's soon in coming as it travels through the plumbing,
though it sometimes takes a minute hole to hole.
Crank It Up!
It takes a sturdy engine hoist
to lift my home-made amp,
its iron body’s welded to
an old hydraulic ramp.
There's static in the speakers as
the rectifiers blaze
the amplifier's signal is
two-twenty out of phase.
The sine waves suffer clipping at
their bottoms and their tops,
the gain adjust is maxing out,
my record skips and pops.
The walls and ceiling rumble with
an oscillating roar,
the analog transformer must
be melting at its core!
The triodes are reacting from
their heaters to their plates,
the feedback circuits start to spark
the boost reciprocates.
The wow and flutter measurements
are pegged clear off the chart,
another db louder and
my walls will blow apart!
The HOUSE is PULSE-ing TO the BEAT
it's LOUD in EV'ry ROOM!
in FACT it's TWEN-ty DEC-i-BELS
a-BOVE a SON-ic BOOM!
There's Slacker and Cracker, Black Sabbath and Who,
Foreigner, Coroner, Into the Blue,
There's Blasters, Disasters, King Kobra and Queen,
The Others, Blues Brothers, Deep Purple and Clean.
There's Onyx, Delfonics, Led Zepp'lin and Kinks,
The Bangles, Keith Mangles, Head East and the Finks,
There's Journey and Bernie, Joan Jett and the Cars
Funkstation, Elation, and, Yes, Men From Mars.
There's Weezer, the Geezers, King Crimson and Cramps
Blue Oyster*, the Cloister, Clockhammer and Vamps,
There's Ozzie*, Fugazi, The Fixx and the Facz,
Replacements, Pop's Basement and Panic Attacks.
There's lots of good music and genres to suit,
From Elvis’s crooning to Jethro Tull's flute,
submerge in the richness of each sonic sweep
from Manfred Mann's keyboards to vocals from Heep.
Step On Through To The Other Side (☼☼)
Hypnotic meditations from the speakers in the dark,
ignite an aural whisper of a vision's inner spark,
these nuanced vague impressions
billow through your neural net,
they’re amplified and tinted by that special cigarette.
The music takes on body, forms a texture and a shape,
then time begins to undulate, like breezes on a drape,
your bodies start to signal in a primal E.S.P.
just wordless thoughts and phrases on a wave of T.H.C.
The cosmos is connected through the center of your soul,
your conscience is attracted to the North Galactic Pole,
the universe reduces to a microscopic dot...
...and then you wake up hungry with an empty bag of pot.
Can’t Stop Rockin’
The Doors tried to take us up higher and higher
To Hendrix plateaus of indulge and inspire
The Grateful Dead soothed us with tempos much calmer
'til Emerson jammed with Greg Lake and C. Palmer
the Beach Boys were consummate rock harmonizers
Rick Wakeman was quakin' with sharp synthesizers
Deep Purple had textures so rich and amazing
While Dio's guitar was heat treated, though blazing
Uriah Heep's rhythms--as sweet and contagious--
as Zappa concoctions proved weird and outrageous
Santana entranced us with Latin persuasion
and Foghat unloaded a Slow Ride vibration
The Manfred Mann keyboards were dipped in delicious
while "madman gone nutzo" was trademark Sid Vicious
The Talking Heads hooked us on toe-tapping catchy
While Seger performed with his signature scratchy
Electric Light Orchestra's vocals enraptured
the same set of ears that the Moody Blues captured
The J. Geils honky-tonk turned us to dancers
While Go-Go's and Bangles were FM enhancers
With ZZ Top, Kansas, Police and the Cars,
Pretenders, Steve Miller, and other great stars,
Chicago, Blue Oyster, the Doobies and Who,
with Loverboy, Foreigner, plus one or two
whose concerts we cherished,
whose albums we bought,
whose music we worshipped, remembered and taught
whose records and cassettes then later CDs
now trade on the Napster as free mp3's!
In Your Kingdom's Phylum
I was in your kingdom's phylum where I sought a soul asylum
but you packed me up and bade me go away,
so I waltzed across the forest
to the turkey vultures' chorus
"Carri-on And Live To Fight Another Day"
Bustin' loose, prepare for ridin'
through the forest time's abidin'
busted loose and prayin' on my bended knee
in the field of mixed emotions
overlookin' phantom oceans
now it's time to fin'lly set my spirit free
So I carried on in battle, killing kings and stealing cattle
built a halfway decent kingdom of my own
now from what the gypsies tell us
you've become insanely jealous
and adopted quite an ataractic tone
You think reconciliations might improve negotiations
but forgive me when I tell you "Fly a kite."
I will take this grand occasion
to announce my next invasion:
Hey! I'll see you on your knees tomorrow night!
now it's fin'lly time to set my spirit free
yeah it's way past time to set my spirit free
set me free
Touring With Jack and Jill
Jack and Jill
went east until
they wound up in Angola.
Jack ate cheese
while Jill drank seas
of foaming Coca Cola.
Off they went
their funds were spent
for transpo' to Nairobi.
On a break
Jill peed a lake
the size of Okeechobee.
North they flew
where Jack became a Buddhist.
Jill, now dead,
had died instead,
a Himalayan nudist.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Dance staccato groove track
beating cosmic click clack
Synthesonic mind bomb
Shuffled footwork antics
Dance all night romantics
Knockout City (☼☼☼)
Well you're dancin' like a gypsy
on a table in Poughkeepsie
but you really ought'a try ta settle down
'cuz the liquor's got you rockin'
as your chip is overclockin'
an' you know that you're the hottest thing in town
Yeah, you're hotter than Madonna
on a donkey in Tijuana
Yeah, you're hotter than a freckle on the sun,
You're the light bulb in a socket
You're the south end of a rocket
and you only wanna have a bit o' fun
So you're shakin' in Laredo
like a "double-d" tornado
as the hombres try to keep their longhorn' short
you're as smooth as melted butter
an' the cowpokes stare and stutter
and it looks as though you'll have your day in quart!
In a pub in Tallahassee
you're the queen o' sweet and sassy
as the locals crowd on in to see the show
you're a teasin' little meany
in a bitchin' string bikini
and your cleavage is receiving major dough!
Now it's off to Capistrano,
high atop a grand piano,
for another lusty night of song and dance
It's a bevy of high rollers
popping fillings from their molars
as their “little heads” are dreaming of romance!
Backyard Battle Hymn
(Dedicated to Susan L.)
I have seen a hundred squirrels doing cartwheels through the trees,
They are furry little rodents that I'd love to hug and squeeze,
They would just as likely bite me and inject a rare disease,
It's time to buy a gun.
Lock and load then open fire,
Aim your gun a little higher,
Shoot the squirrels off the wire,
Their pelts will keep me warm.
There's a squirrel on the fence post sitting pretty as you please,
He is cracking open acorns as he's airing out his fleas,
There's a winter blizzard raging but he never seems to freeze,
It's time to buy a gun.
Now the squirrels have outflanked me and they have me on my knees,
They have brought in reinforcements from a thousand local trees,
They have compromised my attic, it's my home they plan to seize,
It's time for me to run.
(Skip the refrain, gotta get out fast!)
Well here I am retreating through the frigid Arctic breeze,
I am in my flannel bathrobe on a pair of busted skis,
I couldn't take my Hummer cuz' the squirrels swiped my keys,
I think that I am done.
(Musical transition to slow funeral dirge.)
walk me down the causeway of the catwalk of my mind
in a paisley pop production of a psychedelic kind
i will ride the rails of whimsy through the corridors of beat
as the hues and tints of music cast an iridescent sheet
on the broadcast of convention in her scintillated dress
as she flashes fascination on its freeway of finesse.
how the jet-streams in the hallway blow a holographic tease
to a flavored satisfaction in effulgent harmonies
which are floating toward a harbor on a levitating bay
where the sparkles of the ocean form a parallel array
with the richest luminescence on the beams of solar lust
which combine their total focus on a single speck of dust
when mirages of this opera coalesce and fall like rain
on the fertile slopes and valleys of imagination's plain
then the senses will develop pistils, stamens, fins and wings
and the pendulum of conscience will transform to other things
as the wheel of evolution spins its heights and depths unknown
and will funnel thought cohesion in a self absorbing cone.
why this aura of emergence seems so spritely fresh and free
when the keys to this ignition have been locked inside of me
while the fulcrum of my mindscape teetered near the psychic brink,
it's titanic mental icebergs slowly melted by the wink
of an aromatic substance in a liberated state
which, despite the moral conflicts, really proved well worth the wait.
The Dreamwine Poet
In the mindscape near the fountains of the muse's blood Bordeaux
where the synergistic rivers of Sangria spirits flow
where a dry Amontillado with its brilliant afterglow
forms an oxbow by the courtyard of the intellect's chateau…
In the fecund fields and meadows of the muse's grand estate
where Chianti runs and races with a fragrance so ornate
that it ~swoons~ you like a claret whose complexion one can rate,
there’s a crimson clear vermilion with a flavor twice as great…
In the Cabernets and Concords one can find a full refrain
of rufescent tints and tinges which compete for their domain
with the subtle inundation of a sparkling white Champagne
which ignites creative verses in the Dreamwine Poets' brain.
The ticking, the clicking of Byzantine clocks,
a concept refreshingly unorthodox,
by modern professors of "fabrics of time"
the Byzantine clocks were a noble design,
of cypress, mahogany, wrought iron nails
a few bits of brass, and all that entails,
from sculpting to forging and lead-crystal glass
the Byzantine clocks were a whole sep'rate class
of timepiece inventions, quite one of a kind…
…they only exist through the doors of my mind.
A Structure, Not A Color
Black's not a color, it's more of a structure,
the ultimate hide for a poet's escape.
Deep in the intellect's central library,
the reminisce images play on it's drape.
Black is the theater for raw recollection,
the limitless stretch of an organic mind.
Deep in its cradle of mutagen pathos,
black is the universe known to the blind.
Black's the best hall for a headphone concerto,
or cinema stages of dreaming and sleep.
Deep in the heart of the cosmic container,
the sum of the heavens abide in its keep.
Infinity Minus One Equals Zero
Gaze on luminescent crowns in shades of lurid lunar glow,
in front of constellation kings who rule the midnight starry show.
Smudges (moonlit faded halos) brush eclipses dark and svelte,
while horse heads prance in cosmic shadows, dancing on Orion's belt.
Dim the glaring city street lamps;
still the cricket's chirping song;
shun the ghosts in storied footsteps;
wrap yourself in night's sarong.
Watch the burning disks and crescents overwhelm the fade of dusk,
enjoy the legion lights of mystery, meteoric streakers, brusque!
Cover up from daunting crispness in the evening's chilling dark,
enjoy the spiraled milky garter shining with galactic spark.
Count the clusters, round and open;
watch the planets slowly spin;
contemplate the empty vastness;
from perspective’s point within!
Postulate near-perfect vacuums giving birth to ultra dense;
hypothesize atomic census of creations so immense.
Theorize your odds of living, how and where you came to be,
a dot of human animation, somewhere in a starry sea.
Smokin' Along Highway 40 (☼☼)
Well me an' Ned decided one day
that we wanted to trip in the worst kind of way;
so we burned us some barley,
and we burned us some hay,
but we mostly just choked as our faces turned gray.
So we tried some alfalfa and bark off a tree,
Ned smoked a whole cabbage, then threw up on me,
we tried smokin' rhubarb,
we tried smokin' corn,
but we were still straight, jes' straight as can be.
Well fin'lly it happened we found the right junk
We caught us a buzz far worse than dead drunk
wE're HIGher thaaN cLOUDs
anD weRe not comin' DOWN
OUr HEAD'S in THE skY
and OuR feeT on da GrouND
We coughed on the fumes, my gosh but it stunk,
As WE smOKed all THE FUR
froM the BuTT OF A sKunK!
(Skunk weed, anyone?)
Rose Colored Sea Shades (☼☼)
Sinsemilla summer burns in earnest on the waves of rocking retro oldies down the boardwalk near Pacific Beach's sand as surfers ride green rollers past the frame of paisley seashores in betwinkled high-noon glare.
Balm of special lotions on the tanning sands of sunshine drifts through seagull cries and cooler thoughts of sparkled hits inspired by the liquid laughs on Frisbee rims and toss-caught bits of corn chip plays with pop-top jubilee.
Laughter carries murmured surf beyond the sandbar's silicon to granulated creams and pinks with seaweed garnish rolling in amid the riptide's estrogen of salty spray bikini tops and firmly muscled tone.
Oceanic azure winds strike vivid nondescriptions in the castles built with Play-doh pails on starfish hands and dolphin fins their mocking calls and sunburned gleams descend on blue horizons sunk in sinsemilla dreams.
Freelance Ricochets Muted Somewhere
Freelance photons streak across, around and through
atomic bits of mist and dew as billowed fog banks
inundate the leaf-strewn guttered flanks of some
forgotten avenue which basks in stuttered neon-
vapor light one lonely stillborn autumn night.
Ricochets of plastic-filtered tail light rays deflect,
diffuse then re-collect on asphalt ramps and traffic ways,
through mirrored glass and camera lens which capture
tens of seconds worth of RGBs with multiprocessed graphic
ease for edits in the digital domain.
Muted chromas grace the page with tensile threads of
scarlet rage which loop in synchronicity with three phase
electricity against a blackened vellum screen so scanned
and splattered as the scene from microscopic bits and bytes
that reproduce the captured sights now networked for
collective eyes to see.
Somewhere in a poet's mind the words depict the proper
kind of allocated verbs and nouns that recreate in uttered
sounds the abstract shot of light arrays that so describe
in clause and phrase the output of those streaked displays
from freelance photons now long laid to rest.
Stylistic Online Bombardment Continued
Stylistic nods of false-front gods from semi-glossy
pulp facades which tittle tit-for-tantalize the
Glamour girls and GQ guys as fodder they might idolize
to feed and coffer profit queues with Nieman Marcus
three-grand shoes and other sundry gems.
Online orders overseas for point-and-click
accessories or brick-and-mortar instant grat' for
high-brow gifts in nothing flat, those watches, belts and
money clips for junkets, jaunts and business trips
are good for Main Street too.
Bombardment in and out of home, by e-mail, tube and
telephone, they've backward masked the dial tone on
frequencies they had to seize to boost the stocks from
all time lows, with fond farewells and hale hellos
but still they will not thrive.
Continued cons and bailout bonds for banks who juggle
four batons, with broken fingers, elbow casts,
financial king iconoclasts brought low by their portfollyo
(a quite befitting portmanteau) a "Holy hell!" imbroglio
to those of us with better common sense.
Pressing Against My Eyes
Autographs of lightning streaks in circles lines and squares
scintillate the visual plate of soft crescending flares
gilded spirals turn to lace, then slowly drift apart
checkers merge in splotchy clumps across the shifting art
Swirlers meld with colored curves and surging dots abound
waves of pyrotechnic mists sweep in and wash around
twinkling specks and pulsing shapes perform a bright ballet
fusing frames and colors in an ocular bouquet
Hypnotizing undertones in mauvy pinks and red
integrate with bubbled greens that float about my head
Mottled grids of E's and F's upright or on their side
blend into the background as the T's and I's collide
orbs and crosses ebb and flow while stripes roll into cones
yellows fade to darkness then emerge in different tones
equidistant boxes march in groups of three and four
bursting into complex webs across the pulsing floor
Luminescent phantoms drift on random half-moon routes
Interspersed with particles from which the color shoots
Leaning back and staring at a light with both eyes closed
The color circus dissipates, the scene is decomposed.
Just the Cold
Immersed in spatial thunder in the confines of my ear
the sonic riptides echo ‘tween the distant and the near.
A resonating vortex in the center of the brew,
congeals the sub harmonics of an iridescent hue.
A million brain cells sweep like grass beneath a rolling sea:
they oscillate and undulate, each yearning to be free.
Staccato notes and drawn out slurs define each curve and twist…
these psycho-fluid rambles just diversions in the mist.
My headphones lead me deeper toward the transcendental shelf,
the frequencies are shifting and I lose all sense of self.
Upon the ocean's surface I can see the face of Mars
it makes the perfect stepping stone for strolling in the stars.
The cold air sweats as midnight sets across the whole of space,
an interlude of quietude then quells the human race.
The heavens slowly disappear as darkness takes its hold,
another moment later all that's left is…
…just the cold
A Sunday Confession (☼)
My soul is like a planet being ravaged by a war;
I've yielded crust and mantle now I'm fighting for the core.
The evil reinforcements filter in from far and wide;
my only hope of winning is if God is on my side.
My body strains to tensions that a person shouldn't bear;
the mind solicits urges for a torrid love affair.
There’s yearning for the girl next door, as well a thousand more;
devotion is eroding, and there's not much left in store.
Yet day by day I hold at bay these demons of the heart;
just one more ounce of pressure and the dam will blow apart.
It must be right to wage this fight to keep my honor clean,
but tempting are the spirits of the wicked and obscene.
I've wandered on the Internet to websites all around,
perusing sappy suburbs and the seedy side of town.
The sight of flesh is honey to my sugar-hungry eyes,
but now I've been corrupted by these orgiastic lies.
The brain is blowing gaskets and my mind splits down the seams,
I want to truly love my wife and drown in dirty dreams.
So day by day I look away from girls who wink "that smile"...
…that facial bit of chemistry which grants both inch and mile.
I'm prisoner and warden in a jail with paper walls,
temptation is a visitor, who all too often calls.
The only thing that keeps me sane while in here doin' time,
is scratching out some futile words, confessing in a rhyme.
The Infinite Touch of the Finite Woman(☼☼)
You needn't entice me with mansions nor gold,
my spirit won't brighten too overly much,
with gestures of lucre or fortune untold,
but bribe me with promise: a feminine touch,
and I will abandon all scruple and such;
to tickle my fingers on sensitive skin;
to measure my wit versus ladylike wiles;
to satiate lusts in a maelstrom of sin;
to humor myself with a girl who beguiles,
engaging my banter with laughter and smiles...
Oh, yes! I'd abandon all quaintness, all class,
revert to the hedonist lad of my teens.
I'd fancy a spin with a plainest sweet lass,
or tend to the needs of the loftiest queens,
"Away with those laces, those leathers, those jeans!"
My heart yearns to flit on a one to one beat,
with a nondescript girl from a random address,
from any old town or from any old street.
I'd love her to death if she'd just acquiesce,
to intimate thoughts and a tender caress...
…caressing her mind on an empathic quest
of synchronized pinches and touches of tongue,
connecting the dots with a hand on her breast,
then climbing the chakras up to the top rung:
Nirvana, samadhi, or one of among
a hundred descriptions that can't bridge the chasm,
of words that describe such a sensory state:
it's nothing, but something, a vivid phantasm...
organic, dynamic, a way to equate
the infinite empty as something innate.
The years are slowly closing in around each defect, vice and sin,
these fat cells seem to toil and spin a lardish rear and double chin.
The mirror shows an aging lad; no longer brawny, big and bad,
the finest hour was surely had; this simple truth is ironclad.
The younger set now pass me by with two sweet chicks for every guy;
the males are metro, girls are bi; they have deep needs to satisfy.
They fan the flames within their hearts; they flaunt their fleshy private parts
and overturn the applecarts of men like me who see such tarts—
—as sweet relief from that "old cow" with whom I made my marriage vow;
I see a virgin field to plow, a bead of sweat forms on my brow!
I'm still a man of flesh and blood; my brain sends signals in a flood;
my moral high-ground turns to mud; I've got to prove I'm still a stud!
My mind's on fire, it lusts and craves a lithesome lass who misbehaves;
who dances down the all night raves; who spanks her geriatric slaves;
who loves a kinky rendezvous; who'd love to spend a night or two;
who blows a decent didgeridoo; who'd turn my bottom black and blue!
Oh geez! I think I'm going nuts, with all the thoughts of breasts and butts,
of strumpets, trollops, tramps and sluts, of daytime flings and midnight ruts...
I've got to stop and find out why the sight of flesh depraves my eye;
I know that I can beat this lie, and bid temptation sweet goodbye!
Every cylinder and piston in my central nervous system
must be making aching hormones by the pound;
every female clerk and teller puts a spin in my propeller,
even chunky chicks who're looking plump and round.
I find grannies appetizing; anorexics mesmerizing;
I'm infatuated WAY beyond the norm.
While it sounds extremely corny there's a hurricane of horny
in the center of my cerebellum's storm.
All my muscles need restraining as my heart is hydroplaning
down the freeway of the feminine allure,
but I'm hangin' on white knuckled with my shoulder harness buckled
as I'm speeding to the clinic for a cure.
I can hear my heartstrings strummin' for a gal I picked up thumbin'
who is just as taken-in with all things "men."
She's a topless tantric tutor with an overheated scooter
who approximates my idealistic "10."
She seems wholly empathetic; mentions "urges are kinetic,"
and she yearns to paint the canvas of her skin—
with the vivid tones of touches by my finger-painting brushes,
but just seconds shy of when we would begin...
…we were parking at the clinic, graceful swan turned into cynic,
it was clear that she felt hopelessly betrayed.
This was NOT to her full liking, so continued her hitchhiking,
sorta sad since now my bed was fully made.
But of all the silly curses, there's a pack of gorgeous nurses
in between the lobby's door and front desk bell;
it's with mischief that they're smiling since they know I'm domiciling
in this clinic which will be a living HELL!
The Cactus Corners Motocross Competition
We love to fly on motor bikes
across the desert plains,
but cactuses on every trail
have caused us major pains.
Fast Eddie was the first to jump
across the dry creek bed;
he dumped his ride and almost died
from pickers in his head.
Then Denny overshot a curve,
his wheel went in a rut;
the surgeons are attending to
the cactus in his butt.
Next Otto took a shortcut trail,
he tried real hard to cheat;
the doctors are removing all
the needles from his feet.
Yet Tyler followed all the trails,
and rules he did appease;
but just his luck he couldn't duck,
a cloud of killer bees!
So there I rode behind these guys,
upon the slowest bike;
I won the race without a trace
of one saguaro spike.
I had a job in payroll on the 27th floor
until they caught my errors, then they kicked me out the door.
It seems my check was every week the only one I padded...
apparently I multiplied in spots I should have added.
My next job as a driver on a metro city bus
had caused some consternation and unnecessary fuss.
My first and last real incident was painful to explain,
we started in Milwaukee but we wound up in Fort Wayne.
My next job for the airlines saw my bosses rant and cuss,
(I guess I didn't "advertise" my boo-boo on the bus.)
I'm sure I plotted Amsterdam, but landed in Rwanda,
they called me back to London but we crashed in Tonawanda.
My next job as a plumber found me tying knots with pipe.
I cross-connected hot with cold and someone pitched a gripe.
The husband went to take a show’r as cold as icy cubes,
then later when the wife took hers, she scalded both her boobs.
My next job as a janitor was simple as could be.
You couldn't think of ways to fail, (though I found twenty three.)
One night I buffed the floor with glue, it set up hard as rocks.
but not before a hundred folks had lost their shoes and socks.
My next job as a pharmacist had many turns and thrills
those medicines all sound alike, and pills are pills are pills.
Or so I thought until the day I made a giant "Ooops!"
now half the town is locked up tight, the other has the poops!
My next job dealt with dynamite and clearing rocks and stumps,
if someone has some obstacles I'll smooth away the bumps.
This lady had me clear her land, my best will just not sate her,
she suing me because her home's now looking out a crater.
My next job was a doozy as a lawyer in L.A.
defending some executive who blew his boss away.
I found my client guilty in some ways he never dreamt,
I claimed the fifth then charged myself with two counts of contempt.
So now I am a comic on a swank Las Vegas stage
I'm finally quite successful and my act is all the rage.
There isn't any improv and I know just what to say,
I simply stand up every night and read my résumé!
An Adequate Ex-spleen-ation
One day I asked my organs if they'd like to have some fun;
I'd take them to the country where I'd let them jump and run.
They seemed to be excited so I made some picnic treats,
then gathered hats and frisbees plus my favorite book of Keats.
We made it to a rural park, unloaded all the goods,
our tablecloth and basket set discreetly near the woods.
Medulla, heart and bladder started cooking up some steaks
while sneaky small intestine slithered off to find some snakes.
When pancreas and stomach threw their frisbee up a tree
cerebrum made the rescue but he slipped and skinned his knee.
Some other organs ran a race, exhausted, they recouped,
but when I asked how colon was he simply said, "I'm pooped!"
At one point someone spilled the milk, appendix soon got blamed,
and when the others pushed the point, appendix got inflamed!
Attempting some diversion I suggested to left lung,
that maybe he could sing some songs along with brain and tongue.
So fun and games went on for hours, it was a happy scene,
until my heart informed me of a sad, neglected spleen.
I found him sulking by himself beneath an English Yew,
he told me, "Dad, I'm so confused, I don't know what I do..."
"...I don't pump blood, I don't breathe air, I'm not like tongue or ear;
I feel no satisfaction with my nebulous career.
I guess I'd like some confidence to boost my flagging pride,
so tell me just exactly what it is I do inside."
"Well, son," I said, a bit surprised, "it's time we had 'THE chat':
without your magic enzymes I might change into a rat!
You keep my genes from morphing into donkey, mouse or squid,
unlike the guy who's now a sloth at Central Zoo, Madrid!"
OK... I lied to save some face and not look like a dope...
I had to tell a giant fib to fill his soul with hope.
These organs do what's on their mind, they won't be bribed nor owned
Despite my verbal warnings both my kidney's still got stoned!
So with that explanation little spleen is all aglow,
he wears his heart upon his sleeve so everyone will know,
that he is something special and they all best meet his terms,
or else he'll make some enzymes which could turn them into worms.
The picnic was a great success, and everybody's back,
though snakes which "small" intestine found gave heart a "small" attack!
I'm promising another trip next month, same time and place,
with horseshoes, maybe softball and a fun 3-legged race.
Ballad of the Box
Redundant buttons blinking on a console in the dark:
a feature rich conundrum is this box that missed its mark!
A discontinued model in a week or maybe two,
they've flooded you with functions though you need but just a few.
Six hundred handy features are the standard, plus a clock;
the simpler model that you want is always out of stock.
And so you settle for a box—the plainest you can pick—
although the Users’ Manual’s still a tome three inches thick.
You bring it home, you plug it in, you try and try for hours,
it will not work no matter what—your satisfaction sours.
And so you're forced to pack it up and trudge back to the store,
(too bad you left your sales receipt back home upon the floor.)
A clerk unloads the carton that you've very poorly packed;
he plugs it in and fires it up and knows that you are whacked.
With very little bother he can get the thing to work,
you really want to feed it to this smarmy little jerk.
Configuration's easy for your average PhD,
or even kids from junior high will help you out for free.
Back home, to set it up again, you feel a tiny gloat,
until you see three hundred keys to learn on your remote!
You'll never encounter
a person more steady,
more rational, clever, or even more ready
for any contingency, call or event,
who's never partaken in one accident—
but let a small spider stop in to say "Hi!"
and Carol is spazzing and ready to die.
Her eyes will expand to the size of a tire,
her screaming could stifle
the King's College Choir.
Her pulse nearly triples 'cuz she is assumin'
the spider has motives
far worse than are human.
Her body convulses,
she's twitchin' and dancin',
she sees in the spider
Jeff Dahmer, Chuck Manson!
She throws heavy objects, she swings and she kicks,
it's not Tourette’s Syndrome nor large nervous ticks,
She's hopping, she's jumping, she's looking for missiles;
the spider just saunters along as he whistles--
--the theme from the DVD "8-Legged Freaks",
he's seen it ten times now in just a few weeks.
The spider starts thinking perhaps he should scoot
but then kung-fu Carol connects with her boot.
The Great Kitchen Caper
The heist was nearly flawless, it was pulled off with panache,
no jewelry had gone missing, not a single bit of cash.
The mastermind was brilliant with a highly polished crew,
they'd stripped the 'frigerator and they didn't leave a clue.
Detective Spuds Mackenzie was the first one on the scene,
delivered by his chauffeur in a jet black limousine,
He rummaged in the cupboards as he sniffed for clues and hints,
he dusted every handle for a sign of finger prints.
The Taco Bell chihuahua was the next one to arrive—
he usually worked the kitchen on all weekdays, eight to five.
He left last night as usual: cleaned the counters, mopped the floors,
then double-checked the oven, hit the lights and locked the doors.
He picked up Charlie Tuna and they went to bowl some frames,
then partied at Joe Camel's after losing three straight games.
He spent the night on Camel's couch, his alibi secure,
so Spuds inspected room by room 'til naught was left to tour.
But just before he packed and left the Aflac Duck dropped by—
then Geico's Gecko drove up too and Spudsy wondered why.
It seems these top insurance men were eager to assess,
the total loss of vegetables as close as one could guess.
Apparently a policy was written to protect,
the fridge's fruits and veggies in a way you won't suspect:
the Aflac/Geico binder was a special sort of deal,
that paid a million carrots, as the fine-print did reveal.
So Spuds worked hard to solve the crime, he cased the house all night—
he woke up in his limo from a pre-dawn ray of light.
He rubbed his eyes, then popped them wide, the sight which struck him dumb...
The Energizer Bunny smuggling carrots in his drum!
Some Unusual Senior Activity Noticed Lately(☼)
(dedicated to Susan L.)
For whalers who at birth received a eucalyptus peg,
or common folk who suffer from a slightly missing leg
for hero vets who've lived through Kraut bazookas to the knees
it's time to supercharge those old contused anatomies.
For on this night one year ago the strangest thing took place,
the geriatrics at "the home" met visitors from space,
just what went on inside the home is anybody's guess,
but some would say a miracle, and opt for nothing less.
The fogies stormed the High School in the middle of the night,
where many promming undergrads were higher than a kite,
The amplifiers pounded out some pulsing rhythmic tunes—
the younger set was out there like a flock of flustered loons.
"They're hopping and they're bopping like they're mopping up the floor!
But now it's time for us ol' farts to show 'em what's in store...
Behold! you high school slackers dancing in your modern mode;
we "old home" folk are flipping out, we're ready to explode!"
So Grampas spin some cartwheels next to Grammas pirouettes,
with geezers doing handsprings from the trunks of their Corvettes,
Some gummers yell like Tarzan from the crystal chandeliers,
while chorus-lines of biddies swing their over-sized brassieres.
A few still clutch their crutches and a few can't find their teeth,
but everyone is feeling like a gymnast underneath,
there's couples doing mambos and another does the twist,
the school kids are embarrassed but the codgers still insist...
They're somersaulting strongmen and they're ladies arabesque,
they're doing double back flips from the DJ's private desk,
they came and they delivered an extraordinary show,
and then as one they packed it up, the time had come to go.
So no one is believing all the high school kids on dope,
the locals think they've gone too far; they're simply beyond hope,
but all the kids know what they saw a year ago today,
they've given up their "cigarettes" and walk the narrow way!
Black Sunday (☼)
'Twas the night of Black Sunday and all through the sky
the contagions were ragin' on every last fly.
The talisman crosses were hung with great fear
in hopes that the reaper would come nowhere near;
we innocent victims all tossed in our bunks
as we leaked in our jammies and hurled up chunks,
and Mom with convulsions and me with the shakes
just might have slept better with poisonous snakes,
when out on the terrace in green glowing globes,
there arose a great figure in black hollow robes.
I sprang to the window and locked all the shutters
my paralyzed lips muttered stammers and stutters,
I peeked through a hole at the reaper's barouche,
his seven gaunt griffins and empty capuche.
He cased all the windows, and doors one or two,
then glanced at the roof to consider the flue.
He mounted his carriage and grappled the reins
then ordered his griffins these quoted refrains:
"Now, Typhoid! now, Typhus! now, Cystic Fibrosis!
On, Herpes, on, Cancer, on, Germs and Psychosis!
Ascend to the roof with expedient haste;
we haven't a second to dawdle or waste!"
His demon drawn wagon then flew to my roof,
I thought that ol' reaper just made his first goof!
I ran to the bin for some extra-dry tinder
believing a bonfire might very well hinder
the reaper from stealing my soul or the missus'
and sweeping us off to the fiery abysses...
But matches! My lighter! They weren't to be seen!
I shouldn't have married the "Countess of Clean!"
I looked in the cupboards, the cabinets and drawers,
I looked on the tables, the shelves and the floors,
and then, at the stove, I got paper to smolder
but that's when I felt a cold tap on my shoulder.
I turned around slowly and stared at his face
an empty black presence, there wasn't a trace
of eyeballs or nostrils or any real feature;
he's strikes me as quite the lamentable creature.
I reached for a bottle of vintage vermouth
and told the ol' reaper, "I won't be uncouth;
before we get on, let's warm up with a drink,
I bet you'll just love this!" I said with a wink.
He poured in the bottle, right straight down his hood,
he jostled a bit, then belched out a "Quite good!"
I gave him Old Granddad and Gentleman Jack,
a fifth of Old Crow then I gave him a crack
at some wicked Four Roses and Black Maple Hill
some Henry McKenna and two-for-one swill.
We shifted to Drano, Ammonia and Bleach
by now he was woozy and slurring his speech.
So tight with my wife we took off for the store,
we promised the reaper to bring him lots more!
We're several states distant and honking our horn
Black Sunday is over! It's now Monday morn!
I haven't been healthy for nearly ten weeks,
my spasms are causing some serious leaks,
and though I do hustle to get down the path,
I've had a few boo-boos halfway to the bath.
My ringworm is itching, my pox are worse still,
my lesions are oozing, you see, I'm quite ill.
I've boils and blisters where God only knows,
there's some sort of fungus that's eaten my toes.
My eyeballs are shriveled with discolored iris,
and now I've contracted some horrible virus.
There's droplets and dribbles from all of my pores,
and swarms of mosquitoes drink blood from my sores.
My eyelids are flaking, I'm refluxing bile,
It hurts when I laugh and I can't crack a smile.
My breathing is raspy, my blood starts to thicken,
the Bird Flu compels me to cluck like a chicken.
My prospects are gloomy, the end's drawing nigh,
I'm ready to see the Great Gig in the sky,
The clergyman uttered my last rites today,
So, other than that, well... I guess I'm OK.
This is a lesson on procrastination,
So stifle your laughter, and check your elation.
Many folks died in the following story;
to understand fully we’ll take inventory:
> Twelve pairs of dead socks with an abhorrent reek,
> The pants that got stained by a sewer pipe leak,
> A shirt that's imbued with the smell of burnt hair,
> Some sweaty old gym shorts that foul up the air.
> There’s undies exuding some lethal dioxins,
> plus pit stains displaying a whole line of toxins,
All this was locked up and quietly brewing,
when one day I noticed that something was stewing.
"Deep in my hamper there's green gas in motion!"
"IMMINENT HYDROGEN-SULPHIDE EXPLOSION!!!"
Donning a mask I made off for the basement,
threw myself over a concrete encasement!
KA-BLAM!!! went the house as it flew off the yard,
my body was lofted, abraded and scarred!
The neighboring structures were rocked by the blast,
the tenants were choking as though they'd been gassed!
Windows were shattered in three different cities;
disaster relief groups convened their committees.
National Guard helo's arrived in great thunder,
light-fingered looters were shot with their plunder.
Never again will I be so contented,
I’ll have my old hamper rebuilt and re-vented,
I promise I'll launder at least twice a week.
that’s all on this subject I’m willing to speak.
My Seven Snores
as cataloged by my wife
The first one is sort of a nondescript racket,
like banging a cabinet that has a loose bracket.
My second one’s funny, it comes from the sinus,
it really resembles a sound from behind us.
The third one’s malicious, you can not ignore it.
the diaphragm sounds like I ripped it or tore it.
The fourth one’s described as my "Baritone Trumpet"
I’ve rattled the windows on nights that I pump it.
The fifth one’s a foghorn as blown through a bucket,
I’d save many lives if I slept off Nantucket.
My sixth snore’s like uproar with cows at a dairy,
they say that small children have found it quite scary.
My last snore resembles a spaceship that hovers,
and then, when I exhale, I blow back the covers!
The Right To Grow
A dandelion shuffled down a darkened thoroughfare,
so lonely and dejected in the last stage of despair.
Rejected by the flowers in the garden bed downtown,
the dandelion planned to jump from Main Street bridge and drown.
But when he reached the precipice and bent his knee to jump,
a really cute petunia said, "Too bad you're in a slump."
"You know I often come down here to watch the water flow,
I wonder where it all comes from and where it's going to go."
She told him that she loved his hair, its golden yellow hue,
Then asked if he was certain that his life was really through.
"I hate this life," he mumbled in some suffocated tones,
"The flowers in the garden say I'm ugly and all bones."
"I really try to please them and I meet their every need,
but they all push me in the dirt and say I'm just a weed."
By now the brave petunia climbed the bridge's cold steel bars,
On one side was the water, on the other speeding cars.
"Well I, for one, adore you with your brilliant yellow top,
I'd love to introduce you to my aging mom and pop.
I think that we could settle in a yard down by the shore,
We'd raise some dandelunias and be happy ever more."
So if you're driving past my lawn and stop to wonder why,
The flowers grow at random and the grass is two feet high,
It isn't that I'm lazy or I do not like to mow,
It's simply that the flowers there have earned their right to grow.
A Slow Go
A rock and tree were getting drunk,
they polished off a case;
the rock looked over at the tree,
and blurted out, "Let's race!"
"You're on!" the mighty tree replied,
while setting down his beer,
stating how his supple limbs,
would lift him like a deer.
"Yeah right!" the stubby rock replied,
"I've rolled ten thousand miles...
Though I'm in Arizona now,
I'm from the British Isles."
This challenge, struck long years ago,
finds both still firm in place;
a million trees and rocks look on,
a cactus sets the pace.
It doesn't look like there will be,
much change in coming weeks,
unless a flash flood comes along,
from nearby mountain peaks.
The rock is favored in this race;
the tree's at twelve to one.
I think we maybe need to get,
a louder starting gun.
Woombie and the Boongaflozzer
The woombie is a vicious beast,
attacking when suspected least;
it pounces hard upon its foe,
with sharpened fang and rapier toe.
The boongaflozzer's much more mild,
they'll let you pet them in the wild;
they feed on grasses, nuts and prunes;
they're found in fields and sandy dunes.
But should these two come face to face,
a most amazing thing takes place!
The woombie cowers, cries and pleads,
he runs away at NASCAR speeds!
The boongaflozzer puffs his chest,
puts on a show, defends its nest;
it kicks the ground; it grunts; it groans;
it bellows out horrendous tones!
So how does nature make her mind,
to who's the diner, who's the dined?
A weaker beast may live for days,
while stronger brutes become filets.
See You In Court
Antiquity's wisdom and long held traditions,
those priceless procedures and Papal petitions,
pertaining to social and civilized functions,
have all been repealed by judicial injunctions.
Civility's gone and our modesty's dying,
we're much more advanced in our cheating and lying,
and though we enjoy every plastic invention,
we're drowning in oceans of legal contention.
She tiptoed in the kingdoms of a hundred reigning lords,
she mocked the haughty rulers as she freed the bonded hordes,
her presence was a shadow cast upon a hazy wisp,
and yet her voice was clarion, a call both clear and crisp.
She trampled through the vineyards where the grapes of wrath were kept,
her way was straight and narrow and her path was cleanly swept…
…poor wretch, she's now dismembered and she dies in bloody pools,
she's murdered by the pundits and professors in our schools.
Cellophane sentences, tin foil lies,
masking tape promises, Styrofoam sighs,
deadwood denials and plastic expressions,
spandex partitions in concrete confessions.
Fiberglass futures from Mylar strip mentors,
laser-beam living in sub-urban centers,
acrylic annulments bestowed by attorneys,
throw-away kids on stainless steel gurneys.
Thank You for Your Internet Bu$ine$$
Copyrights, trademarks and now patents pending,
Intangible concepts with markets ascending,
Trading in principles, notions and theories,
Trafficking data from updated queries.
Statistical tables with reinforced backups,
Accounting anticipates very few hiccups,
Efficiency experts are honing the process,
While money rolls into our growing colossus.
Affiliate workgroups and spinoff subsections,
Are selling our name in a thousand directions,
And while we don't market an item concretely,
Our offshore accounts are inflating discreetly.
Maintaining The Bottom Line
Cyber saturation in a manufactured race,
Programmatic bosses push the Universal Scheme,
Dancing human Sputniks orbit in their proper place,
Mechanistic puppets on the robber baron’s team.
Surging quotas trigger reams of warehouse red alerts,
Empty trucks are beckoned to the nearby lots and roads,
Limits on the failsafe must be raised until it hurts.
Laborers are running under extra heavy loads.
System integrations of each person and machine,
Speed the growing lesions in a philanthropic sore.
Human limits start to merge, fatigue and death convene
Inconvenient losses which judicious eyes ignore.
Record breaking profits build on legion foreign graves,
Oriental laborers still prodded through the nights.
Economic engines need another million slaves,
Bosses rip out pages from the book on human rights.
Hardware, software, firmware, fleshware, product out the door,
Databases now predict a momentary slump
Cut the losses, close the margins, pack and ship some more,
Get some fresher bodies, take the old ones to the dump.
Buyers need their cordless phones and strings of Christmas lights!
Keep those presses pressing, run your welders, saws and drills!
Ships are waiting at the docks for more two-dollar tights!
Keep the products flowing, damn the weaklings that it kills!
Lucky Us, It's Reigning.
Luck... Lucky… Unlucky…
Good luck or bad,
like the many faces of rain:
a warm velvety mist of tropical renewal;
slapping sheets of icy Nordic pain;
condensing where conditions are right...
Luck: attracting receptive animal magnets,
and bringing with it an altered destiny...
But I was born to four-four bars
beneath a sky of lucky stars,
with silver spoons and rabbits feet,
delicious streams of trick-or-treat
cascading through my manor's halls,
through gilded rooms with mirrored walls
to spiral staircase waterfalls
from which my angel's trumpet calls...
to those who might believe.
This prima facie destiny
has always been what's best for me,
despite the jealous eyes of rage
which condescend outside my cage;
the salted hate and peppered stares,
the world's peptic ulcer flares
whose nauseous tension finally blows
the stinging vomit from its nose...
and our sons pay the price.
Dismembered bodies on the field
where blood and cordite have congealed;
where heads are lopped and guts revealed;
where all religion's been repealed;
where intellect will lose the day
to vengeance bills we're sure to pay
in weeks or months, it's hard to say,
then hundreds more get blown away...
all in the name of a cause no larger than a grain of sand.
on a roll of the dice--
on a slanted table--
on a sinking ship--
on a tumultuous sea--
and marketing gimmicks
aimed at the weak.
Somebody will win...
if they're lucky.
of a Lop-Sided Jewel
San Francisco suicides,
from toxic moral pesticides,
bring bible-bearing woe betides,
from Christian thinkers down the way...
Strapping gender overhauls,
with tribalistic mating calls,
swap failures till the curtain falls,
and funerals mark the slow decay.
Fascist bombers blown to bits,
with homemade detonation kits,
deserve the justice that they gits,
when wires cross and bombs go bang...
Supertankers leave Japan,
the origami caravan,
of vessels bound for Tarakan,
where derricks thud and anchors clang.
Lightning sizzles through the gaps,
from thunderclouds to balding chaps,
explosive blast of human scraps,
in one climactic BOOM!
Protozoa gather 'round
digesting bodies by the pound,
dissolving every word and sound,
as death row writers take the tomb...
Zigzag lines and curly queues,
pay altruistic union dues,
surrender all their rights to choose,
a new regime is born...
High school dropouts grow their hair,
a sucky wage considered fair,
a burned out spouse, yeah, quite a pair,
another dream is ripped and torn.
The statesmen grab my money for new bridges, roads and streets,
as well they'll raise my taxes which will educate the young;
they say they're spending wisely putting more cops on the beats,
increasing aid to multitudes on fortune's bottom rung.
The confiscation's broadened for a host of subsidies
that pay for endless programs that the nation rarely needs.
Compliance regulators love assessing fines and fees,
corruption is the product which their condescension breeds.
Of course there's Army, Navy plus the Air Force and Marines,
and other good departments which the Constitution sees
as vital infrastructure for the nation's ways and means,
but now we're overburdened with the "Red Tape agencies."
So statesmen use my money for the zoning boards and parks,
and then a certain portion goes to welfare and the poor,
with just another trillion they are sure to hit their marks,
for overseas assistance to Zimbabwe and Darfur.
Those statesmen take my paychecks for the water, land and air,
to track the populations of each turtle, snail and bee,
They budget their resources with extravagance and flair,
with little understanding that there's nothing left for me!
Bloated windbags, filibusters
colleagues, cloture, conferees
all alone or tag-team clusters
razor thin ma-jor-i-ties
witness, hearings, obfuscation
recess districts, wine-and-stump
tabled bills, defenestrations
voting margins, market slump
funding, baselines, thug cartels
extra clauses, late addendums
Halliburton's petro wells
up-or-down votes, liens and tax
lame duck cronies dodge the axe
Senate mandates, high-court ruling
Beltway bullies pack the aisles
stocks and housing market cooling
Clintonistas shred the files
stagnant trends in other cultures
global warming turns to snow
bureaucratic mind-link vultures
diplomatic ebb and flow
fed'ral checkbook balance busted
left wing handouts flame the debt
economic engine's rusted
just might move to Baghdad yet!
Burning With Hatred
From the stomach churning carnage in the cities' parks and streets
there's a revolution raging at the end of bats and cleats
it's the tension from the ghettos and the friction in the air
it's the ever growing pressure from the law enforcement lair
From the racial instigators to the reconquista horde
there's a sense of seething hatred too immense to be ignored
it's a lack of understanding as communication wanes
it's the starving huddled masses staring through our window panes
From the depth of city sewers to our landfills on the brink
there's an ever growing tumor in the putrid urban stink
it's the flood of unskilled labor and the unemployment lines
it's the underhanded masters with their selfish grand designs
From the cesspool of al Qaeda to the North Korean sty
there's a sordid brand of evil and it's spitting in our eye
it's a reign of wrath and terror and it harvests human souls
it's the living spawn of Satan on his bed of burning coals
The church is sinking, by and by; a month of Sundays testify
to faded colors, sheets of dust, disheveled vines, and leaves of rust.
Dilapidation took its toll, a sliver of the rotting whole,
which marked the gradual downward slide upon this town which slowly died.
The market square is barren now; it's strange to think some day, somehow,
that vibrant trade would e'er return, that on these streets the lights would burn,
supported by a bourgeoisie to operate a battery
of business ventures large and small... but now they've vanished, one and all.
The mill roof's leaking, torn apart, machines are rusting in the heart
of this vast plant where better days were witness to the great displays
of sacrifice and all-night runs, "The graveyard shift made forty tons!"...
...now damaged frames and shattered glass lie scattered bits in foot-high grass.
The courthouse is a dismal belle, her broken spirit gone to hell,
her quondam glory genuflects to engineers and architects,
from antebellum days of wealth, from years of economic health,
but now she rots in every board, her planking sags with one accord.
The town is thus in such decay, that no one's left to work or pray.
Abandoned for the greater good, the balance sheet was understood,
prosperity had moved along, the money magnetized the throng,
they headed West on larger dreams and left behind these broken beams.
Paradox of Ages
It's the paradox of ages that the strong should be so weak,
as they terrorize the masses for the ego trip they seek
It's the despots’ dark emotions with bad tempers shortly-fused,
that their weak-kneed, minion lackeys choose "abusers" not "abused."
It's avoidance of the issues in a way that isn't right
as they kill their opposition when they're fast asleep at night.
It's a smallish thumbscrew mindset, ripping tongues and busting knees
as the hedonistic appetites are very hard to please.
It's the paradox of ages that the weak should be so strong,
since they suffer deprivation and they bear it all life long.
It's the steady loss of purpose and their spirits robbed of dreams
as they eek a meager living which is much worse than it seems.
It's the beatings and the torture in a horrid sort of cell,
while the soldiers rape the mothers and the daughters go through hell.
It's subsisting under tyrants with capricious, fierce decrees
while remaining ever faithful through starvation and disease.
Today -- A Blink In Time
With the Beltway buzzard's barking for a wealthy working wage,
with their certain senorita at the center of the stage,
with her horrid high-five combos in the condos of D.C.
they’re the spendthrift caterpillars on a petrified tree.
From the beehive of the brownstones to the towers of Taipei,
from the greenhouse gas emissions to the growlers in the bay,
from the frigid tropic islands to the systematic freeze
of a hundred-million acres in a "global warming" breeze…
We're assaulted in the windrows; we're invaded on our shores;
we're a-waltzing in our Wranglers as we're waging foreign wars.
We're attached to subprime systems; we're accumulating debt;
if you think that this is crazy you ain't seen a sucker yet!
It's the predatory lenders with their lib-er-al-it-y
it's a zero-sum conundrum in your own lo-cal-it-y
it's behemoth bailout bundles in the billions with a "b"
it's the giant greenback vacuum being swept from sea-to-sea!
There's a freefall market flailing as liquidity's absorbed;
there's the toxic prefab fallout in the nexus of the orb;
there's the wholesale rush to raffle all agendas on the right;
there's a final four-year forecast of an era sans the light.*
(* 2009 through 2012. Pray it’s not eight years or longer!)
In the trample of the shuffle,
in the shuffle of delay,
in the cell-phone city circle
on a cold and drizzled day.
Through the tunnels of the traffic,
through the traffic's forward surge,
through the metro's mindless madness
in its hydrocarbon purge.
Run a dozen oddball errands,
run the errand's bumps and scrapes,
run a really rotten red-light
on the copper's traffic tapes.
In the hustle of the hurry,
in the hurry up and wait,
in the earnest urban urgence
to avoid the wrath of "late".
Through a hundred text and e-mails,
through the e-mail saves and kills,
through the ever endless echoes
of a hundred monthly bills.
You're averting your attention,
your attention is required,
you're a valued vocal vapor
up until the day you're fired.
Romance of the Diner
Wasted reams of yesterdays
are tinted by the droll malaise
of greasy spoons and cheap cafes...
another day is gone.
French fries here, a burger there,
a random hike to anywhere,
a million short of "millionaire..."
and all that that implies.
Business burns its wheels and cogs,
a case in point these Coney dogs,
the stomach turns to acid bogs...
and now it's time to go.
Tablecloths and candlesticks,
the maitre d' brings warm breadsticks,
the seventh course is just for kicks...
it never hurts to dream!
Coffee cup with lipstick stain,
the egg yolk is an odd refrain,
from breakfast, lunch and now again...
the charm of small cafes.
Pancakes, bacon, grilled up right,
the waitress winks a warm invite,
might have to stay an extra night...
and confess on Sunday.
Saddle up and hit the road,
another dive, another load
of "gastric upset a la mode"
the journey never ends.
Imagine a Christmas of spending unending
from dividends rising as NASDAQ's ascending.
Consider the New Year's of corporate beginnings
from entrepreneurial lottery winnings.
Conceptualize Valentines' coming together
of mergers conceived in this bull market weather.
Rejoice from the Easter of stock resurrection
(not drunken displays of Saint Patty's correction!)
Envision Memorial days of flag waving
as debts are abated and people start saving,
Then Fourth of July pyrotechnic deposits
fill coffers and boxes in bank vaults and closets.
Our Labor Day gains and some Halloween losses
are metered by golden-silk parachute bosses.
We're grateful to Vet'rans, both fallen and living,
our gratitude shown in the joy of Thanksgiving
The transatlantic liners sailing Europe to New York,
departing Bremen, Liverpool, Marseilles, Southampton, Cork,
accommodated migrants for a hundred twenty years;
they came through Ellis Island and Manhattan's finger piers.
The paddle ship Britannia was the famous number one,
from Liverpool to Boston she invoked a scheduled run;
reciprocating engines were her beating funeral drum
for clipper ships and schooners, though their death was slow to come:
the Lightning and
the Sovereign of the Seas,
the Cutty Sark,
and Sea Witch,
sailed in just an ounce of breeze...
The Flying Cloud,
abated steamer's gains,
assisted by performers like
the Stag Hound
and the Baines*.
Those merchantmen were clippers making long Pacific trips,
yet North Atlantic steamers still eclipsed these graceful ships,
with large accommodations, more palatial in detail,
the elegance in travel was with steamers, not in sail.
The steamer lines grew swiftly and relieved the unemployed
who went to work for White Star and the huge Norddeutscher Lloyd;
they sailed with Elder Dempster, Furness Withy and Cunard
who sent their plans for bigger ships to every builder's yard.
Though steam sustained some mishaps it was naught compared to sail
another major factor why the "smoke pots" would prevail.
Prevail, that is, 'til one night when Titanic slit her throat,
upon an icy dagger, which historians denote,
had ground the wheels of progress to a most unnerving stop,
priorities were reassessed from masthead down to prop.
The regulations tightened and ships' hull strength was refined;
the newer class of "ladies" were completely redesigned.
The Conte di Savoia and her lovely sister Rex,
superlative examples of the shipwright’s "fairer sex".
The Hanseatic, Rotterdam and French Line's Ile de France,
were crafted with a detailed eye toward luxury and nuance.
Then wars claimed many victims as did reefs and stormy shores
some "ladies" served as troopships while some others carried stores.
The Normandy and Kungsholm and Great Britain's lithesome Queens,
spent many months avoiding pesky German submarines.
Till peacetime yielded once again to newer ships and dreams,
the mighty ship United States "The fastest gal that steams!"
Jet airplanes made encroachments then usurped this vital trade,
but for a hundred twenty years, it was a grand parade!
*actually, the James Baines.
Fight a War to Keep the Peace
Maggots, flies and dread disease,
poison vipers, killer bees,
fires, floods, and hurricanes,
rapists, thugs and crack cocaine...
This? A HOLY world?!
This is HELL, it's plain to see,
when fathers steal the chastity
of daughters when they come of age,
or strike them dead in fits of rage...
Whips on backs and legs in chains,
people blown to bits in planes,
Tyrants, jailers, tortured slaves,
millions dumped in unmarked graves...
This? A HOLY world?!
Wars for greed and wars for right
freedom's always worth a fight
HELL gives little, asks a lot
so grab your musket, wad and shot...
Tyrant's, madmen, never cease,
so fight a war to keep the peace!
Glitzing to the Gizmick
Charmed by charcoal chieftains in the Indian ways of West,
we scan the scalloped skylines with a peace pipe in our vest.
Putting portly parrots to the crispy cracker test,
we’re waxing wooden widgets with exacerbated zest.
Yeah we're fritzing to the frizmick
in a friendly sort of way,
glitzing to the gizmick
minus anything to say.
We're draining dictionaries
through a pipe of rhyme and verse,
our message is a mumble
evoluting in reverse.
Popcorn's in the top horn and there's nothing in the low'r
there's just a broken Boeing on the ocean’s fecund floor
widows, wains and growing pains are all that's left in store
for seaside shacks and shanties on a distant foreign shore
Yeah we're skitzing to the skizmick
in a silly sort of way,
glitzing to the gizmick
minus anything to say.
We've given up profundities
we're laughing 'til we split,
at all the words were wasting
in the gizmicks which we knit.
Victims’ des'prate dictums in the court of last appeal
from conscientious wenches more than willing to reveal
designate the magistrate shall cut a debtor's deal
but only if das Bleistift ist ein mögen Gegenspiel
Well we're blitzing for the bizmick
in a Deutschish sort of way,
glitzing to the gizmick
minus anything to say.
We've tossed our verbal salad
topped it off with lots of corn,
from a blaring gizmick horn.
Snapdragons Snipping (☼)
Snapdragons snipping and house sparrows chipping
Tidy bowl currents of bubbles and foam
Unicorns neighing as bovines are braying
Dorothy's longing for visions of home
Saturday poets and fields where they sow it
Legislates all they will say
Someone is watching as spell-check is botching
Freighters burn brightly on Balderdash Bay
Smoke columns rising they're all advertising
Horrid events come to call
Children are fleeing, the wizard is seeing
Curtains which ruffle and fall
Skyscraper terrors from FBI errors
Panic is now in command
Grass isn't greener though Mexico's leaner
Thirsting to death in the sand
Cluckers are clucking and woodchucks are chucking
Various holes in the ground
Insider sources upon their high horses
Amplify each secret sound
Boondoggle bullies heave hawsers and pulleys
Sailing to points on the globe
Radical jesters and double-D chesters
Cancel each trial and probe
Localized starters for large corporate charters
Throttling too hard for the top
Canned in corruption, a major eruption
Guillotines whittle and chop
Paradise pushers and Arctic sled mooshers
Pacing their dogs through the snow
Raise a flotilla to conquer Godzilla
Praying it's all just for show
Regiment collars through woodlands and hollers
Line up for battle today
Doom's Day contingent awash in astringent
Conquers as citizens pray
The Aphex Twine (☼)
In the absence of light in the sonics of sound in the sister of simple and sinister round of the ambient beat of the silicone strum in the wail of the whack and the death of a drum (or a chum) in the texture of here and the substance of there in the air (in the heir) its a shadow of thought that is caught in the naught of the night which the riches of witches condemn from the hymn of the hum and the rim of the rum it's a skitza (no schitzo) a glitz of the glum (of the glum?) in the slam of the slum in the slim acronym of the whim that is come on the crumb of the "diddle dee dum" "why the rum?" as it burns in the turns of the smoke and their arrow the Sparrow is far from the Pharaoh of Cairo or Caro so seeps as it weeps in the sneakers of speakers too fond of the freakers that watch every crack every crib every crotch as they market and spark it in creasing and breezing this tantra this tantrum that's tantamount phantom in being we're seeing the manta of then and the mantra of now.
The Call of the Ambient Ramble
Antelope and mountain goats beyond the gaslight glare;
Mandalayan mambas with a slithered sense of flair;
Azerbaijan's children, still untrained with such regard,
watch the knolls of orioles and songbirds in their yard.
Aspen packs and tamaracks deflect with such finesse,
that startled-clear approaches toast a decorative success.
The urgency of currency commands a broad purview,
from missions of contrition in an ever widening blue...
the blue of mind,
the blue of heart,
the blue of malcontent...
a color far beyond the shades
that Vulcan ever sent
from Gebel Katherîna
in the hot Egyptian sun,
to herds of Palominos
on the sloping Spanish run...
the run from lost plantations of the sub Saharan slaves,
the run from Athabascan tribes in North Albertan caves.
the run from astral catalysts from sources deep in space
that reproduce iconic strings, and dream the dreams of grace...
utopian conditions for
a newborn human race.
Poly Want a Syllable?
When collective fascinations with the grand collaborations
of those masters of the morbidly obtuse,
touch the writer or the pollster with a monster in their holster
and they see it's time to set that Cyclops loose;
they will party in extremus as they flaunt their Polyphemus;
it will be a day of supercilious zest…
then some schizophrenic victims will invalidate the dictums
that preclude the prejudicial thoughts of "best".
They will cry 'til they get traction with demands for satisfaction
even though they all fell in with lesser herds.
If the judges were effective they would be much more protective
of practitioners of polysyllabic words.
Seven Deadly Snippets (☼)
Seven deadly snippets from a sniper's snarling wife
cost a Cornish coaster six quid twenty plus his life.
No one viewed his casket; no one came to pray;
no one rolled a fat one when the parson walked away.
Thunder roiled and raindrops fell, processions tended short;
Warhol's wound was wincing as he wandered through the court.
Hearses honked and taxis hacked their way through thick'ning crowds,
but no one saw the circus tents beyond the banks of clouds.
Sixty sober judges judged that they had seen enough,
they called in sixty soldiers who were stationed on the bluff.
By the time they got there, there was nothing left to see…
the sniper's snarling missus set the whole enigma free.
Witnesses were worried what the warden might proclaim,
for such audacious actions wrought by such a ditzy dame.
When the warden gathered all the info he could use,
he called in reinforcements from the London Daily News.
Printing up the storylines and blitzing all TV,
they spent a million sterling on a doc-u-men-tuh-ree.
Snarling sniper's daughter turned in telltale black and whites
of endless snippet battles fought through endless snippet nights.
The chaos which soon followed saw the country drawing sides,
the Cornish Coaster groomsmen versus Snarling Snippet brides.
The battles waged as campaigns staged their forces to the front,
but foxes outmaneuvered all the beagles in the hunt.
So what this means for England and the Scottish Highland Clan
of sympathizing softies and their regents on the can,
is neither here, nor neither there, nor neither somewhere close…
it's likely in the “Nietherworld” where this will mean the most.
So hold your breath and kiss goodbye the chance that we will learn,
the philosophic axioms with which we could discern,
the absolute from make-believe that cycle in the mix,
perhaps the only heroines are Snarling Snippet chicks.
Unlikely as that seems to be there's still an outside hope,
the Cornish coast cadaver might have been
a murdering mutant misanthrope.
The facts are few, conjecture rules, it may be best for all,
to move on to another case that's not so close to call.
Ode to This and That (☼)
The millions of objects, petite or grand masses,
the people and places and odd potpourri,
divided in kingdoms or phyla and classes
exotic or common--who thought there would be--
parasails, Richter scales, paraquat juices
cabooses, Cayuses and varied chartreuses
cabanas, savannahs or pumpkin purveyors
electrolyte, satellite, quantum surveyors
contagions from cajuns or Courken Deukmejians
pistils and stamens or socialist Fabians
brigadoons, barracoons, salty cetaceans
Colossians, Ephesians or even Galatians
caustic acrostics or soda pagodas
cancers, mergansers, codettas or codas
brontosaur, matador, symphony seatings
parapet, Samoset, timpani beatings?
Who ever imagined a Medieval pageant
with vassals in castles and lords with high ladies
the Zeuses, massuses, or deuces in Hades
phenolics, carbolics and chemical devils
cerumen, bitumen, high estrogen levels
the chlorides and fluorides or covalent bonding
mandola, plugola to which we're responding
aurora, angora, intestinal flora
Niagara, Viagra, and vicious camorra
who saturate, flatulate, stink up the night
like bumble bees, chickadees, quick to take flight?
Who ever considered the quarks and the quasars
the protons and photons emitted from lasers
cicadas, dysphagia, a place called Malaysia
Australia, azaleas, acute achalasia
rubella, brucella and calorimetrics
glabella, flagella, the brilliant ball Bellatrix
aerosol, parasol, titular toxins
granola, pyrola, invertebrate coxswains
forums and quorums and glib genitalia
contraband, confirmand, paraphernalia?
...cinquains learned of time-spell gone
diffused in airbrushed dreams,
with verses streamed in restless pools
through languid rivulets...
...persuading paper alchemists
of sonnetry's intrigue
to shade discussions with the muse,
their pastel source appeal...
...to sweep a stream of misty tears
100 layers smooth,
and lay them on March respite's shore
while incense burns the page...
...defying [form's] flat sides of time
and tongue’s inclement ire:
no pronoun climbs such edifice;
no adverbs lie in waste.
The poet's sprites, his puzzled fears
of mayhap and dismay,
are meted out in stillborn hush
and dazzled dark to dawn.
Withered, blithered, false affronts,
the second-hand swings blind;
balanced, glancing interviews
proscribed then tucked away.
The villanelle and lesser forms
mark lauded sweet refrains,
from mocking ancient verses with
the air of foreign prose.
The angled rhyme is circumvent from
Stratford's cracking writes
of wispish wings and orderings
united in their mass.
…but if at last the needs to feel
in authored skies are cast,
the murk from which the rose has bloomed
recedes, and I awake.
Where the Sagebrush Eats a Shrike
The hideaway, the uptick and the sunrise built for two,
from sixes showing signs of five, then "fouring out" on cue.
High voltage honey hocks her hay for random clicks of dark;
then "blanket bombs" land everywhere, though "pinpoint" missed its mark.
Flamingo chicks swim circles in the twilight of your eyes
while citrus boxes predicate more shipments from Van Nuys.
The sandstone cricket tries to chirp but relegates his wings
to harbor barbers checking tides with multistranded strings.
Beyond the page of violence lies the orbit of an urge,
replete with revolutions where the spinner points converge
there is no king, there is no queen, there’s neither pin nor pike,
but only desolation where the sagebrush eats a shrike.
Two pillows for your fancy and two fancies for your face,
two faces bear a tablet which the paper pads displace.
"Soliloquy, soliloquy..." you mumble in your sleep
with dreams dissolving fractals of the candles in your keep.
So flickr on and twitter off and tint your talent's hue
with pixelated mass retreat from ebay's Waterloo.
Your domineering neutral shifts and clutches on the run
will pose beside a stifled Meuse outside your mind's Verdun.
Leave You Less Lucid and Slightly Insane
Abide and abound in your pies in the sky,
with open eye alibis', lie after lie.
Your apathy traps you in thinking that way,
while sauna-sex sinning gets clipped as "cliché."
Your adipose, comatose, snitch on a snare,
whose missus slurs, "Whips and spurs seem debonair!"
has foxy paw, fatal flaw shades of taboo...
imperfect liturgics, irrevocable goo!
Lamenting the denting of Saabs and Mercedes
from muses on cruises with erudite ladies,
your dilettante, nonchalant, stark oxymorons
fleece pestilent, resident, monsters and gorgons.
Residing, in hiding, near scores of sky-screamers,
your razor-jet, saber-set, devotee dreamers
whose single shot silence will subjugate violence
on one of a dozen precursory levels,
have "Tomes of the Tragic" to stymie all devils
attempting to winnow their travesty's pain
but writhing on whims of the romps and the revels
will leave you less lucid and slightly insane.
Can't Sell Nonsense--A Long Trip To Nowhere
On the causeway of convention, in a post-depression state,
was a starlet bound for Charlotte with her hyperactive date.
Mr. Fawley, born in Raleigh, was a two-time judo champ
and a dedicated pastor in the Southern Baptist camp.
They've got tickets to the ballroom,
they've got tickets for a show,
they've got lots of plastic Xenias
and a bag of Redi-Grow.
From her stilted method-acting to his fine piano skills
there's a spark of luminescence which their chemistry instills.
He's got DBase in his briefcase, she's got cancer in her breast
she will take her judo preacher and commit him to a test:
he'll be tested on decorum,
he'll be tested for decay,
he'll get painted by a laser
on this non-auspicious day.
When the bullets are all loaded in her auto .45
with a grim determination that she prob'ly won't survive,
as she conquers all of Jonkers and their unclothed nominees,
she'll attempt to flash a fascist with her mongo double-dees.
It's a one way trip to prison,
it's a rocket-sled to jail,
it's a hundred thousand dollars
for a lawyer to prevail.
Now the episode is tanking but the preacher's doing fine
as he struts along the causeway of convention's long decline;
with a reconditioned beacon he is searching for the pills
to defer a rare affliction where it's noted "Glamour Kills".
As he slipped 'em with some gypsum
to his starlet, he so quipped,
"This may feel like your intestines
might be getting pistol whipped. "
But she drank it like a wino in a river of Chablis
and her sudden marked improvement was exposed for all to see.
They administered some syrup on a frozen block of ice
with a perforated cookie caked in culinary rice.
So our preacher is still preaching
and our star is still a star,
but she killed the plastic xenias
with some rotgut at the bar.
When and So
When cantilevers lifted up redemptions from a can
of candy coated crawdads in a speedy moving van...
When tinkers in Tacoma all refreshed their porous screens
of filtered inundations from the Navy's submarines...
When galas in Malaya start to show some signs of proof
that pigeon-holing bureaucrats are pleasant, not aloof...
then herds of howling heroes will assuage their hissy fits
with pugilistic payouts from their contrapuntal kits.
When episodes of Mylar stick to iridescent tracks
of therapeutic research which is slipping through the cracks...
When Condoleeza's barber writes her memoirs of a knot
that binds the tides of earthly wills within a ball of shot...
When volumes of mechanics serve the doctors they so choose
from throngs of altered concepts in a bowl of ballyhoos...
Then swarms of single shingles and a corps of grenadiers
will saunter through the fortress of soprano balladeers.
Veracity’s now vaunted, and Jurassic perks are due
to crimson tides of woe-betides in azure seas of blue.
(the critics of poetic voice will have a lot to say
about these color choices which are shades of deep cliché)
yet still they’ll slosh against the walls of names dropped long ago
in present tense, to make more sense, they speak of belle and beau:
“Lucidity is luscious, and Thucydides can see
the scientific virtues of a blank monopoly:
for Ferdinand has played his hand in Isabella's court,
and Christopher Columbus will do nothing of the sort.”
“The spammers in Nairobi hack the capital of Mars,
electrolytic enzymes will reconstitute the Czars.
They'll look like Eddy Murphy and they'll talk like Joan of Arc,
they'll nap like no one's business in a run-down trailer park.”
So now the wheel's in motion and the universe is set
to alter every rising puff from Tonto's calumet.
So now the season offers for those telescoping few,
a syncopated platform and an undercooked fondue.
So now the concrete stiffens and initials can be drawn,
the width of these impressions quite the same for king or pawn.
So now the swinging pendulum will strike the factored prime
and everything will disappear within a slanted rhyme.
To Styrene, With Love
She came to me in Styrofoam,
a plastic act in honeycomb,
a balanced breath of firmness finding flair.
She pirouetted once or twice,
she threw her cheater's weighted dice,
then fixed the flaxen figures in her hair.
She melted me an ice cream cone
with static from her telephone,
she waltzed a tangoed twist from Rio D.
Her mental midget sycophants,
with sacrificial crocus plants
were dancing 'round her Chinese Christmas tree…
…the tree that branched a schism in
her all-night stock of albumin
that curdled like a sour milky spring.
The smell of platelets in the air,
left certain mermen unaware,
of how she dealt her hymenoptera's sting.
Some music catered gracious yawns,
to bullish bucks and foxy fawns,
whose urges strained for pained Chicago blues.
Their hunger pangs for soul pizzazz
like Guy Lombardo's brand of jazz,
were catalysts for movement in their shoes.
Her hy-pėr-vĕnt'-ĭ-lāt-əd loss
of albacore and albatross
was streamed in Blu-Ray bits across the Net,
she shook her old alpaca ways,
her allosaurus hacker days,
subsisting on her own albino pet.
With no regrets and no farewells,
she rang her hometown parish bells,
before the cops descended on her home.
Their warrants carried signatures,
some very legal ligatures,
which bound her in a block of Styrofoam.
So this is when I rescued her,
I paid her bail then knew for sure,
that we would live on love in Tennessee
but she retracted rights from wrongs
while wailing wicked siren songs
now all I've got is her hypocrisy.
I can't begin to mediate
this situation on my plate
there's nothing to assuage my empty suit...
her venal villain's attitude
with spitting cobra certitude
is something that I find no longer cute.
A Deutschland Ditty (☼)
From the Gelsenkirchen ghettos to bordellos of Berlin,
there's a saucerful of secrets handed down from Anne Boleyn,
they're the framework of dissension for the paramours of Ems,
plus the Rendsburg-Kiel "connection" and a dozen other gems.
From the august aunts of Auschwitz to the uncles' Darmstadt schloss,
there's a Gütersloh objective from the Wilhelmshaven boss:
he's a native Neustadt newsman with a Ludwigsburg degree,
now he wants a Dortmund doctor for his nephew just turned three.
From the manors outside Munich to the Mühldorf city hall,
there's an Ingolstadt intruder who's been pegged to take a fall
for the Straubing strangulation and the Bamberg killing spree,
now the Freising City Council wants him swinging from a tree.
From the Mannheim missile factory to the Bochum city parks,
there's a lot of Stuttgart students who are stacking up their marks.
When the Meissen motor masses cross the Mosel near Koblenz,
they can taste the Hunsbrück freedom in their Eastern Bloc suspense.
Symphonies of Traction
~ The jazz of verbal splendor, tangent feelings one can render, with the freedom consummating graceful twists of evening splurges part-and-parcel to the urges of the urban raves and parties which surrender fleshly tender to receiver from the sender, in the sultry midnight hookups in the misty metro madness, yeah, it's heart-and-soul reaction to the symphonies of traction, as aroused and errant notions ride the ebb-and-flow emotions which cascade through open portals in this house of hammered mortals who are slightly too diverted to take notice of the show. ~
Some humdrum conundrums are far from the fulcrum
of foraging, fodder and fame
though right through the middles of prototype riddles
are answers for questions to claim.
These 'magic' mind benders from prescient pretenders
are puzzles without any clues
they're skewed hieroglyphics without the specifics
they clarify as they confuse.
Such trenchant enigmas imbued with the stigmas
through each of life's hurdles and quests
transform 'telepathic' to bit-and-byte traffic
the great cerebellum digests.
There's loose innuendo concerning Nintendo
perhaps it enhances these skills
but even the tutors with dime store computers
admit it's a battle of wills.
This rare recreation demands concentration
with limits untouched and unbound
it caters obliquely to mindsets uniquely
in tune with the weakly profound.
It's the megatech body that's the freelance hobby in the D-sized promos from Japan
they're the Gottschalk stressors with the polypod pressers passing new breeds o' "yes sir's" in the can.
Tiny flies killed Tito with a madcap Guido in the Mannheim chapel on the Rhine
when they showed Major Michael all the swabs in the cycle he instilled trace erasures in the brine.
So he scuffed up a skillet
burned the mince, mice and millet
and he cites "Maps of Tacit" as his toll—
on the right road to judging
it appears he's begrudging
all the clear transportation on the dole.
He's a slap shot pretender and a crisscross defender in the fight for the Matahari man;
there's some full swing behavior from a half-hearted savior for the flak jacket hatchet on the span.
You can flee gonorrhea when you see Caesarea but machine panaceas aren't designed
for a clear comprehension of the verbs in contention when the rich wiki-whackers are resigned.
So just steal with Ophelia
down the path life'll deal ya
it's the true conscientious way to be
as the Sims turn to crimson
when the cloves burn in prison
and the rouges disinherit what they see
Aim a reel resurrector in a fine eigenvector as you slide in your checkered razor's slice
through the pitch in the whistles t'ward the whitewashed epistles of the b-rated blinks of rolling dice.
When you feel free insurgence conquer weak-kneed regurgence of the same static hits of leaf and vine,
then you'll slay voodoo vipers in the bibs, socks and diapers of the click-tripping clackers in decline
So forego streets of Pisa
with your freewheeling VISA
since the duck-chucking truckers stole your card—
You can crash with a model
who will whip, thrash and coddle
any links in your throttle hot and hard.
The Regimentation Of Jackson Pollock
on a dream that's worth ensnaring
to delight the senses' porous five-and-dime;
brokers quick redaction
of the mental-block abstraction
which transcends the conscious
framework's hands of time.
stir plasmatic soul detergents
in a discomposure worthy of Monet;
splatters, wet and spinning,
from an anthropoid's beginning
render useless any structures of the day.
Networks of disquiet
dash the minds who won't decry it
from the counterflux to issues of the tongue;
turbulence and trouble
burst the ego's giant bubble
as the heroes of the arts remain unsung.
Rhythm mixed with madness
yields some goodness to the badness,
though the verse contains a bitter af-ter-bite;
with a stilted false appearance,
leaves a twitter of the wrongings in their right.
Narrow limitations lock these crude approximations
of a Jackson Pollock stricture so confined.
Verbal paints are running down this shotgun piece of cunning
though the critics might be slightly disinclined...
When cyclones through subconscious flux,
pierce somber waves of brain,
convulsing four dimensions on
a psychotropic plain;
When synthegraphic soundscapes in
an instrumental groove,
shampoo and then condition all
the cares one can't remove--
-remove from simple varnished truths,
-remove from complex grays,
-remove from cataclysmic hues
of endless stressful days;
When somnifacient visions dwell
in luminescent bars,
of synchronized vibrations from
the planets and the stars;
When ventilating chambers in
the post-redundant mind,
enjoy these static träume in
a sleepless plan designed--
--designed to bridge the missing link
between effect and cause
of synergistic loopbacks in
an orchestrated pause;
When super-cells of fractal sounds
produced as "Oh’s-and-One’s",
then replicate the substrate net
of distant burning suns;
When autotelic sound designs
re-phrase the patterned noise,
with astronomic poise...
…then retrogrades through nuanced-shades,
of music’s soft appeal,
will vector orbit counterspins,
and boost the way you feel:
In isolation's bliss…
Eurhythmic truths will underscore
"Sweet Dreams are Made of This"
Alternating currents in the land of no deterrents
make for int'resting discussions on display
it's a beach of skin and sunning in the land of milk and cunning
but there won't be any strategies to play
Temporary junctions in the land of rash compunctions
make for lavish whims of girlish libertines
it's a trail of lies and stories in the land of curdled glories
but the tactics are all blown to smithereens
Misadjusted mornings in the land of wistful warnings H2O
make for quite an artful dodger's enterprise
it's a field of calculation in the land of salutation
but the vermin have their crosshairs on your eyes
Tenderloin pretensions land the bleak misapprehensions
as they warrant random writings on the wall
it's a host of sad conclusions landing lairs of fond illusions
but the geriatric judges script and scrawl
Palindrome concussions in the land of ousted Russians
make for treaties of a most subversive kind
it's a call for incoherence in the land of disappearance
and the recipe's still written by the blind
Final destinations in the land of hesitations
make for syncopated games of cat and mouse
it's a wall of inclination in the land of scintillation
and the Senate's just a more expensive House.
cosmic shifts of red;
séance with the dead.
Guido cuts a rug;
don't be such a slug!
rip-roar fades to slow;
cool the dynamo.
Great Leap Forward,
Mongols and Japan;
lath and plaster,
commies kick the can.
Ku Klux Kitty,
nuthin' left to lose;
now it's time to cruise.
tripping up the Hill;
standard b-cup thrill.
sponsors spike the spoils;
T. Boone Pickens,
washed up wiccans,
winds outweigh the oils.
black and white bamboo;
flat on wine sales
Peace on Easter,
kick your keester,
wizard's Westward Ho!
flat cheek fannies,
Batman's gotta go.
Her Contemporaries Were Wrong
They couldn't see
beyond her apparent conformity to a boxed existence,
seemingly square in a juxtapose lip lock
with the duality of color.
But if you looked into her soul,
carefully examined her borders,
her vistas delineated a margin of error
perhaps one part in a million...
she was twice as homogeneous
as her congruent features belied.
Did she blink? No.
Did she breathe? No.
Was she the foundation of
a geometric metamorphosis...
the realization of a modern art deco?
She was all that and more:
She was the ultimate balance of "if" and "what"
She was the tenuous division of "guess" and "know"
She wore black like an asphalt desert highway...
straight, narrow and long.
Her saffron complexion pondered the infinite,
while she relaxed comfortably in her enigmatic selflessness…
I think she was Cuban.
A covenant of whispers dares defy the sonic void
where mannequins of innocence are captured then destroyed
a sun-bleached marble gargoyle rests upon this castle's crest
the carapace of justice is abandoned and undressed
they serve a pow'dry tincture in the hall of hallowed deeds
where diatoms of scandal soon displace the courtyard weeds
embellished on the cordage which restrains the kingdom's gate
are images and visions of a fallen monarch's state
collated in the papers of a million lesser lords
are multitudes of melodies with pantheistic chords
some constellations predisposed to halcyonic light
reflect the castle's ambiance against this velvet night
residing in the heavens at the fulcrum of this scene
are ghostly apparitions with a crimson-silver sheen
discov'ring resonations in the triumph of this play
a doctrine of confession is availed to those who pray
stiletto thin attachments to these filaments of prayer
ascend with glacial patience to the mystic upper lair
The cashmere ocean's bright facade
in chromas green and blue,
explodes upon the chambray shore
in paisley drops of dew.
The pinpoint oxford cotton fields
beneath clear tartan skies,
reveal acanthus textures where
the raglan slowly dies.
From polyester orchards to
the coriander falls,
a flock of streaming microchex,
regales the valley's walls.
Angora forests grow like moss,
across acrylic plains,
and clouds of puffy gossamer
unleash red flannel rains.
I watch from high atop plaid hills,
adorned in green chenille,
as silky ponds of corduroy,
and herringbone congeal.
The denim cliffs bear nylon vines,
reflecting hues which seem,
to conjure ancient visions in
a textilicious dream.
Always Lots To Do
From the Bronx and Staten Island to Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens,
in the buses, subways, taxis and the black stretch limousines,
are the doctors, lawyers, agents and the wealthy financiers,
(plus the hookers, dopers, dealers and the "mainstream mutineers".)
It's variety and sameness; it's the "best of" and the "worst",
it's a city never sleeping for the sanctified and cursed.
You can drown in entertainment from "the Garden" to "the Park"
since the town is ever safer in the hours after dark.
One might see the New York Giants; maybe Rangers or the Jets,
there could be a double header 'tween the Yankees and the Mets.
There's the fashion conscious districts for rich ladies and their girls
with the largest known selection: diamonds, rubies, sapphires, pearls.
They can window shop Manhattan, then compare Jamaica Bay,
in the evening catch an Opera, Philharmonic or Ballet...
...see the lobby of the Chrysler, or ascend the Empire State,
they can grab a bus or taxi to the Carnegie estate,
find a trace of Tin Pan Alley; take a trip to Jackson Heights;
from the Verrazano-Narrows catch a billion twinkling lights;
see the rows of brownstone houses and the legion crypts and keeps,
for the million plus insomniacs, the psychos and the creeps...
...take the ferry out to Staten from the lower Bat-ter-y,
for a glimpse of Ellis Island and our "Lady Lib-er-ty",
see the business of Manhattan; spend an hour, maybe two,
try to add up all the money as they cruise Park Avenue:
They'll see MetLife, Chase, Alcoa, Colgate, Bristol-Myers-Squibb,
Banker's Trust, Vivendi, Seligman, the Rockefellers' crib.
They can watch the shows on Broadway, find exotic new cuisine,
say a prayer down at "Ground Zero" for the heroes of the scene.
They might visit Lincoln Center or peruse a local zoo,
it's the "Crossroads of the World" and there's always lots to do.
Rattle thru Seattle
on a Freighter to Decatur (☼)
Well, I'm fond o' Tonawanda
and I'm tipsy for Poughkeepsie,
and the town of Kissimee is just too cute,
I'm a fan o' Indiana
when I'm dancing down in Lansing,
and the Big Dig out in Boston's quite a chute.
There's Alaska and Nebraska
and, in Michigan, Kalkaska,
there's the quirky Albuquerque way out west.
There's a phallus down in Dallas
loves a harlot out in Charlotte,
but ensconcin' in Wisconsin is the best.
A tornado in Laredo
blew a mango to Durango
and a hurricane just leveled New Orleans
There's a manta in Atlanta
and a Mississippi hippy
with a bride who wants to see the Philippines...
...taste vanilla in Manila,
blow a kidney down in Sydney,
ride a banca boat from Hong Kong to Rangoon,
get amnesia (In)donesia,
(or maybe synesthesia)
then she'll hop a jumbo jet for Saskatoon!
The World Remembers
From the bones of brontosaurus
and the fossil-record rocks,
to the ancient fields of Stonehenge
with its doleritic blocks;
from the Pyramid of Cheops
and the Parthenon in Greece,
to Praxiteles the sculptur
coming forward to Matisse.
From the European castles
and Cathedrals on the Rhine,
to the Japanese pagodas
and the Kinkakuji Shrine;
from the monuments and statues
in their majesty and might,
to the enigmatic buildings
as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.
We are blessed with all the mem'ries
be they buildings, art or verse,
that express unique perspectives:
some from good times, some from worse.
We are witness to the Renaissance,
the Dark Age and B.C.,
through the artifacts of ancients
with each new discovery.
Delirious on Sirius While Disaster Reigns on Castor
There's a fella’ on Capella who could cure us on Arcturus,
there's a lunatic like me on Rigel's moon.
You could buy a fare to Altair, fly from Paris to Polaris
as a chorus, in from Taurus, trills a tune.
There's our "Alpha and Omega" on his throne just north of Vega;
there's a scion of Orion lost in space.
You can take your pocket Trio, snap a lovely shot of Leo
as you dab a little stardust on your face.
You can pick some huckleberries on the planets of Antares, Caustic Nebula
you can take your Little Dipper for a dunk;
there's a giant spotted zee-bra on an asteroid in Libra
but he's shrouded by a cloud of NASA junk!
Colossal columns, plates of glass; exalted lairs of upper class
aristocrats who do not deign
to mix with people far below the strata which they've come to know
behind their lofty window pane.
The middle class plod ever on t'ward lesser dreams of father-son
relationships with half a chance
to set up business, start from scratch, with credit debt and bills to match,
it's more hard knocks and less romance.
Then at the very bottom rung, the city's poor remain unsung
as day by day they make ends meet
with third rate jobs and welfare checks, with bags of drugs and backroom sex,
surviving on a ruthless street.
Between these tiers there are degrees of rich and poor: from refugees
to movie stars in limousines
with full wet bars; and then, it seems, from skid-row bums to college teams
of preppy kids in magazines...
The salesmen, nurses, volunteers; mechanics, grocery store cashiers,
conductors, barbers, bankers, cops, professors, pressers, moms and pops,
The waiters, cooks, employees, staff; the divers, drivers, full and half-
time vendors, menders, motel maids; commissioned artists, teacher's aides;
The doctors, lawyers, diplomats; technicians, clerics, bureaucrats,
who audit, manage, plot and plan
who authorize and understand the structures, people and the land
that try to do the best they can...
...to make this town its very best, their efforts thereupon attest
to pledges of their public oath:
to make the town both safe and clean, to set the most idyllic scene
for vibrant life and urban growth.
A Strange Elopement (☼)
An Alabaman camera in the state of Illinois
has shot a lot of photos for some Georgians to enjoy:
A group of Californians captured quite a naughty pose
of sinnin' West Virginians swimmin' in their underclothes.
And then a brave New Yorker took a corker of a pic--
a hot Hawaiian scion high atop his hippy chick.
A man from South Dakota shot his quota of his date
a Pennsylvanian Venus at an anorexic weight.
The natives from Alaska asked a Massachusetts girl
to pose with Oregonians, two Hoosiers and a squirrel.
A Coloradan cultivator stood there quite a while
try'n ta git a Texan twit to crack a tiny smile.
Of course, there were the newlyweds, just mad as they could be
he hailed from Minnesota and she loved her Tennessee;
He didn't like her accent and she couldn't stand his hair
They both found other partners from the state of Delaware.
New Hampshire-ites were next in line, but all that they did want
were just a couple pictures of their buddies from Vermont.
Floridians were present too, a husband, wife and sprout,
but just like punching ballot chads, the camera freaked them out.
Some nice folks from Nebraska with an eye for black and white,
surprised a Kansan couple in the middle of the night.
A man from Arizona saw the flash, called 9-1-1,
he ordered backup units from as far as Washington.
New Mexico sent SWAT teams and Kentucky sent some mace,
Louisiana took a week to get hot on the case.
The camera was impounded by the Governor of Maine;
injunctions in Connecticut demanded he refrain
from tampering with anything 'til lawyers could convene
a motion which was granted on the night of Halloween.
So legal teams from Iowa met Mississippi's best,
Wisconsin sent a Rent-a-Gent, though he was strangely dressed,
he wore an Alpine outfit and he yodeled in the halls
he painted little edelweiss on all the bathroom stalls.
Rhode Island was denyin' any scandal in this deal,
yet later they were foremost in a motion to appeal.
The Michiganders blocked it with some Oklahoman help
In total contradiction to some brash New Jersey whelp
who pilfered camera, tripod and a female attaché
from Idaho's contingent and, now even to this day,
it's rumored they're in Arkansas or maybe in the hills
of someplace like Nevada where casinos pay their bills.
Bangalore, Bangalore, what does it mean?
I hitchhiked to Mysore to speak with their queen
we talked economics, the ebb and the flow
of businesses run on the Deccan Plateau.
She told me long stories, half history, half news
I poured her a snifter (or two) of my booze.
She sipped it discreetly, continued to schmooze.
One bottle was finished, another was poured,
with more in my suitcase conveniently stored.
She summarized some of her foreign intrigue
by boasting a fix for my chronic fatigue:
she slipped off her sari with plans to enwrap
my comely king cobra awake from its nap;
I gladly fell prey to her snake charming trap.
We dallied in Delhi, we bumped in Bombay,
we hit the subcontinent, ready to play.
Ate "tuna" in Poona, got raw in Bhopal,
got lucky in Lucknow just after last call.
I love her; she's lithesome, long legged and clean;
of Bangalore's beauties she's certainly queen:
Bang galore, bang galore, what does it mean?
Hercules Was A Chump
To prove my love I've ventured forth
to strange and distant lands
I've climbed the cliffs of Belgium
high above her burning sands
I've braved the swamps of Libya,
mushed a dogsled through Zaire,
then hiked from Chad to Trinidad armed only with a spear.
The Badlands of Bermuda and the ice packs of Dubai,
would surely thwart a lesser man, but you should know that I
have wrestled alligators in the Danube and the Rhine;
I've speared a mighty orca near the Mason Dixon Line.
With bugs as thick as butter in the tropics of Nepal,
the natives in the underbrush attacked us, one and all.
We held them off for several days until the monsoon rain,
gave cover to our great escape through fields of sugar cane.
The expedition withered as our men fell by the way,
before we'd reach the shores of Rome we'd fight our final fray.
But thankfully the Swiss arrived whose navy broke the ranks, of hordes of crazy natives charging down the Volga's banks. We rallied with our allies in this grand momentous rout; the angry aborigines were stupefied with doubt.
We mowed them down in herds and droves with vicious vengeful zest; our bullets claimed a thousand lives... piranha got the rest! So now I write you once again, I long to see you soon; my feet are hot and blistered on this baking Swedish dune. My love now proved, accept my hand; my heart doth so beseech! We'll consummate our wedding on a cozy Arctic beach!
Gallup, New Mexico (☼☼☼)
(after: Charles Bukowski)
It was one of those 19-dollar a night motel lobbies,
clean in a dirty sort of way,
perhaps dirty in a well-travelled sort of way,
thrift shop furniture, fake plants,
and a dime-store statue of something
a decade out of date.
In one corner, a cigarette machine;
a rack full of sightseeing brochures in another;
carpet stains, discolored ceiling tiles,
a cracked plastic vase giving refuge
to a withered scrag of a plant, probably
in the last throes of attention or neglect.
I was there for the brochures.
Dusty, four-color, sun-bleached excerpts
of larger-than-life destinations
curling over particle-board pockets...
pathetic pleas to desperate tourists.
Grab one of each, toss ‘em into a waste bin,
bend over and blindly retrieve just one.
Over and over,
the brochure racks were my guide,
my beacon, my oracle.
South Padre Island, Texas
and now here with you...
clean in a dirty sort of way,
perhaps dirty in a well-travelled sort of way,
watching you check out
of my room,
of my life,
leaving me alone
with the smell of sex on my face.
Cheboygan's Philharmonic Orchestra
In the year of our Lord, 1909:
Cheboygan is a brawling burg of lumberjacks and wives
who never think of leaving home without an axe or knives.
The cutlery is handy in a thousand different ways,
and never finds a loss for use at concerts, shows and plays.
The Opera House is where the cultured people come to meet,
recitals start when booze is gone at tavern's 'cross the street.
The orchestra will take their seats with cleavers close at hand,
conducted by the mayor if he's not too drunk to stand.
The first song starts to wander in an inconsistent key--
the woodwinds playing A or F with some in flattened B.
The horns are sounding spritely and the tuba honks with rage,
percussionists are playing well, but on a different page.
The mayor tries to keep a beat with sundry sweeps and swings,
the “awed-ience” is bobbing with the joy that music brings.
Then, suddenly, the cellist accidentally snags his bow,
the tension overcomes his grip, his fingers let it go.
The missile shoots across the stage, it whistles through the air,
it glances off a sousaphone then parts a flutist's hair,
it ricochets behind her off the belly of a Swede,
who never saw it coming but his gut begins to bleed.
He stands up with his broad-axe in an alcoholic haze,
his stare fixed on his belly as he's trying to appraise,
the laceration's width and depth, and who he needs to kill,
his eyes fall on the cellist who is looking pretty ill.
The “awed-ience” is gearing up for thrills such violence brings
it looks like there will be a brawl: the horns against the strings!
The woodwinds and percussionists, who've been this route before
are quick to back opposing sides to even up the score.
One lumberjacking lady starts to roll up both her sleeves--
she does some fancy footwork as she shuffles, bobs and weaves.
Another charges toward the strings, her goal is firmly set
she's going to stab that cellist with her bloody clarinet.
The violins retreat a bit, violas at their side,
to counter-thrust too early would be certain suicide,
They wait until their numbers mount as drummers join their ranks
then overrun the saxophones by pushing back their flanks.
The Swede is making giant strides and carries quite a tune
producing sounds like coconuts as heads meet his bassoon.
The battle rages on the stage, the crowd joins in the fight,
it seems more than the orchestra will bang some heads tonight.
Musicians swing their axes and the knives fly through the air,
the town has never had such fun since last year's county fair.
The Mayor gets a minor cut and blood begins to ooze,
his perfect time to sound retreat and rustle up some booze.
At daybreak on the morning next, the doctor comes and sees,
an Opera House with just about three hundred casualties.
It's fortunate that no one has a fatal cut or wound,
though some are still unconscious since their noggins got bassooned.
In the year of our diffidence, 2009:
Cheboygan was a brawling burg whose lumberjacks and wives
had never thought of leaving home without an axe or knives.
But now, a century later, since the timber's felled and gone
there are no mighty lumberjacks who fight from dusk to dawn.
The town is rather sleepy in it's own peculiar way,
a little bit more civilized than in Great Grampa's day.
and though it's sometimes sad to think the town's become too tame,
it's nice to know the orchestra still sounds the very same!
Christmas in Michigan
You'd like to shop at Wal*Mart for your family and your friends,
but lines for unemployment checks are long, can't see the ends!
The welfare office lost your file, the tax man wants his fee,
now Medicare's exempted you from all parts A through D.
Collectors stand outside your home, their presence does convey
your need for goods and services for which you can not pay.
The repo man is driving off in what was once your car,
but gas was so expensive that he won't drive very far!
You've downsized to a rental flat; you're eating once a day;
the mailman's brought another stack of charges to defray.
Your "Christmas Tree" is nothing more than one unsightly twig,
you pop a top on Christmas Day and give it just a swig.
So Christmas time in Michigan is neither swank nor grand
'cuz bureaucrats of every stripe are holding out their hand.
There's no part of your paycheck they're unwilling to lay claim...
if Christmas isn't prosperous its bureaucrats to blame.
What They Say About Canada
They say… that up in Canada,
where Arctic gale winds blow,
that people live entire lives,
beneath ten feet of snow.
They say… the hottest business now,
to hit Sas-katch-e-wan,
Is selling prefab igloo huts,
imported from Nippon.
They say… Canadian money is,
a currency in flux…
a million "golden loonies" might,
be worth a couple bucks.
They say… a crimson MAPLE LEAF(!)
adorns their flag up there,
where winter lasts for twelve long months
and trees are always bare!
They say… there's no more iron ore,
and coal's gone down the tubes,
No cows, no corn, or exports left
save ice in blocks or cubes.
The allegations are all true,
of this there is no doubt,
‘Cuz I returned last week from there,
and I'm STILL thawing out!
Feeding The Muse (American Style)
Keep your Congos and Koreas
if they don't have pizzerias.
Keep your Swazilands and Argentinas too.
Keep your Libyas and Moroccos,
I want burgers, chips and tacos,
all the other foreign dishes taste like glue.
Keep your Norways and your Swedens
with the fish they foist at feedin's.
Keep your Luxembourgs and Costa Ricas too.
You can think up grand ideas
with some gringo quesadillas
if you wash 'em down with smart Australian brew.
Keep your Togos, Chads and Malis,
I just want my junkfood jollies.
Keep your Singapores and far-off Philippines.
Keep your Lebanons and Frances,
I would rather take my chances
with the cancers from my party store cuisines.
Keep your Israels and Turkeys,
I don't care for desert jerkies.
Keep your Mozambiques and Montenegros too.
Keep your Cubas and Belizes,
feed your muse before it seizes,
give me troughs of syruped waffles ‘til I’m blue!
Hot Springs (☼☼☼)
A wink and a nod at the harmless facade
of a Suthin' motel "on the straight,"
brings chuckles and snickers
'cuz gals in their knickers
make dough at a right healthy rate!
The hoots and the hollers
is worth all the dollars
these ladies collect ev'ry night,
the jokin' and pokin' leave many men broken
'til payday sets everything right.
For just a small tariff
the corpulent sheriff
lets all the shenanigans ride,
he shuns prosecution for all prostitution
preferring a “piece” on the side.
His moral adherence
elicits a good clientele,
with forty beds shakin' with folks "makin' bacon,"
gives "Hot Springs" new meaning as well!
From Costa Rica to Playing Flute (☼)
(Note: Tegucigalpa: think tuh-Goose-i-GOL-puh)
I was in a swampy forest on a two track, deep in weeds,
when a Costa Rican farmer with a load of magic seeds
catapulted t'wards my Rambler in a prehistoric wreck
on a mission to sell bean seeds by the bushel or the peck.
Well of course I tried resisting just as bullish as I could,
but he wouldn't brook refusal so I stacked them on my hood--
in my front seat, in my back seat, on the floor and up on top,
yes, I strapped them to the mirrors--this was really quite a crop!
As I rambled t'ward Managua on this Costa Rican road
it was clear the frame was bending from the tonnage of the load,
so I opened up the gas cap and inserted magic beans,
then the frame began to straighten, no more bulging at the seams!
When I made Tegucigalpa it was nearly one AM,
when some local hoodlums jumped me, in a case of me or them.
So I reached into a satchel and I ate a magic bean
then became the meanest fighter ol' Honduras ever seen.
there was Kung Fu in my elbows and karate in my thumb,
there was judo in my kneecaps and jiu jitsu in my bum,
I was Bruce Lee, Eastwood, Bronson with a hint of big John Wayne,
I was Sugar Ray and Foreman in a brass-knuck hurricane!
So the bodies of the hit men lie contorted in the street,
in a lightning fast maneuver I obtained their quick defeat.
I decided to keep moving t'ward the Guatemalan line,
where the border guards' objectives were a bit at odds with mine.
"Bring no beans across de border, is de only way you come!"
but a little bit o' bean dust rendered all the agents dumb!
they commenced to pulling pistols and they shot each other dead,
so I rambled over bodies as I drove full speed ahead.
When I reached the desert border at the south of Mexico,
a combatant Federale said "Dem beans has got to go!"
so I blew a little bean dust in his face as he inhaled,
I will skip the gory details, else to say that I prevailed.
By the time I reached the Texan line my powers had increased,
I was meeting quite a lot of folks, but leaving them deceased,
so retired to a tranquil farm where I now play the flute:
the magical fruit,
the more you eat,
the more you toot."
A quarter century's now gone by
since queues of lorries loaded high
with crates and boxes full of goods
disgorged their contents through these doors
for distribution to the stores
of all the local neighborhoods.
Now brick and mortar's too passé,
the wooden floors from yesterday
are splintered, cracked, in disrepair.
the ceilings sag from many years
of overloaded shelves and tiers
of palettes stacked without a care...
...to undue stress and too much strain,
the wooden beams could not retain
their once fine shape of straight and true.
The lighting, too, is dim and old;
the brickwork can't keep out the cold,
and never has since World War Two.
This inner city dinosaur
disintegrates on ev'ry floor,
the vandals searched with fine toothed combs
for any trinket large or small,
through ev'ry office, bathroom stall...
the rats have even found new homes.
Another decade's sure to see
the death of this anatomy,
of this great heart where once was stored
the lifeblood of the city streets
from finished goods to frozen meats,
...but day by day it's just ignored.
This testament to buy and trade,
a member of the grand parade,
of rotting buildings short and tall
no longer full of glitz and glam',
which plague the streets of Birmingham,
has been replaced with just one mall.
Language Barrier (What's In A Name?)
I took a trip to Canada to see the leaves one fall;
from Windsor in Ontario I drove to Montreal.
The natives spoke a foreign tongue, I knew I shouldn't stay,
until I met a helpful girl, Miss Polly Voo Fronnsay.
Sweet Polly had a lovely gift--could translate what they said--
without her help I certainly had got in o'er my head.
She had a knack deciphering all menus, maps and signs...
could always make the perfect choice selecting foreign wines.
But then, as fate would have it, lovely Polly swiped my ride;
she left me in my undies in the Bay of Fundy's tide.
What could I do? What could I say, to span the lingual trench?
I found a person just like me, Miss Juno N. E. French.
Together we retreated to the safety of the States;
we rode an open box car high atop a stack of crates.
We walked up to the customs booth without a bike or car,
and got our papers stamped and punched by Missus O. Revwar.
My Psychotic Mother (☼)
Volcaniclastic breccias overlie a limestone sheet
upon basaltic layers which support ten thousand feet
of geosyncline fallout at the vast Pacific plate...
a giant future seabed... now the Californian state!
Japan is rocked by temblors where a host of plates converge,
the island's undecided: "stay afloat or resubmerge?"
The Philippines are restless too, in large part quite subdued,
but Pinatubo's temper might come once again unglued.
The Sunda Trench will surely cut another sub-sea fart
just like the one that nearly wiped Sumatra off the chart.
Vesuvius, St. Helens, Kilauea, El Chichon,
Sakurajima, Krakatau, the list goes on and on.
The Earth grows ever-jaded toward her anthropoidal guests,
these continental "microbes" are becoming class-"A" pests;
so earthquakes here, volcanoes there, a drought, then tons of rain,
she scrubs the frothing coastlines with a Cat-5 hurricane...
...but humans are tenacious, it's instinctive right from birth.
These masochistic morons actually worship "mother Earth"!
They celebrate with "Earth Day" in each country far and wide
while Mother Earth refines her plans for all-out genocide!
Swell and the Sway
It's on a tramp steamer that I, a day dreamer,
am changing from boyhood to man.
We left San Francisco with freight for Jalisco
on this old encrusted tin can.
Her decks are aclutter, with one thing or other
that didn't find room down below,
her engine is shaking, the stokers are baking,
our top speed approaching dead slow.
Our ship "Coriander" was built in Santander,
a port on the north coast of Spain;
completed a tanker, she hoisted her anchor
brought four thousand barrels to Maine.
She carried great cargoes through all the embargoes
enacted before the Great War,
but when the fight ended, her use was suspended,
she laid up until '24.
Then ship owners’ searches for surplus to purchase
provided her latest career;
converted to freighter they did reinstate her
and that's how we ended up here...
...in Puerto Vallarta to load for Jakarta
from there to wherever there's freight,
there's nothing to hamper the life of this tramper,
though sometimes we hurry to wait...
...we wait for the tonnage, then pack in the dunnage,
we'll set out despite a fresh gale,
we don't want to doubt her in mountains of water,
and pray that her pumps never fail.
Then when we're unloading in dark and foreboding
conditions on some foreign dock,
we'll trade and we'll barter despite what the charter
has stated in terms carved in rock!
There's theft and there's looting, an uncommon shooting
and piracy grows every year;
the brigands rove free on the South China Sea and
still closer than that, so I fear.
The life of a seaman is always redeemin'
our mettle is tested each day;
I live for adventure with ev'ry jaw clencher,
I live for the swell and the sway.
The Susquehanna Knitters' Guild
Tangled in the tentacles of gossip, gab and greed,
the Susquehanna Knitters' Guild was gabbing at full speed,
spuming on the vital bits of sordid local news,
the naughty knitters nattered with a jumbo jug of booze.
Gertrude Gunkle opened up with tidbits of despair,
concerning Mildred Morpett and her steaming love affair.
Master and commander of her heinous cheat's charade,
was Colonel Hugo Crapner, late of Camelback Brigade.
Ethel P. McFrisbee then revealed some more details,
how Mr. Morpett killed his wife with six inch railroad nails.
At the manufact'ry known as Crapner Skid and Palette,
the Colonel suffered Morpett's ire, beat senseless with a mallet.
Lois Lumpkin then chimed in, another scoop and story,
as gruesome as the first one and perhaps three times as gory.
This one stars the eldest son of Fanny Blacken-White,
who plunged a hundred levels in a tube of anthracite.
When they found his body in the bottom of the mine,
his eyes and brains were in his shoes with just one inch of spine,
cables had been severed with a cabbage-cutter blade,
the guv'nuh phoned condolences to members of the trade.
Wilma Wolpuhzowski was the next one to be heard,
in muted glorps and glerbubs it was plain her speech was slurred.
Mrs. Spluggner, also, was in notable distress,
she “tossed her cookies” square upon Lucinda Hackett's dress!
Drunken knitters knitting at a "ballast scorching" rate,
their love for stupid stories was a lust they couldn't sate,
knitting in the backroom of a Susquehanna barn,
the Knitters' Guild was working on a never-ending yarn.
In The Year 2022
As man renounced humanity
and hateful feelings grew,
as treaties were all nullified
by parties who withdrew,
it seemed that every nation was
irate and baring teeth,
though diplomats made "gestures"
they were glaring underneath.
The Kenyans wanted total war
with Russia, Greece and Spain,
and Norway seemed intent upon
a Portuguese campaign.
The Belgians wanted Cuba
and the Cubans wanted Guam,
and that's when little Lichtenstein
announced they had "The Bomb".
Battalions were recruited
in Morocco and Taiwan,
Andorra purchased guns and tanks
to overthrow Nippon.
The Swiss, though usually neutral,
trained an army all year long,
intent on taking Vietnam
and killing Vietcong.
The chaos was ridiculous
as countries fought for crumbs,
United Nations envoys
handled matters with all thumbs.
well beyond a safe degree,
they only found ONE common point
on which they could agree...
It was decided everyone
would take their planes and tanks,
to Armageddon's borders where
the troops would form their ranks.
The battle set for 8 AM,
the 25th of May,
with caveat reschedules if
it threatened rain that day.
A week before the big event
the satellites arrived:
from super-power nations to
the ones much more deprived.
They jockeyed for position,
each one hustling for a view,
they crowded in a hundred, then
another sixty two.
The last one there, Tanzania,
whose launch was twice delayed,
arrived, intact, to where the other
spy-sats were arrayed.
The operator (substitute)
was nervous--had the shakes--
He sort of knew the steering
but was clueless on the brakes.
The satellite careened in to
a giant can from France,
the duo then colliding with
another, which, by chance
just snagged the throttle linkage
on a large Australian bird
whose blasting retro rockets
took out just about a third
of all the others up there
in an ever-growing ball
this super-snoop conglomerate
then took a fateful fall!
The superheated metal formed
a bright spot in the sky
it soon became discernable
to every naked eye.
And then, just seconds later,
as the chunks began to hit,
the regimental generals
figured they had better git!
The nuts and bolts were landing
with the power of grenades
the larger pieces wiping out
divisions and brigades!
Explosions here, concussions there,
five million lives were lost,
A simple techno-booboo led
to such a frightful cost!
There simply wasn't cover,
there was no place one could dive,
and when the storm was over
very few were left alive.
So after it had ended,
after all was said and done,
humanity decided that
we really are all One.
We're truly quite inseparable,
like fingers on a hand;
we’d finally learned our lessons and
forgave our fellow man.
When you speak of human bodies are they blood or bones or veins?
Are they mostly breasts and bladders, or predominantly brains?
Well, of course, a human's special far beyond the sum of parts
as it dabbles with philosophies or sciences and arts.
When you therefore speak of Brooklyn, as it's rest-au-rants and stores,
or the fifty ethnic enclaves in between her crowded shores,
or her tunnels, trains and taxis, or her buildings old and new...
is to miss the Brooklyn essence from a' universal view.
It's a rough and tumble borough in the county of the kings,
there's a couple million people into scores of different things.
From the princely pads in Park Slope down to fat Manhattan Beach,
there’s a slew of Brooklyn natives who’ve found fame within their reach:
Giovanni Capitello, Barbara Boxer, Joy Behar,
Peter Criss, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Lena Horne, Pat Benatar,
Barbara Stanwyck, Shelley Winters, Jim' Durante, Michael Pitt,
Susan Hayward, Phil Rizzuto, Joseph Papp, Suzanne Pleshette.
Bobby Fischer, Arlo Guthrie, Debbie Gibson full of zest,
Henny Youngman, Rita Hayworth and, another star, Mae West.
Sandy Koufax, Norman Mailer, and the singer "Stephi" Mills
Henry Miller, Adam Sandler, and the songstress "Bev'y" Sills
Eddie Murphy, Mickey Rooney, and a Stevens--namely Connie,
Buddy Hackett, Ira Gershwin and ex-Mayor Giuliani,
David Geffen, Jackie Gleason, Aaron Copland, and Mel Brooks,
Shirley Chisholm, Bugsy Siegel, Al Capone (a couple crooks!)
Henry Beecher, Richard Dreyfuss, Edie Falco and Jay-Z,
Debra Messing, Robert Merrill, and the radical Spike Lee.
Arthur Miller, Joe Paterno, Carl Sagan, M. Tomei,
Neil Sedaka, "Wally" Whitman, Barbara Streisand, Danny Kaye.
It's a laundry list of "famous" who've got Brooklyn in their blood,
a collide-o-scope reflection of the immigration flood.
In the million nooks and crannies, in the million shacks and shops
In the million hearts of teachers, doctors, clergyman and cops...
In the constant evolution of the city's ways and means,
In the center of the universe in terms of hippest scenes...
In the day to day combustion of ambitions, goals and dreams,
she's the marketplace of thinkers and she's bursting at her seams!
A Twisted Tale
Cyclone Sid and Twister Ted,
were both too tightly wound,
always dark and stormy with,
their usual tempest frown.
Cyclone Sid just trashed a house,
as Twister Ted blew by,
"Look at Me!" said Twister Ted,
"I'll make a tractor fly!"
"Lightweight!" shouted Cyclone Sid,
"I've just consumed a home!
Now I'm going to try to eat,
the Houston Astrodome!"
"Break a leg!" said Twister Ted,
"I will not be out done,"
I'll point my funnel toward the sky,
AND I'll CONSUME THE SUN!
Sid was trying to do the math,
(his mind was filled with doubt,)
when out of nowhere Sidney spied,
a female waterspout!
She was a girly-twirly,
with a wet and wild look,
he liked her tiny funnel and
she liked the way he shook.
The two eloped and soon we heard,
that they were newly wed,
and as for Teddy Twister, well,
he's standing on his head
Smack in the middle of the arid Mojave
surrounded by thousands of desert agave
here is a business, the "Popcorn Pagoda"
a sign in the window: "No water, no soda."
An urban legend implicates the Hummer S.U.V.:
it chases down and crushes any Hyundai it can see,
it swerves to nail a Daewoo, then a Mini-Cooper's toast,
each unit must determine what its stomach likes the most.
The Hummer is a hungry beast, and hates to miss a meal;
you know your Hummer's happy when it belches twisted steel.
It mostly feeds on imports, though it LOVES some Chevrolet,
(they'll all eat Mitsubishis and Toyotas, so they say.)
The other day, in disbelief, I nearly came unglued,
I'd never seen a Hummer actually playing with its food!
It had a Beetle cornered, then it pinned it to the ground;
it spun some gravel in its face, then batted it around.
The hardy Beetle took its licks, it gave a teensy roar;
the Hummer then dismantled it and ate it door by door.
The Beetle carcass twitched a bit, then sputtered one last sigh,
but Hummer lost its int'rest to a Lexus driving by.
The Hummer chased the Lexus down preparing for a feast,
but then the Lexus turned around and faced this awful beast.
"You know I'm rich in cal-o-ries so don't you even try it!"
The Hummer ate it anyway, so now he's on a diet.
One Note Somber
My lemming ranch is burning underneath a quarter moon,
The fire trucks are cranking out their less than happy tune.
The air is smelling smartly from a thousand lemming chops,
They'll wash down rather nicely with a brew of malt and hops.
My lemming ranch is blazing as my neighbors gather round,
They're bringing bibs and napkins, they've got blankets on the ground,
There's music and there's dancing and there's couples making love,
The embers crackle tiny sparks which join the stars above.
My lemming ranch is smoking as the final flames are quashed,
Although it's sad the buildings burned I'm happy that they're washed.
With no more lemming steaks to serve the crowd begins to leave,
And I am left here by myself to salvage and to grieve.
Me an' Mad Dog (☼)
A tempest on the dance floor bustin' all the latest moves,
a hurricane of quicksteps with some acrobatic grooves',
where hands go left and feet go right
my girlfriend stares and gapes--
I bob and weave and pirouette
and cause some minor scrapes
with scores of dancers less inclined
for energetic dance--
they seem to think these slow songs are
conducive to romance?!
But MAD DOG helps me break my bonds and fully come alive!
I move across the dance floor at about warp factor five!
Watch it bub,
Yo! Comin' through!!!
(your toes aren't likely broken but they might turn black and blue).
OK, watch this... a TRIPLE TWIST! I lunge, I launch, I SOAR…
But problems on 're-entry' take me face-first to the floor.
The crowd becomes hysteric with my final dance display;
some orc they made a bouncer drags my sorry ass away.
So FUMING MAD I find my car I'll MAKE THE RUBBER PEEL!!!
I've gotta let these morons know EXACTLY how I feel!
So as my smoking tires belch their screaming blackened curse,
it suddenly occurs to me my car is in REVERSE!!!
Before there's time to flinch or blink or think about the brake,
I crash into a Malibu, "WHAT NEXT?! For goodness' sake?!"
The orc-like bouncer dashes up and pulls me from the wreck,
and all that I can think to slur is… "Buddy, where'z yer neck?"
With that the bouncer punches me
a huge resounding thud--
he serves a knuckle sandwich and
my shirt is soaked in blood--
but somewhere in the distance
I can hear the MAD DOG roar,
he might be rather puny but
he won't take any more!
From nowhere I can feel my muscles start to take on bulk;
a mighty transformation like Bill Bixby as "The Hulk".
The MAD DOG barks ferocious and I growl and bear my teeth,
I swing an iron uppercut and catch him underneath.
The look of mystery on his face is total blank surprise--
I follow with a roundhouse squarely placed between his eyes!
He topples like a redwood in the California sun,
and as for me and MAD DOG, well, it looks like we have won.
But victory's short as cops arrive and take me off to jail,
where I will try to sleep it off and end this MAD DOG tale.
Big Sky State of Shock
For 80 years I've worked the soil,
the Great Montana Plains,
I plant all day and then I pray,
for great Montana rains.
For rain will see our harvest through,
it keeps the soil wet,
but rain brings joy beyond all this,
in ways you'd never bet.
My wife and I are just plain folk,
though one thing's sort of odd,
when storms move in and rains begin,
we hug the lightning rod!
We wait and wait with bated breath,
for lightning to bestow,
that one good crack where we're blown back,
to haystacks down below.
It happened once, in '96,
the amperage was so great,
I overshot the whole front yard,
and landed at the gate.
And Martha too, was blasted once,
she did a giant loop—
when she came down she found the ground,
straight through the chicken coop!
Then one time too, the lightning struck,
but it was just a dud,
I lost my grip, slid down the roof,
and landed in the mud.
But Martha had the best one yet,
of this I am convinced,
‘cuz she was blown so far from home,
I haven't seen her since!
Four Piece Jigsaw Puzzle
This Christmas has brought me,
(from one of my nieces),
a cute little puzzle,
with only four pieces.
We cleared off the table,
with no expectations,
that four simple pieces
could cause such frustrations.
My brain started swelling,
from all of the pressure,
I went to the fridge for
a good stiff refresher,
then pondered for hours,
these four stupid pieces,
my forehead's now crinkled,
with permanent creases.
My circuits then melted,
my shin bears the scar where,
I drop kicked the table.
And now that I'm certain,
I've finally cracked it,
my keepers won't let me
take off my straight-jacket.
Snap, Crackle, Poop (☼)
I saw three tiny Kellogg’s men
explore my table top;
my eyes were not deceiving me,
they were Snap, Crackle, Pop.
I scooped them up and threw them in
a bowl half full of milk;
then watched them slowly sink from sight,
I never liked their ilk.
I took their tiny bodies and
I roller-pinned them flat…
then ground them into meatloaf which
was given to my cat.
So now the folks from Kellogg’s have
put out an A.P.B.;
they filed a Missing Dwarf report,
and aired it on T.V.
It seems the tiny Kellogg’s men
were worth a tidy sum,
The agents who insured them have
been looking pretty glum.
The remnant in my kitty's box
was rather incomplete…
I sent it back to Kellogg’s marked,
"The Lost Rice Krispie Treat."
Let Someone Else Do the Cookin'
McDonald's, Little Caesar's,
and good ol' K.F.C.,
Burger King and Wendy's,
they're all nutrition free.
Domino's and Denny's,
the mighty Pizza Hut,
Firmly keeping grounded,
this blimp I call my butt.
Long John Silver's meat sticks,
one's chicken, one is fish,
though I can never tell you,
exactly which is which.
Taco Bell and Arby's,
I've made a million trips,
and all the waiters know me,
at H. Salt Fish and Chips.
Oh! Listen to me blather,
I really love them all,
Just feed me junk-food dinners,
lock, stock and cholesterol.
It's Dead, Jim.
Our gaskets are in order,
there are no signs of leaks,
the timing chain is snugged up tight,
there are no stains or streaks.
The crankcase ventilation,
appears to be OK,
the spark plug gaps are perfect,
I don't know what to say.
Each cylinder was eyeballed,
we checked our octane rating,
the engine won't turn over,
just why, well, we're debating.
The torsional vibrations,
have all been kept in check,
the fuel system sensors,
were tested by my tech.
The fuel filter's brand new,
we cleaned the intake port,
the carburetor's shiny,
but still there's no retort.
My wife is home from shopping,
a kiss as she walks past,
she tells me rather smugly,
"You know you need some gas!"
I grabbed ol’ Huckleberry and I
threw him in the bath.
He shot out like a rocket,
but I stood there in his path.
I know that cats don’t like to get
their furry carcass wet,
but in this house I am the king,
and he is just my pet.
So in the natural scheme of things,
he must obey my laws,
but somehow this got lost on him,
‘cuz all I saw was claws.
He lacerated both my arms,
my pants, my shirt, my feet.
there was no stopping Hucky as
he made a mad retreat.
But he had not considered his
escape route very well,
when wet paws hit slick tile,
finding traction can be hell.
So down I reached and grabbed him by
his scruffy little head,
then held him in the bubble bath and
scrubbed him nice and red.
He thrashed he flailed he kicked and wailed,
the bathroom floor’s a flood.
and though my cat is nice and clean,
I’m down a quart of blood.
Children Don’t See
Monsters Only at Night
Her eyes projected torments of
the souls aflame in hell;
her breath a sulfur overcast
would gag you with its smell;
her skin like rumpled blankets
flapping mad in any breeze;
her perfume spoke of vapors from
a rancid chunk of cheese.
Her voice dripped condescension
leaving puddles on the floor;
black widow hearts were twice as big
as hers (or maybe more);
and though you find it hard to think
there might be such a creature;
I tell you now, I knew her well,
she was my third grade teacher.
A Successful Writing Career
A little man from somewhere that
you'd never think to look,
thought of something so abstract
he sat and wrote a book.
He sold it to a publisher of
journals, notes and briefs,
a basic compilation of
his many disbeliefs.
The New York Times was quick to put
the book at number one,
they couldn't think of ever reading
something half as fun.
The little man was wealthy to
the tune of… I don't know,
his bank account in Switz-er-land
began to overflow.
He packed his bags and moved away
to write another book,
he finally found the perfect place
somewhere you'd never look.
I saddle up my dragonfly,
my Stetson's pulled down tight;
we've got 1000 head of bugs,
to round up by tonight.
We fly out to the southern greens,
to gather most 'the herd,
but they stampeded out of here,
chased by a hummingbird.
A couple here, a couple there,
we slowly round them up,
making sure they bear our brand,
the Circle Buttercup.
Well, night sets in before we're done,
we settle down to camp,
the smell of stinkbugs in the air,
the wind is warm and damp.
The next day brings a trace of rain,
while stinkbugs idly graze;
the sun decides to show itself,
through shrouds of foggy haze.
We break our camp and ride on out,
we're slowly underway;
it doesn't look like we will make,
Topeka by today.
So one more eve beneath the weave,
of stratus filtered moon;
we sleep our fill upon a hill,
a semi-grassy dune.
When morning comes the herd is gone,
they're nowhere in our sight…
…we camped too near a zapper with,
an ultra-violet light!
The man who dreamed up rubber bands,
met Mr. Paper Clips;
an argument then sallied forth,
with many bumps and dips.
"A paper clip is only good,
for three sheets, maybe four…
…a rubber band can so expand,
to hold so many more!"
"Oh, Poppycock! Your rubber bands!
they're flimsy and they bust;
we first anneal our strips of steel,
they're strong and they won't rust!"
Well back and forth the words were spat,
but no one could ignore,
when these two guys, so smart and wise,
were wrestling on the floor.
The crowd drew close to see this fight,
their mouths were all agape.
The end came round when both were bound,
by Dep-u-ty Duct Tape.
The Man Who Lost His Dog (☼☼)
There was a man who juggled,
two knives, an ax, a cleaver,
the one he missed fell in his lap,
he now walks with a beaver.
The Setting of a Rising Son (☼☼)
When I said I would ignore ya
you said "Tora! Tora! Tora!"
then torpedoed any hopes to win my hand
You're the best of bimbo bombers
with a set like Susanne Somers
(mammoth magnets to my salivary gland)
So I know I sort of bore you
like the Hiryu and the Soryu
I'm as flat as any rice cake ever made
you have deemed it necessary
set your heart on "hari-kari"
as the only way my faux pas can be paid
Well I bought a wakizashi
from a friend of Liberace
It's authentic as bushido blades can be
now I'm feeling kinda crummy
as I shove it through my tummy
and I spill my guts for all the world to see
So you're still a banzai bunny
and I know you think it's funny
in a Hiroshima/Nagasaki way
that I'd play in your kabuki
in a final scene so spooky
but for me it's just a kamikaze day
Insomnia at the Middle Earth Motel (☼)
Jolted wide awake from thunderous crashes, bangs and booms,
there's lots of violence raging in these Mordor motel rooms,
breaking beds and bureaus, bellowed grunts and panicked screams,
this ain't a place conducive for a night of sleep and dreams.
Elbows through the woodwork, then a foot and then a head,
some body blows and tackles as they crash into their bed.
This is to the left of me, it's far worse to the right!
and no one in the room upstairs will see the morning light!!!
Calling to the night clerk to report these grim affairs:
the riots in the hallways, bodies hurled down the stairs,
nicely furnished guestrooms being thrashed to broken wrecks,
he's very quick to tell me that its orcs just having sex.
2001 A Space Odyssey of the Third Kind (☼)
While blasting through the star fields
at twice the speed of light,
I had to find a bathroom,
and time was getting tight!
The restrooms in Orion,
were in such poor repair,
and yet I'd never make it,
to potty on Altair.
I fumbled with my map book,
my legs were pinching tight,
I had to find a rest stop,
you surely know my plight.
So off to Cygnus Seven,
I steered my trusty ship,
but star crews had a detour,
and I began to drip!
I pushed the pedal harder,
I reached warp factor three,
and when I got to Vega,
the bathrooms were not free.
Beside myself with pressure.
I squeaked a little toot,
and thoroughly polluted,
my space survival suit.
The truck stop on Arcturus
was now my greatest bet,
I hoped that I would get there,
before I got too wet.
But locals were not working,
and everything was closed!
I'd come a thousand light-years,
to find out I was hosed.
This never ending story,
is just as large as space:
a bright streak through the Heavens,
means I've not lost the race!
Geometry -- in motion
A single scripted squiggle,
near a double banded square,
convinced an awkward angle,
to position with more care.
A tightly tangent circle,
to a limping languid line,
compelled the moving angle,
to complete the Grand Design.
The awkward angle nested,
in the picture-perfect spot,
but posture was a tribute,
which the languid line forgot.
A schizo polyhedron,
and a two-time trapezoid,
convinced the line to straighten,
or be cancelled null and void.
So now the picture's hanging,
in a gallery far away,
the line bore many dashes,
and she has no need to sway.
When Voltaire charged up Bunker Hill,
to rout the Swedish troops,
he radioed for gun support,
from U.S. Navy sloops.
These battlewagons opened fire,
the hill was lost in smoke,
then Panzer tanks broke through the ranks,
and Swedish lines were broke.
Then when this word was finally heard,
by Pharaoh of Des Moines,
he mustered all his charioteers,
the battle to enjoin.
His navy too he did embark,
the Admirals trimmed their sails,
and in command, no less a man,
than outlaw Josie Wales.
Now when the Swedes saw through the weeds,
they charged in strength and won, at length,
with howitzers and spears.
So back and forth this conflict raged,
dear Voltaire proved a hero.
He signed a peace in Pan-mun-jom
which ended World War Zero.
The "T", the "L", the square, the pole,
the zig, (or zag), just find a hole,
position, turn, then let it drop,
but don't allow them past the top.
The screen is filling tier by tier,
completely full rows disappear,
then after all the blocks are done,
you’re only through with level one.
It's faster yet on level two,
make no mistakes, there's no UNDO!
Don't lose control on level ten,
you've come too far to start again!
The blocks start falling fast as light,
your eyes and fingers lock in tight;
to win the game, don't freak, don't choke!
just get the Gameboy blowing smoke!!!
Don't Need No Girly Love
I don't like goin' datin' and
I don't like country dance,
I ain't got extra gumption fer
a lollygag romance.
I like my house the way it is,
I don't like fancy frills,
I don't need glassy knick-knacks on
my dusty winda sills.
I will not wear no sissy clothes,
an' I won't shave my beard;
I won't do church on Sundies 'cuz
that's not how I was reared
The women folk will gab all day
they're ornrey and they fuss
they gab about their sewin’ stuff
they never smoke or cuss
God never made the woman who
would ever catch my eye
the day you see me gettin' hitched
will be the day I die
So ladies when you see me, well,
you'd best all turn away
cuz this is one ol' badger who'
you're never gonna sway
Unless you learn to swing an ax
an' build a real fine boat
unless you learn to bait your hook
an' cook with creosote
unless you wanna learn to shoot
a buck, a doe, a fawn
unless you'll climb the Rockies
and can sleep out dusk til dawn
then I don't need your extra weight
and you'd had best take care
'cuz iffn you're too far behind
you might just catch a bear.
Woody's Trial (☼☼☼)
We left to go hunting one Saturday morn,
with rifles and ammo, three kegs and some porn.
It took us 'til midnight to get to our camp,
the weather was typical: chilly and damp.
Well Woody was drinking since yesterday noon,
his eyeballs were floating, we knew he'd blow soon;
he bailed from the pickup before we could park,
and limp-hobbled off to a spot in the dark.
We started unloading our guns and our tents,
when Woody discovered a thousand volt fence!
The glow from the forest was stunningly bright,
and Woody was screaming with all of his might!
Once started he couldn't just turn off the flow
and Woody still had a good gallon to go!
He screamed and he hollered and lit up the woods,
which helped us immensely unloading the goods.
The show must've lasted five minutes or more,
when finally the shrieking got slower and slower;
the light from the forest then dimmed to soft pink,
poor Woody was holding his smoldering dink.
The hunt was a failure, just one of those trials,
the deer were scared off for at least twenty miles;
no squirrels, no chipmunks, no 'possums or birds,
we didn't see nuthin' but four-letter words.
So Woody's embarrassed, he says that he's learnt,
his cucumber's curled, his kidneys are burnt;
he still wants to join us for hunting next year
our only condition is STAY OFF THE BEER!!!
'Twas the night after Christmas,
And all through the flat,
Not a creature was burning,
Except for my cat.
I awoke from my slumber,
And sprang out of bed,
In just less than a minute,
My kitty was dead.
When I picked up her carcass,
All crispy and fried,
My emotions exploded,
I broke down and cried.
So I dug a small crater,
Out back in the yard,
And I buried poor kitty,
Still smoking and charred.
But a blizzard was raging,
I had to go in,
I was met by my puppy,
Suppressing a grin.
My deductions proved certain,
What happened that night,
He had plugged kitty into
A Christmas tree light.
There were pieces of tail fur,
Still hot in the wires,
Her trajectory marked,
By a small string of fires,
This maniacal canine,
Must, therefore, be curbed,
I won't live with a puppy,
That's ment'lly disturbed.
So gather your kinfolk,
And bring lots of wine,
We'll fire up this doggie,
I'm sure he'll taste fine.
We'll cook succulent dog steaks,
With style and with verve,
So look at your plates and know
justice is served.
Aberkromby and Phitch (☼)
Aberkromby pitched a bitch at fickle Mr. Phitch,
for Phitch forgot the final stitch, a fairly flagrant glitch.
The garment which, without the stitch, would have to get the pitch,
was auctioned off to Romanov, who made the duo rich!
Prudence Brown (☼☼☼)
My friends all think I'm crazy and,
they never come around,
as I have broached the social norms,
most strangely and profound.
The night my girlfriend left me I
went walking in the dark,
my contemplations led me down,
an alley toward the park.
I ambled through the city streets
beyond the edge of town,
I rested in the graveyard on
the stone of Prudence Brown.
I wasn't there a minute when
I heard an eerie wail,
and then such sounds that would have scared
the toughest guys in jail.
But I was hurt beyond repair,
I welcomed any blow,
It mattered not if I was killed
by some unearthly foe.
The ground beneath me shook and rolled,
it did not seem to stop,
I heard the sound of breaking boards,
then something crack and pop.
The dirt began to sink from sight
and fill the casket's void,
a putrid blast of fetid air,
then suddenly deployed.
A finger, wrist, then arm complete,
came henceforth from the ground,
and just a moment later,
there was standing Prudence Brown.
Her eyes were gone, and most her skin,
was hanging like loose rags,
Her words were choked and rasping,
as she stifled coughs and gags.
Her voice was reminiscent of
the sound of grinding gears,
and though I didn't catch a word,
I understood her tears.
She sat with me for quite a spell,
attempting to relate,
and as the sun began to rise,
I asked her on a date.
She cracked a very timid smile,
and bowed with style and grace,
then when she pecked me on the cheek,
her lips fell off her face.
Despite that rather awkward start,
we're planning our first trip...
we're going to go to Vegas and
get married on the Strip.
There's so much love and friendship now,
and SUCH romantic sex!
I can't believe I murdered her,
when she was still my ex!
Them NASA Fellers Don't Know Doodly (☼)
Way back in the sixties when I was a kid,
I watched the moon landing and promised, I did,
that when I was able to buy all the goods,
I'd build me a rocket out back in the woods.
She rises immensely above my back yard,
a tower of plywood that's fueled by lard.
I got me some tires I nailed to her fins,
with life support systems in sauerkraut tins.
I loaded'er up with a keg full of booze,
I packed my pajamas and two pair of shoes,
I got me my shotgun with plenty of shells,
An emergency horn and a long string of bells.
The countdown is tickin' to final ignition,
I'm ready to go on my first lunar mission,
KAH-BLAMMM goes the engine! We scream into space!
The back of my head is now sporting my face.
It's up through the clouds, then into the stars,
Too late for the moon, my best bet is Mars,
I ease off the throttle and heave on the tiller,
but lard is still burnin, I just got to kill her.
Inertia then carries me out past the sun,
The plywood starts burning, the boards come undone.
I fire the retros (two rounds from my gun)
The nose swings around, a battle hard won.
I line up the earth in a last desperate dive,
I'm prayin' to God that I get out alive,
It's been quite a journey, I'm on the last leg,
it seems the right moment to tap the old keg.
Re-entry is shaking the ship into pieces,
my face, once again, is devoid of all creases,
I crash with a silo that totals the rocket,
and both of my eyeballs end up in one socket.
My arm's a bit broken, both feet are a wreck,
my body's thrice twisted from ankles to neck,
and though you will find this undoubtedly queer,
I didn't part comp'ny with one drop of beer!
The Royal Rumble (☼)
The King of Hearts set out to kill,
The evil Queen of Spades,
He sheathed his favorite silver sword,
And several smaller blades.
While on the road the King did meet,
The jolly Jack of Clubs,
The two went steaming all night long,
In several all-night pubs.
The King awoke next afternoon,
He quickly donned his shades,
And found that last night's paramour,
Was good old Queen of Spades.
"I hope you had a grand old time,"
The Queen serenely said,
Then slashing with the silver sword,
Removed his drunken head.
The Jack of Clubs slipped in the room,
And eyed the bloody mess,
He kissed the crimson coated Queen,
And handed her her dress.
She slipped into her garment and,
She turned to get a zip,
That's when she felt the dagger plunge,
And heard her killer quip:
"The King is dead, now you as well,
So let my subjects sing,
As I the mighty Jack of Clubs,
Am coronated King!"
The Two of Diamonds then popped in,
And cuffed the awful Jack,
"YOU'RE HEADED FOR THE DUNGEON, CLUB,
AND NEVER COMING BACK!"
"Well who are you, you little two,
I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD YOU CHUMP!"
"I may be small," the Two replied,
"But in this round, I'M TRUMP!"
A Lighter Look At Darkness (☼☼)
Yeah I'm not at all well, let me briefly explain,
I am fairly neurotic... love torture and pain.
I've got piercings and skewers wherever there's space,
and the airport’s detectors go off from my face.
I'm a transgender dropout with very few skills,
I've got rabies and scabies, have fevers and chills,
I'm a dope dealin’, purse stealin’, dude with nice boobs,
I've got grass in my pipe and some LSD cubes.
Well I'm big into cutting despite how it mars,
all the skin on my arms... one big patchwork of scars,
Macaroni and cheese is my principal meal,
and it no doubt contributes to just how I feel.
I can smell my stale armpits... a hideous reek,
there's no need to convince me to shower next week.
I hear voices of evil to which my mind strains,
they’re attempting to get me to blow out my brains.
I am thirty years old and I still live at home,
I don't pay for my food, and the folks bought my phone.
Dear ol’ mum makes my lunches, dad's popped for my ride,
They will REALLY freak out on my first suicide.
A Man Possessed
They have me shot on cam'ra on a psychopathic spree,
so now I'm in an institute of male psy-chol-o-gy.
They took a round of x-rays, it's my brain they wished to see,
I spent a hundred hours down in rad-i-ol-o-gy.
The x-rays showed a normal blob just pretty as can be,
so then they thought my problems stemmed from tox-i-col-o-gy.
Now if indeed there was a glitch in my blood's chem-i-stry,
they'd have to have some samples drawn by Miss Phle-bol-o-gy.
The lab'ratory studied those but found no ill debris,
and furthermore I passed my tests in per-son-ol-o-gy.
They bingged, they banged, looked here, looked there, they hammered on my knee
they stamped their full approval up in Re-flex-ol-o-gy
Then fin'lly they consulted Father Guido Sar-du-cci
who is the leading expert trained in de-mon-ol-o-gy.
He chanted incantations, shouted scripture vis-a-vis,
the demons left and I commend his meth-o-dol-o-gy.
There's a relic in my freezer
think I'll heat 'er up and cheese 'er
it might be a loaf of last year's mutton stew
through the ice it looks colossal
it might be a sausage fossil
or a lumpy chunk of chicken cordon bleu
Still, my dinner plans might fizzle
if I can't produce a chisel
since it's frozen to the bottom of the box
I commence the glob's extraction
though there's little satisfaction
as it seems the myst'ry meat is hard as rocks
Now it's time for Black and Decker
trash the freezer, gotta wreck 'er
to discover what it is I'm going to eat
got the drills and power cutter
but the blades begin to stutter
as they slice into the center of the meat
Yet I will not be dissuaded
though the slab is barricaded
in a sheath of ice about 3 inches thick
I've got oxy-fuel torches
cuts the ice, though sort of scorches
when it fin'lly punches through in to the brick
Lesson learned while cooking dinner:
zero cals will make you thinner
when you're dealing with a booming recipe,
hunger pangs can make you crazy
mem'ries fade, get fuzzy, hazy...
it's the freezer where I hid my T.N.T.!!!
My ulcers are screaming suspended in acid
my nerves are all nattered by constant abuse
just call me eccentric, I don't do 'electric'
I panic whenever there's serious juice.
Each morning I wake up in dark consternation
while missus is bathing, she'll futz for an hour,
the bathtub's connected to three diff'rent outlets,
the lights in the house will all dim from the pow'r.
There's radio, wall clock, a laptop computer,
a microwave oven, a lamp and T.V.,
there's hairdryer, curler, and other devices
conveniently placed in the bathtub, for she
is always a talent, a great multitasker,
she plots and she plans on getting more done,
the bathtub's providing a warm and abiding,
command post for someone who's e’er on the run,
but networks of cordage on handles and faucets,
the sockets, antennas, transformers and plugs
that dangle an inch off the soapy waste water
are dangerous, I warn her, but she simply shrugs.
So next, for de-germing, I'm inwardly squirming
I grimace--jaw clenching--a squint through one eye,
adjusting the water, I turn on the shower,
the smallest wrong move and I'll be a French fry.
- - - - - - a few days later - - - - - -
The funeral arrangements and fam'ly estrangements,
are teaching me patience, longsuff'ring and hope,
It wasn't a shocker that in the end got her,
but out of the shower, she slipped on some soap!
[Note: Sault is pronounced Sue, and often spelled Soo.]
There once was a vessel in Sault Sainte Marie
that loaded a cargo of worthless debris
* semi-chewed crackers and
* one bladed fans,
* crinkled lawn sprinklers,
* dented tin cans.
I saw them load pallets of woodpecker choppings
they stacked them ten high on the jellyfish droppings
then barrels of spit from the Toothpaste Convention
were tossed on the top of a half-baked invention...
...invented to stop all the airborne pollutants
that caused quite a surge in the birthrate of mutants
who marched on Milwaukee (which caused their undoing--
they fell in the vats where the pilsners were brewing!).
the ship also loaded:
* ten tons of used staples,
* a half dozen stumps from some post-mortem maples,
* eleven umbrellas devoid of their handles
* twenty-one boxes of half melted candles
* ten cartons of hemorrhoid jelly
from recycle centers in downtown New Delhi,
as well as:
* the ashes from Bozo's cremation,
* the giant blue goo from a whale's ovulation.
* containers of deadly plutonium ions,
* an NFL schedule for Packers and Lions,
* and lastly, the dentures from Nixon and Johnson...
then sailed for a port in the state of Wisconsin.
The ship went aground on an uncharted reef,
the SOS signals were gratefully brief.
She foundered quite quickly and all hands were lost
the cargo insured at a heavenly cost...
the Coast Guard attempted to salvage the teeth
of Nixon and Johnson, but somewhere beneath
the angry white waters of sea spray and foam
in Davy Jones' locker they found a new home.
Tin Can Tizzy
A mishap at the canners saw the process go all wrong,
with cans and labels out of synch, it went on all month long!
Chop suey shipped as "Applesauce"; the Peas were labeled "Spam";
and if you opened "Sauerkraut" you found a candied yam!
Fruit cocktail went as "Bacon Bits" and corn was "Refried Beans",
the tin cans meant for salsa ran on mushroom soup machines!
The folks expecting tuna got some corned beef hash instead,
the substance in the chicken tins was viscous blobs of red.
The phones began to tell the tale of systems on the blink,
assembly lines were halted giving bosses time to think.
They settled on a remedy suggested off-the-cuff;
now everything is shipping fine, it's simply labeled "STUFF"!
Particle Theory Made Simple
Attending a lecture on superstring theory
by gray faced professors, all wrinkled and weary,
I learned about 'strings' in the smallest abysses,
neutrino collisions, photonic near misses...
"The strings are all strung into M-theory chains
of fermion figures and bosonic branes,
duality leans to the supersymmetric..."
(UGH! I've got a theory that's MUCH more eclectic!)
Electrons are chocolate and neutrons are glaze
the atom's a donut that's twice out of phase
with cinnamon leptons and covalent bonds
which dwell in the static of custard-filled ponds.
Yes, higher dimensional transpermutations
of superstring matter, in some situations,
weave strings into fabrics, or fold them like mittens
or sometimes unravel by cute quantum kittens.
I'd listened to Couric, to Gibson and more,
I'd heard Brian Williams with bad news galore,
"The tax cuts have killed us."--"We're losing our homes."
the news was far bleaker from Alan B. Colmes.
I looked at my missus with anguish and pain,
"Our dinner this year will be paltry and plain,
the nation is bankrupt, the farms are all dead,
there aren't any groceries: no beans and no bread."
"I'm going to go hunting, we'll eat what I catch,
we have to be careful, make ev'ry meal stretch."
So off to the woods I went traipsing for deer,
some venison steaks would bring holiday cheer.
Now, even some squirrels or rabbits would do,
we might get along on a 'possum or two,
but after ten hours and six busted arrows
I'd managed to skewer two underweight sparrows.
Arriving back home with the birds in a sack,
my wife was bewildered, her muscles went slack,
we both started crying, our spirits so low,
no Christmas-time egg nog, just fresh melted snow.
We plucked both the song birds and boiled the meat
we thanked the good Lord we had something to eat.
We garnished the drumsticks with clippings of grass,
some Pepsodent flavored the snow in our glass.
Then just after prayer for our pitiful meal,
the chime of the doorbell announced with it's peal
our neighbor arriving with plates full of feast,
(his fam'ly delayed by some storms to the east.)
"There's food!!!" I blurted through torrents of tears,
The News is quite sure we've been starving for years!"
"That's rubbish!" he countered, "There's much to avail!
This turkey's from Wal*Mart's big two-for-one sale!"
I’ve finally decided that box has to go,
my T.V.'s now sitting outside in the snow!
I don't need the brainwash, I don't need the spin,
I don't need the scandals, the scoops or the skin.
Humpty's Stock Market Debacle
When Humpty P. Dumpty announced his big plan,
to be a supplier of parts for Japan
investments soon doubled in high alloy steel,
and Humpty was known as a very big wheel!
He turned around Wall Street by purchasing stock,
his iron ore holdings were run 'round the clock,
He dabbled with railroads and other core firms
He ran a tight "ship" on the strictest of terms.
One evening while dining with Buffet and Trump
The iron ore market fell into a slump
The plummeting prices just tumbled unchecked
and Humpty was certain his business was wrecked.
He shifted his assets, invested in bonds
while cursing the pace which the market responds
he sold off his blue chips, and anything "Dow"
and opted instead for some NASDAQ "know-how"
With finances stable, the hemorrhage stanched,
he studied the markets to which he had branched.
He printed up trend reports Summer and Fall
then went out to study these charts on his wall.
The numbers were numbing, his eyes went aglaze
He studied the figures for quite a few days
He drifted to sleep, took a roll, cracked his head,
The gardener found him, by now he was dead.
The crime scene detective took photos and prints,
then ruled it a suicide based on the hints:
he'd rolled off the wall and fell straight to it's base,
ironic'ly dying with egg on his face!
Nessie's Appetite (☼)
Nessie's got an appetite for boats and small canoes,
she'll eat a yacht if you have got one you don't need to use.
She'll munch on turtles, frogs and fish, she'll down a garbage barge,
she'll nibble toes right off your feet to show you she's in charge.
This Nessie is a monster and she weighs three hundred tons;
it happened, once, a sleeping whale got wedged between her buns.
It woke her from her slumber as it caught her in mid-snore,
but Nessie's indigestion blew that mighty whale ashore!
And then again, in '83, another creature did
the same mistake the whale had done; this time a flying squid.
So Nessie dove for seaweed, eating fiber left and right,
then shot that squid to Ventnor town upon the Isle of Wight!
The squid's misfortunes seem so sad, he's so much worse for wear,
He had to suffer half the night in rather fetid air,
then blasted into orbit from the ancient monster's bum
was just a hint of horror for the landing yet to come!
The Ventnor folks and tourists found the whole thing rather odd,
when simply out of nowhere came this flaming ceph'lopod!
He parted clouds while screaming like a V-2 rocket's blare,
then splattered quite completely over Ventnor's city square.
For calamari lovers this provided some great feast,
yet even they are fond to share a tear for this poor beast,
and as for Nessie swimming proud throughout her Scottish cut,
the other fishes now know well: "Steer clear of Nessie's butt!"
The thinker 'thank' a thousand thoughts
but each was incomplete...
just as he started thinking "A"
thought "B" would soon compete
for time and contemplation when
thought "C" would come to mind--
he nearly had it figured out,
but "D" then quite unkind,
consumed his full attention
just as "E" snuck from behind
and ruined "F" as well as "G"
the thinker now resigned
to ponder how a concept "H"
as prescient as could be,
could best the virtues of an "I"
a thought both wild and free.
Before he had a chance to grab
a quill to write them down
the promise of a dawning "J"
was etched upon his frown,
because if "K" impacted as
hypothesized on "L"
then "M" would mean that "N" would cause
a certain living hell
that maybe "O" and less-so "P"
could possibly avert,
but then the "Q"-producing "R"
would also surely hurt
the chance of "S" fulfilling "T"
within the bounds of "U"
a chain reaction would take place
with "V", and one or two,
presumptions which would process through
a "W", "X" and "Y",
and if his logic stayed the course
and "Z" was drawing nigh…
…then choices dwindled down to one
and all that he could say:
"I'm right back where I started from
supposing concept 'A'."
The Tale Of Clara Carp
This is the tale of Clara Carp
who ev'ry morn at seven sharp
would fall from bed and hit the floor
then roll herself out through the door
she'd circumvent a host of chairs
then tumble down three flights of stairs
she'd pass the kitchen, pass the den
keep rolling down the hall and when
it looked as though she'd lose some steam
her face would twitch from some bad dream
and off she'd roll in frantic haste
the maids and footmen would be braced
for one more Clara ricochet
Yo ho! Ariba! Andele!
They'd bullfight Clara with their brooms
as she wreaked havoc in the rooms
then off she'd thunder through the ranch
a roly-poly avalanche
they'd try to steer her toward her chair
(like herding rabid grizzly bear)
bedecked in jammies, pink with dots,
it's lucky Clara called the shots
for all the damage she incurred
the hired help said not one word
yet were it they who broke a stick
Miss Clara'd cut them to the quick!
But as it happened ev'ry day
'twas Clara Carp who caused the fray
the footmen had it all on tape
each Clara crash and Clara scrape.
One night the ranch burned to the ground
except her bedroom: safe and sound
and when she rolled next morn from bed
she fell three floors upon her head.
The funeral service was kept short
The lawyers read her will in court
and through it all I've been quite brave
content she's rolling in her grave.
Option C (☼☼)
Connie was a little girl
but knew she had to be
a great big man with muscles so
she changed into a he.
Now Conrad (as he called himself)
had met the perfect man
so then decided to change back
as fast as he/shes can...
... but then again as Connie,
she submitted to the knife
to try to be the perfect man
and find her perfect wife
She volleyed back and forth between
the genders "he" and "she"
then one time in her doctors' care
discovered Option "C".
The doctors weren't quite certain
what he was when she arrived
they gave her one of everything
so he won't feel deprived.
The bathroom choices now confuse
him/her to such degree
that when the pressure starts to build
he/she just finds a tree.
Tension Between The Species
Some whippoorwills had honed their bills
'til points were deadly sharp,
the slightest breeze against their beaks
would sound off like a harp,
and so these birds in flocks and herds
set out to stab some carp.
They flew above the riverbed
in perfect gooselike V's,
they held a tight formation as
they circled redwood trees,
they never even flinched a bit
through swarms of bumble bees!
They set a course of three-one-six
out o'er Conundrum Lake,
they scrutinized the ripples for
some sign of carp-like wake,
but never seemed to understand
they'd made a huge mistake.
Reversing course to one-three-six
they headed back to base,
exhausted from the all-day flight
upset, and in disgrace;
compelled by utter hunger to
review the sordid case.
They hauled out charts and manuscripts,
they studied on the net,
they called some ichthyologists
and you can almost bet
that when they found the problem there
was someone in a sweat!
The carp, it seems, feed in the muck
of Lake Conundrum's silt,
the whippoorwills were not put off
nor overwrought with guilt,
they simply made a submarine
the biggest ever built.
This giant u-boat's hull is made
from iron scraps and steel,
a million birds fly in its hull
and man each gauge and wheel,
(the carp torpedoes powered by
a Zebco rod and reel.)
They christened her the "Whippersnap"
her nose was drenched in spray,
The mayor's wife cut ribbons as
she slipped on down the way,
the wine-soaked ship then sounded off
in Lower Bogflop Bay.
The skipper gunned his engines as
they cast away all lines,
he took her out for one short spin
to test the new designs…
…that's when the carp decided they
had better build some mines.
The minefield was incredible
if not somewhat unwise,
each mine was planted juxtapose
another of its size,
a hundred thousand bobbing balls
for birdies they despised.
The war concluded on Day One
a mighty mine was struck,
a million birds, a million carp
had just run out of luck,
Conundrum Lake was vaporized--
each fern, each frog, each duck!
The earth was charred for miles around,
the lake was scalding steam,
the "Whippersnap" was blown to bits
with nothing to redeem,
her once majestic silhouette
long lines and graceful beam.
The moral to the story is
perhaps less truth than wish,
that whippoorwills will try to serve
some bugs in every dish,
and, for a spell, lay off the thoughts
of EVER eating fish!
A Man At Ease
Emblazoned on my psyche is a strand of DNA,
Abundant in its humor genes and predisposed to play,
Replete with comic chromosomes and those that make you laugh,
The helix has a lazy streak, in fact, it's more than half.
Hurray for modern medicine, my wife can't be annoyed,
The genes for my ambition simply never got deployed,
Oh tell her why it's not my fault I cannot scrub or mow,
Just illustrate why 8-to-5's are something I can't know
I'm quite the helpless victim from this cellular disease
My body will stop working if I'm not a man at ease.
An American Husband Foresees His Life (☼)
(after: William Butler Yeats)
I know that I shall meet my mate
Somewhere, perchance, down aisle three;
She shops for clothes she loves to hate
She shops to sample things for free.
Her Wal*Mart cart is stainless steel,
With one wheel flopping side to side,
No items there shall make me squeal
Nor make me swell too much with pride.
No impulse ever makes her shop,
Nor advertisement's cunning wit;
A hundred grand she'd love to drop
on chintzy Made-in-China shit.
I balanced all, the checkbook's sum,
The years to come bode "waste of dough;"
A waste of dough seems just a crumb
To how I love that lady so!
Techno marvels, great indeed, once plug-and-play takes hold,
but just a fuse or battery can leave you in the cold...
wristwatch, cell phone, PDA, a Garmin for your car,
palmtop, laptop, Internet, perhaps we've gone too far?
Calculator, camera and a SanDisk 16 gig,
Nintendo for the HiDef screen, it's flat but awfully big.
Scanners, Faxes, Printers and the famous "All-in-One"
surveillance, OnStar, satellite... we're having too much fun!
Pull the plugs and cut the cords it's time to kill your screen,
the artificial lives we lead are really quite obscene!
Case in point, my sorry self, now weeks without fresh air,
it seems my skin has grafted to the fabric of my chair!
My agent took my chapbook tightly trussed,
to publishers with whom he plead my case,
the merits of its contents they discussed.
A Schuster bid was matched by Harcourt Brace.
when Penguin made an offer quite obscene,
but Random House was ready for a race!
yet Houghton Mifflin's publishing machine,
expanded on that sum, which, I confess,
made Ian Allan pony up more green,
which prompted better cash by Nonesuch Press,
though G. P. Putnam topped their final call,
so Scribner bid so high, well, you might guess...
the global house of cards began to fall,
so I ap-o-lo-gize to one and all.
The Nature of Old
Old is any span of time: a jiffy, day or year;
when I was just three seconds "old" they slapped me on my rear.
Although that's sort of nebulous I think we could define
that OLD is over fifty years... (since I'm just forty nine.)
That includes pre-Cambrian, Cretaceous and the like
encompassing Earth's fault lines be they slip, oblique or strike
Old would be the trilobites, the crinoids and their kin
including all the fossils like my teacher Mrs. Finn.
Eons, eras, epochs and the dawning of an age,
it's OLD which comes so quickly when you work a starting wage.
It's gray hair, warts and wrinkles which occur quite late in life,
unless, of course, you're married to the classic nagging wife.
OLD is all the promises which politicians spout,
you'd be quite optimistic if you weren't so filled with doubt!
Old is ancient prophecy like Nostradamus told,
explaining how the stars align to bring me tons of GOLD! (…or not!)
Now you might consider this subject beneath ya,
an open-mind verse on the common urethra:
that tubing and valving which empties the bladder;
a portal for liquids; a wastewater ladder.
With women it's often the source of some hurting,
gets sullen and swollen and burns when it's squirting;
contrasted with gentlemens' pleasure producer
assuming his missus will let him seduce her!
Full Earth Alert
The news is undeniable,
I’ve heard it from my spies,
a conspiracy is forming,
of Pigs and Cows and Flies.
They’re globally united,
to overthrow mankind,
they’re holding open forums,
though you think they’re confined.
Their stratagem is genius,
proposed by senior hogs,
the first wave to attack us,
will be our Cats and Dogs.
They’re busily recruiting,
all Storks and Kangaroos;
a regiment of Penguins,
they’re also sure to use.
We’ve got to build defenses;
the picture’s looking bleak.
I’ve bribed some Red-winged Blackbirds
To find out more this week.
We need to scramble fighters,
right now ‘fore it’s too late;
the Cows and Pigs have armies,
in every major state!
We ought to launch some bombers,
and nuke a farm or two;
to throw their plans askew.
It’s time we all built bunkers,
in front yard and in back…
Keep all your pets in cages,
and brace for the attack.
Going Vegetarian... sort of
As the Doc' reviewed my diet he became so very quiet
that I thought he might be bringing on a stroke
when he finally started breathing he said "You should start bequeathing
all your personal belongings; that's no joke."
He said "Lay off excess starches... just drive past the "double arches"...
do not think about the sweet rolls that you crave..."
you should lock away your butter or we'll find you in the gutter...
as I see you've one foot dancing in the grave!"
I don't know what is the matter... what's about a veggie platter
that revulses me beyond the realm of words:
all those little sprouts from Brussels are as gross as uncooked mussels,
and there's nothing worse than cottage cheesy curds!
Icky lettuce is too lifeless; don't try turnips if you're knifeless,
these are common rules of thumb or so I've found;
then, although this may sound caddish, there's a reason why the radish
is already buried deep within the ground.
If you want to see me cower, taunt me with a cauliflower,
just the thought of it will break me out in hives;
you can take your awful carrots, feed the muskrats, weasels, ferrets
I will take my chances dining greasy dives.
Since my French fries are potatoes and the ketchup bears tomatoes
then my doctor shouldn't make these dire scenes
it is also quite worth noting that I find myself devoting
much more time with candy -CORN- and jelly -BEANS- !!!
A Plus-Size Poem (☼)
Matilda P. McCuddy was a size one-thirty-two;
she drove a John Deere tractor to her day job at the zoo,
where once while feeding lizards (bending down to scoop some worms,)
she split the silk retainer for her 'twin-cheek pachyderms'.
Yep, she split her Queen Latifahs and she ripped her dungarees,
a northwest wind was blowing and her cheeks began to freeze.
Embarrassed by the moment she succumbed to panic's cloud,
and mooned iguana watchers, as it happened, quite a crowd.
She waddled t'ward the office for a needle, patch and thread,
but opted for an awning from the dusty maintenance shed.
She rigged a block and tackle from the strappage of her bra
then made an inward promise to enlist the local spa...
...to help her lose some tonnage and to whip her down to size,
to reassess her diet and to tighten up her thighs.
She followed every regimen and followed every plan,
for two straight weeks she worked like mad and even got a tan.
So one day she decided it was time to try new clothes,
she'd bought a very special pair of fish-net panty hose.
She laid out her new undies, so much smaller, it felt great,
then jammed her one-oh-sixes in a slimmed down eighty-eight.
She'd traded in her tractor on a Mini Cooper deal,
the snazzy ride was helpful for her new found sex appeal.
But as she reached the driveway of the City Park and Zoo,
her legs were getting very numb and turning sort of blue.
The fabric started stretching and the seams began to moan,
Matilda started bulging with a horrid grunt and groan.
The bra and panties blew apart, it happened very fast,
then Ms. McCuddy filled the car and caused the fateful blast.
Matilda chunks and glass and steel were blown a thousand feet,
The twisted frame and engine block were rather incomplete,
and to this day beneath the trees when e’er the north wind blows,
It rains a lot of engine parts and shreds of Mattie's clothes.
Safe and Secure
I learned a real long time ago
there's no one I can trust;
the rip-off artists rule the world
it fills me with disgust.
I found a little plot of land
a hundred miles from town;
installed a double chain-link fence
that's twelve feet top to ground.
If someone tries to scale the fence,
there's concertina wire
that's coiled up around the top...
I doubt the crooks will try 'er.
But if they're smart and make it past
the fence and razor wire,
they'll have to slosh through twenty yards
of waist-deep quicksand mire.
And should, somehow, these clever thieves
then circumvent that trap,
a host of motion sensors will
I.D. them on a map.
I've got a wall of monitors
that trace their every move,
in fact my house protection gear
exceeds that of the Louvre,
with lasers, lights and camera feeds
recording reel to reel;
these high tech goodies cost so much
I've nothing else to steal!
I'm a ripple chested Rambo who can press three-eighty-five,
and a lady lovin' linguist with the sweetest tongue alive(!)
...ride a hyperactive Harley that'll do one-fifty-two
(that's a close approximation of my verified I.Q.)
I'm a lumberjackin' giant with a husky muscled frame,
got a hotty Maserati and a front seat at the game.
I'm a rockabilly rancher, yet still humble and demure,
...got a rising reputation as a ramblin' raconteur.
Got a sashay to my saunter in a manly sort of way,
got a cellar full of vino, mostly ancient cabernet.
Got a mansion in the Hamptons, got a house up in the hills,
got an Ivy League accountant who gets paid to pay my bills.
I'm an ex- Olympic athlete with a closet full of gold,
even though I'm pushing fifty people think I'm half as old.
I'm descended from the bloodlines of a hundred kings on high,
if I had to state a weakness, well, I have been known to lie.
Going For A Spin
In a key quite dark and gloomy, sang Jalal ad-Din ar-Rumi,
as he spun himself into a whirling dervish.
When his rate of spin diminished after all his prayers were finished
then his walking wasn't straight, but rather curve-ish.
Don't Mess With Me
I'm a yella bellied, lily livered, snake in the grass,
just a sidewindin', ass ridin' gun with no class,
I'm a crawdaddin', backstabbin' thief in the night,
and a big chicken, nut kickin', cheat in a fight.
I'm a freewheelin', horse stealin', son of a gun,
a back shootin', town lootin' dude on the run,
I'm a purse snatchin', train catchin' king of the rails,
and a cow pokin', pipe smokin', man of the trails.
I'm a law hatin', placatin', worm with no spine,
a man killin', blood spillin', crook by design,
I'm a horse whippin', cow tippin', left-handed draw
So don't mess with me 'er I'll tell my maw.
The doctor found my cytochromes
anemic, stretched and pale;
he shot me full of something strong
that turned them sickly green.
I started coughing goobous chunks
it pained me to exhale,
I fixed myself with buttered toast
and berry tangerine.
Convulsions from reticulums
and interstitial waste,
had left my mitochondria
bare naked and obscene.
I know they feel more adequate,
more righteous, warm and chaste,
with just a bare-bones coating of
sweet berry tangerine.
A rash can be a nasty lot
on arms or legs or groin,
to fight it off you need some stuff
that’s rugged, quick and mean.
I tried prescription everything
I went through beaucoup coin,
then finally kicked its keester with
some berry tangerine.
The next week found me on the floor,
my organs in revolt...
my bladder bit a kidney which
in turn attacked my spleen...
my left lung punched my stomach out
with one stupendous jolt...
I tranquilized that raucous lot
with berry tangerine!
The Wondrous Beauty of
Self Discovery (☼☼☼)
I once was a mischievous teen,
who flipped through a bad magazine,
my forehead was sweatin’,
so I started pettin’
my “python” with dad's Vaseline.
I wrestled that snake for an hour,
amazed at my strength and my power;
then something was popping,
with no hope of stopping,
my room got an "Elmer's glue" shower!
Just then I heard mom at the stairs,
I suffered the scare of all scares!
my python was cooling…
the door knob was drooling…
and I said a hundred fast prayers!
She opened the door much aghast,
amazed at the size of my blast,
I looked at her smirking,
my serpent still jerking,
when fin'lly she turned at long last!
My mood was now somewhat less chipper,
I couldn't cheer up with a stripper,
but yet it gets worse,
part two of the curse...
...poor "python" got caught in my zipper!
My high school sweetheart married me,
we'd both just turned nineteen,
the marriage lasted several weeks,
then came that awful scene...
...it started at the grocery store,
my first of many sins,
I let my heart fall deep in love
with two abnormal twins.
My heart was thumping twice as hard
I felt it pop and skip,
I loved the way these twins were stuck
together at the hip!
My Siamese anomaly
is why I did divorce
that high school dream I cherished once,
as love had run its course.
The twins were great, a two-for-one,
so much to love and pet,
but one day at the laundromat
I met a different set!
I'd loaded up the drier when
I turned around to see
some Oriental triplets who
were quite enthralled with me!
The twins were good, I do admit,
they seemed a novel thing,
but I am much more int'rested
with three girls in a string!
One wonders, "How did nature mix
these three souls into one?"
You know I'm going to miss those twins,
but three girls are more fun!
The triplets loved my wholesome heart,
together we did share,
a common bond of faith and hope,
the kind that is so rare.
But triplets too, I bade adieu,
that day I met "The Quad"...
...four lovely personalities
who were conjoined by God.
We married in a motel suite
my heart out-voiced my brain.
I took a week-long honeymoon
for each girl in the chain.
The next year on a business trip
to rural Bangladesh,
I met my fifth and final "wife"
(five girls who share one flesh!)
But now I find my "paradise"
has slowly made me mad:
one girl wears dots, another stripes
the rest dress up in plaid.
Then bathroom breaks are no small feat,
they last for several hours,
No sooner than two girls gets dressed
two others need their showers.
They fight and bicker all night long
there is no rest nor sleep,
and when we go to wine and dine
it's never very cheap.
The last few years have been a mess
I've got to ditch this pack...
...perhaps my high school sweetheart would,
allow me to come back?!
I was a hot-headed hippy who was always feelin' zippy
as I hustled down the rustic rural roads,
'til I made a major boo-boo getting t-boned by a choo-choo
which derailed a dozen cars that spilled their loads.
Just a couple weekends later at a crossing near Decatur
I was headed into town to buy some slacks.
I was betting "automotive" could embarrass "locomotive"
but collided with that monster on the tracks.
In an act of pure defiance I was going to hone my science,
had to beat that stupid train at his own game...
so I charged my brand new Lincoln when the warning lights were blinkin'
just to have the damn results turn out the same!
As the stakes were getting graver my resolve began to waver
and the next time we went jousting at the rails,
I was winning, so elated!!! Then I panicked, hesitated...
and I needn't tell you all the grim details.
Now insurance rates were soaring and my agent was deploring
such a steady string of losses to the trains.
Though the wrecks would scorch and burn me I had doctors who'd return me
yet, I must confess, with added aches and pains.
So, today I'll be embossing my initials on that crossing
as I'm taking on the big 2:30 freight,
they'll be burnin' up the prairie on the road to Tucumcari
so this ought to be a match that's really great.
Well they said my wreck was tragic
and my brain was hemorrhagic
when they finally got it pulled out of my socks...
yeah, I beat the train by inches,
then I swerved to miss some finches,
crashing deep down in a culvert full of rocks!
It strikes me that humans are really past hope,
save nuns in a convent and maybe the Pope.
My high school reunion's convinced me it's true,
the stories redound like an afternoon soap.
Miss Susan and Johnny were first from our crew,
to pledge to each other their sacred "I do."
Now Susan's in prison with no chance of bail,
and Johnny's in somebody's leftover stew.
Then Kevin and Kaye are another sad tale,
the sheriff found Kevin's remains in the mail.
His head and ring finger arrived in a box,
so Kaye was detained and they threw her in jail.
Our city's recovering from other large shocks,
like Mabel Skankowski found dead in her socks.
The killer was fingered and nabbed while at large...
our homecoming queen's in a cell with six locks.
The valedictorian went up on a charge,
found guilty of offing poor Ralphie and Marge.
For being so smart he sure left lots of prints,
near decomposed bodies tossed out on a barge.
Our class is chock full of the scum who do stints
for murdering classmates and holding up Mints.
They're wicked old women and crazy old men,
their records appalling: I shudder and wince.
There's honor-roll lifers like Raymond and Jen,
who finish their sentence in Twenty-One Ten.
So every five years we will help these guys cope,
with gala reunions down at the State Pen!
A Moving Poem
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
(a triple-z wide; in a size one-oh-two)
Goliath's descendant, a Philistine shrew,
would wear it when mowing her lawn of bamboo.
But once, in a moment of tipsy miscue,
she slipped in a patch of some man-eating goo!
Precisely what happened, we haven't a clue
and no one has proffered the smallest boo-hoo!
So now our old woman has fished in the slough
to salvage whatever she might sell as new
she mounted a derrick upon a canoe
then snagged that ol' boot with a crazy "YA-HOO!!!"
She planted her boot with a nice mountain view,
then went on a mission forthwith to renew
the innards which smelt like a bad case of poo...
now using this boot as her local HQ.
Last summer she Harley'ed until the snow flew
then tore through the forest upon a Ski-doo.
She then set a record: New York to Peru
her snowmobile made it without a SNAFU!
She plays with her six guns, their bullets will spew,
at any trespasser or lost buckaroo.
She's hunted for grizzlies, she's speared a Shamu,
and once with her pistols cleaned out a whole zoo!
She worships the heavens as Christian and Jew,
and yet she's no sissy, a pro at Kung-fu.
She trained with the masters just north of Shang Chiu,
the proof-in-the-pudding her dragon tattoo.
So listen, my children, I'm just about through,
I think it's high time that our family withdrew
to somewhere much safer like Kalamazoo
and bid this old wingnut our warmest adieu!
There is a wise ol' groundhog
who lives up on a hill;
the city folk all know him
as Punxsutawney Phil.
Now Phil is good with weather,
predicting summer rains,
and sometimes he will dabble,
with plotting hurricanes.
He's studied maps and tables,
he knows his astrophysics,
and how the Earth abides
the gamma rays and ions,
our Sun so freely sends,
he's read up on El Niño,
and other global trends.
He's studied "change of seasons,"
and maps of polar ice,
then tinkered into being
his masterpiece device:
with dials, pedals, switches,
a dual-core PC,
it's networked Doppler radars,
all probe from sea to sea...
his special algorithms
which plot the dips and peaks
extrapolate new patterns
for up to six more weeks.
the system's known as S.H.A.D.O.W.*
he sees it every year
though some times he denies it
when springtime's very near.
*Super Highly-Accurate Determiner Of Weather
Merry Christmas - Happy New Year
When the winter winds are blowin'
and the stratus streaks are snowin',
when the Christmas Trees are tinseled top to toe,
then the children will be champing
for a Christmas-present sampling,
from the pretty pack of parcels down below.
They'll be ripping off the wrappings
from their toys and other trappings,
they'll be beaming blissful beauty on their beans,
it's a joyous jot of merry
on the cusp of January,
just a single look at many mirthful scenes.
Then the New Year, hail and hearty,
will precipitate a party,
in a celebration lasting all night long,
if you're striving to survive 'er,
use a designated driver,
or you might get whisked away for doing wrong!
The viceroys and villains, the Smiths and Macmillan’s
converted in Augustine's court,
are freakin’ fantastic, they're "into" monastic,
and Auggie is such a good sport.
He's stalking recruiters and rooty-toot-tutors,
his monks are all hunks with aplomb,
well, one guy's pathetic, he won't do ascetic,
but all of the rest are "the bomb!"
Their early morn chanting and evening incanting,
are ritualistic'ly sound;
while filling piñatas they practice cantatas
with baying by Hoover the hound.
Pick one hundred samples from legion examples
of monks in their day to day trek:
they're never caught swimmin' with bare naked women,
they keep all their urges in check.
Oh, two of the friars with bolt cutting pliers
did slip out one night for some girls...
with stories conflating they met Auggie waiting,
his signatures on their transferals.
But save for this story, two errant signori,
who got themselves booted from grace...
the rest of the abbey ain't really too shabby
an ace of a place to embrace!
South Banger Babby (☼☼☼)
Babby was a beauty both in bosom and in brains,
she chased a lot of Chatham chaps with whips and “willy” chains.
Bent on binding boyfriends in her bedroom after dark,
she chafed at choosing music for her bedroom chamber spark.
Bach was often brilliant for a big and brawny bloke,
but squat and scrawny scrappers called for something less Baroque.
Bondage was a balance-beam of ecstasy and pain,
so music too Rococo put a chokehold on her cane.
Babby needed music for a lad both long and boney,
she opted for an opus by Ferruccio Busoni.
Boney bodies beckon for a beating transthoracic,
Busoni lent the proper note of nuanced neoclassic.
Bluffing when she bed a brute, hirsute with hairy palms,
A lullaby helped mollify, so Babs selected Brahms.
Blasting into etudes, then, to show that she was pissed
she'd hack her helpless victim with a double dose of Liszt!
Bedding utter brilliance called for something base and bawdy,
like misanthropic minuets by Giro' Frescobaldi.
Blockheads, dolts and other types of vermin fat and grotty
were bludgeoned to the steady beat of pieces by Scarlatti.
Begging for Romantics was a no-no, one could tell,
as Babs would just play Renaissance renditions of Purcell.
Boyfriends often tried to beg for Mendelssohn or Gluck
so Berlioz would curl their toes as "Cat-o'-Nine" would cook.
Beating all us boys in town, with fates so interwoven,
we came away much smarter knowing Schubert from Beethoven.
Babby had her fun with us, she loved to whip and flay us
Until one day she had a stroke brought on by Amadeus.
Dr. Shekel and Mr. Snide
While I'm looking apprehensive and a little bit defensive,
and perhaps a goodly smidgen too reserved;
while I seem so introverted with opinions unasserted
it's my diffidence which ought to be observed.
It's a cautious brand of wary which is often quite contrary,
to aggressive, overbearing sorts of snobs
it's these sheepish inclinations and distrustful hesitations
which allow me to compete for better jobs.
Since the snobs can not be humble they are sure to take a tumble
it's my central sort of strategy and ploy;
while it seems a bit excessive to be ever so recessive,
I can win more cash and prizes playing coy.
So, in truth, I'm crude and facile and I'd really like to hassle
you reluctant, timid milk-toasts every day;
yet I play the bashful loser and the "woe-is-me" accuser
when the people of importance look my way.
I'm a silver tongued rapscallion who's as tough as any stallion,
who just plays a fearful, modest kind of guy;
though I'm quite inclined toward anger I can fake a sort of languor
which appears to be demure, afraid and shy.
If it looks like I'm unwilling, or not eager for a "killing"
if my reticence to stab you in the back
comes across as boldly errant it's because, as heir-apparent,
I'm just cautious that it's YOU who gets the sack!
Lord Milton Murgle's Big Date
Lord Milton Murgle's high-end suite at Thirty Two Iambic Street
was host to scads of oddball things, from trampolines and cello strings,
to rolls and rolls of packing tape, a scrimshaw pipe and opera cape,
plus sporty looking uniforms and rooftop rods for thunderstorms.
The pictures, posters, charts and maps, assorted clippings, notes and scraps,
that covered every inch of wall in ways which made no sense at all,
compelled the browser's eyes to roam, to know the man who called this home;
yet Milton was no easy fix, his "candle" burned a dozen wicks:
He studied history, law and French; his thirst for art would never quench,
he played piano, bugle, flute; his love for words was absolute,
with Heinlein, Huxley, Baudelaire, Malreaux, Rousseau, and Saint-Pierre,
which graced the cases in his hall, plus, in the study, one whole wall,
whose bookshelves boasted dusty lots of Latin tomes which time forgot,
their pages foxed and yellow stained, the boards still holding what remained
of stories told long years ago, by Tacitus and Cicero,
Valerian and Pollio, and other short proces verbaux.
His furnishings were simply strange they seemed to span the global range
from Venezuelan vanity, to Sweden's swankest suede settee,
a woven wicker wailing cot for lots of things, but strangely not
for grieving when one's laid to rest, the use its name might first suggest.
He covered every lamprey chair with blankets made from aardvark hair.
A ten-by-twenty fish-scale rug beneath an Aztec moonshine jug
had opalescent highlights which would dazzle when he threw the switch
that lighted liquid crystals in a sculpted lamp of porcelain.
His mounted pates of bear and boar helped testify to all the lore
of Milt's safaris, near and far, from Port au Prince to Zanzibar.
With oryx, kudu, topi heads in all the bedrooms o'er the beds
his guests would love the haunting charm with no real sense of grave alarm.
With "souvenirs" from every land, his drawers were full of contraband,
from poison darts and toxic paste to guns and knives for every taste.
His cooler packed with vintage wine, the oldest, Eighteen-Sixty-Nine,
was from a vineyard south of York. Well, one night Milt would pop its cork,
when Lady Dreadnought came to dine, he hoped she'd fill his grand design
for friendship, marriage, love and kids, and other things the law forbids!
He'd made a hasenpfeffer stew with lobster tails and babassu.
and when the doorbell clapped its chime he thanked his stars "It's finally time!"
He grabbed the door and swang it wide, then bade his lady "Step inside."
but Dreadnought, old and heavyset, was careless with her cigarette,
her butterfingers just lost hold; away that burning ciggy rolled!
Today there is a missing suite at 32 Iambic Street!
Six Seeks Sex (☼☼☼)
The number Six was hot for older chicks,
so one day wandered up the number line.
He'd heard that Twelve had turned a dozen tricks,
and something in her eyes looked awfully fine,
but when it came his turn to pay and play,
he turned her down for dreams of hotter teens,
or, so he thought, but when he gazed their way,
they looked like tramps from low-brow magazines.
Dejected, he decided to return,
then noticed miss "I'm one spot short of ten"
The blood within his heart began to burn,
she nestled nicely in his curves, and then...
the two became ensconced like strands of twine,
forever lost in love and sixty nine!
There's a private from Paducah with a powder-green bazooka
who can shoot a speeding Stuka while at ease.
He's a lowly "single striper" who's a dedicated sniper,
like a venom-spitting viper in the trees.
He's a cool and calloused killer with the posture of a pillar,
and a thriller sort of life is his when he's
assassinating vermin, be they Japanese or German
(or some other quite determined enemies.)
In a heated plume of passion there's a party that he's crashin'
as he's smashin' all the Axis troops he sees,
in their bivouac men are screamin' as the smokin' lead is streamin'
like a rifle load of demon killer bees.
Well, the carnage is appalling as the infantry are falling,
and he's mauling all the men who stop and seize;
yeah, he even got a colonel who, according to his journal,
wore a most infernal pair of German skis!
In his quest to rid the planet of the evil men who man it
with their vanity and warped psy-chol-o-gies,
he won't skimp on grim and gory as he "clips" his cornered quarry:
some signori with abhorrent ten-den-cies!
When the war is finally over and they ship him out of Dover
with a thousand other covert inductees,
he'll transform his "fierce" to "charming" in a manner most disarming
but with no alarming ab-nor-mal-i-ties!
Something About Airplanes
( Note: The French pronunciation of "Aerospatiale" is roughly: EYE'-row-SPASS'-yel )
It depends on where you're going if you fly a Beech or Boeing,
but you know they won't be showing flicks in flight;
it's a really silly hassle just to board your Aerospatiale
as authorities will search you left and right.
You can do it "quick and dirty" on a shiny Short Three-Thirty,
or may whirlybird Sikorsky's to and fro;
you might take a hyper Piper or a Schweizer with de-icer,
as they're nicer than the autos down below.
Have you ever found a locker when you're flying on a Fokker
that's capacious and accommodates your bags?
Did you ever take a Luger on a Eurocopter Cougar
just to shoot at rich commuters in their Jags?
Well I hope the flight crew's drugless on this big McDonnell Douglas,
'cuz I'm really not quite up to meeting God.
If the pilots don't know diddly, put me on a Hawker Siddeley
even though they have a look that's sorta odd.
If the weather's strong and stormin' you might choose a Britten-Norman
or perhaps a cushy jet from Canadair
If you wanna wet your knickers try a Tupolev or Vickers
(bring at least one other set of under-wear!)
Persistence Pays Off
One day while flipping channels on my black and white TV,
I chanced to watch the Snowboard kids compete in their Grand Prix.
The sport's beyond spectacular with many wondrous scenes
of aerobatic marvels done by crazy fearless teens.
I saw those kids on snowboards doing tricky twists and turns
despite my age I'd like to think "An old dog always learns."
So, dumping in my backyard some ten-thousand tons of fill,
I built myself a half-pipe and a quite impressive hill.
I waited-out the summer months and autumn's wind and rain
with daily rounds of exercise despite the aches and pain.
A fifteen minute workout was as much as I could stand,
before I'd down a pizza with a Twinkie in my hand.
Then one November afternoon the snow began to fall
the drifts were getting very deep from one intrepid squall.
The next few weeks I shaped that pipe with utmost love and care
until that cold December day I took my board to air...
I started out in baby steps with broken arms and toes
progressing to a loss of teeth and dislocated nose.
Another hundred bangs and bumps, then one day by surprise,
I landed safe and upright with no broken shins or thighs!
Attempting two 540's which would later come with ease,
I found my path convergent with a nearby clump of trees.
Then later while performing just a simple front side blast,
I woke up dazed in I.C.U. inside a body cast!
I had to wait a couple weeks to make my great escape
those surgeries were overkill for such a little scrape.
The next day found me tearing up a whole new set of tricks
including something which I call "a freefall eighty-six."
I worked and worked a couple years improving day by day;
a hundred thousand sutures couldn't keep me held at bay.
Applying for the championship then caused a lot of hype
'cuz no one thought a man my age would dare the Superpipe!
My first run started awesome with a gnarly front side air,
then popped two bad 1080's with sophisticated flair,
but in the final moment at the apex of a flip
my wife called on my cell phone, said: "Be mindful of your hip!"
I can't believe she called me in the middle of my run!
I finished with a freefall crash and score of twenty one!
They had to patch the head-size hole where I had augured in;
thank God I got a second run and one more chance to win.
I put my phone on flight mode; had them push me out the gate;
my back to back 1080's were still looking pretty great...
a whopping cab, and stalefish then transitioned to a trick:
a triple lindy somersault that almost made me sick...
I greased that final landing then I slalomed to a stop,
(defying expectations of a screaming belly-flop)
the flabbergasted judges gave their first One Hundred score,
I took the handsome winner's purse ~ they'll hear of me no more!
It Could'a Happened To Anyone (☼☼☼)
The ruddy-nutted bushtit is a rare and precious find;
you'll comb a thousand wetlands 'fore you see one's red behind.
Their plumage: dark and dusky, save for brilliant little bums;
their call: a quiet whirring like some muted chirpy hums.
A flock was just discovered by some birders south of town;
they rigged a hidden webcam near this native breeding ground.
The avian enthusiasts are watching night and day
to learn about these bushtits in a nondisruptive way.
Now I'm a district service tech in woodlands to the north;
I'm always using rural roads as I drive back and forth.
My auto is my office, it's my stockroom and my wheels...
most often it's the venue where I'm scarfing down my meals.
And so it was two weeks ago while driving home from work,
my coffee-laden bladder made a spastic sort of jerk,
announcing its intentions in the only way it knows,
I felt the pressure building in my modest length of hose.
So parking on the shoulder of this seldom traveled road,
I dashed through bush and branches lest my breeches should explode.
I zippered down and reeled 'er out and whooped a happy scream,
and started making puddles with prodigious clouds of steam.
I shot at trees, I watered plants, I squirted rocks and ruts,
I tried to shoot some friendly birds with funny reddish butts.
I hopped and pranced and watched the stream make patterns in the air,
(it's fun to do this kind of thing when no one else is there!)
Today I'm getting e-mails from my boss and corporate staff,
the webcam for the bushtits is providing quite a laugh.
It's now a YouTube favorite showing every hop and jump,
and don't you know two days ago…
…that's where I took a dump!
Chinese warlords lying low amid the frozen muck,
blasted buttered biscuits off a lemon-peppered duck.
Cradled near the creamer was the evil Fu Manchu,
stashing sticks of dynamite to blow up Katmandu.
Katmandu was fortified by cliques of Buddhist priests
mounted on a full phalanx of odd and sundry beasts.
I was with my sled team and observed the final show,
(records from the incident were lost in heaps of snow.)
Snow was falling everywhere the warlords tried to charge,
nature spurned the Chinese hordes, their losses were quite large.
Intersecting viewpoints of events that followed next
differ in perspective save the Chinese being vexed.
Vexed was not a concept for the Yeti and his kids,
eating Chinese warlords off of pallets, crates and skids.
Somehow retrogressives from the ashram to the east
chipped in extra bodies for the large and hairy beast.
Beast in manner, beast in form, but handy for a fight,
theories are suggesting Yeti waged the war that night.
How the snowman pulled it off without a Buddhist loss(?)
was eating buttered biscuits in a lemon-pepper sauce!
My Smoke, Your Mirrors
Here's your cup of cappuccino,
here's a vodka on the rocks,
you're a pouting little poppet
in a pair of bobby socks.
You're a screaming little me-me
tempting tigress on the move
you're a one-way circus mirror
in a tiny 3-D groove.
Here's my cup of Alka-seltzer,
here's some anti-ulcer swill
I'm a monolithic monster
on an ever-steeper hill.
I'm a dominating devil
fleshly furnace, ash with coke
I can block your skewed reflection
from the blackness of my smoke.
Now I see your silver lining
shining through your jagged eyes,
even though your glass is cracking
as you drop your cheap disguise.
Now I feel my puff has billowed
you can see I'm just hot air;
we were always smoke and mirrors
now we're just an oddball pair .
Night 1 (☼)
Strange attractions forming on the retina's desperate nerves,
optic furnace firing as the light unveils her curves.
Respiration quickens with a lightly rendered kiss,
nature has few visions which are half so fine as this.
Salivating senses taste her deep responsive moves,
pulmonary pickups playing prerecorded grooves.
Tactile interceptors fly the airwaves to her soul,
central nervous dispatch loses positive control.
Rhythms out of balance in the heated passion play;
thresholds are exceeded and the structure starts to sway.
Thunder starts to rumble, brilliant lightning fills the skies;
the perfect storm's reflected in the beauty of her eyes.
Earthquakes in the lower realms and hurricanes above,
volcano in the valley yields a molten sea of love.
Slowly gale winds settle as the tempest's wrath subsides;
frothing breakers yielding to more gently ebbing tides.
Quilted comfort on the floor, the bed sheets hang askew,
clothing blown around the room from when the storm came through.
Bodies of two victims lie contorted on the bed;
neither one will soon forget this first night they were wed.
Like solar flares exploding as the sun begins to rise,
liquid drops of lightning light the edges of your eyes.
Their prisms scatter signals to the corners of my heart,
kisses transmit energies to every neural part.
Your voice an astral resonance, a wavelength all its own,
echoes songs of angels with its clear and crystal tone.
Your graceful form and figure like the finest sculpted glass…
beauty’s evanescent, but I doubt that yours will pass.
You’ve saber sharp reflexes in our gentle repartee,
dreamy in your dancing with an undulating sway.
So sensuous and sultry, you’re a metabolic flare
Yes, it’s hard to concentrate, forgive me when I stare!
You're free to sip untainted dreams
from streams of virgin conscious springs
whose borders blend with time and space
and currents race with one accord
You're free to drift in tidal verse
unbridle mem'ries' vast reserve
of past and future sonnets learned
which churn in realms near fiction's shore
You're free to touch Athena's gown
in downy beauty, lust and mirth
evolved from senses so refined
designed to pour from pleasure's cup
You're free to cast a starlit trail
across the swale of whispered words
illuminating every kiss
dismissed from lips of those you love
Through viscous days, high voltage nights
beneath the draping northern lights,
receptors tuned to lips and hand
will scan the modulated band
of lust and love and ESP...
an undiscovered frequency
will heterodyne, as if on cue,
a single band, but actually two.
We'll kindle flames in spectral waves
diffracted by organic slaves
of neuron masters in control
who'll rock your body, heart and soul,
to solar flares, kinetic spires
across the telepathic wires
the optic nerves will then ignite
in quantum leaps of sheer delight,
volcanic blasts, magmatic spew,
a molten gift, from me to you,
then aftershocks will come and go
ensconced in spectral afterglow.
For Love A Thousand Kisses Deep
As storms precede the great monsoons,
whose baleful winds play somber tunes
and dirges for those loves who sleep;
Who lost their lives while fighting for
a hearth and home upon the shore
with love a thousand kisses deep...
As seagulls flock to faded tides
upon the swells where time collides
with hidden reefs that mourn and weep
for love-wrecked sailors hard aground,
whose bleach-white bones now line the sound
of love a thousand kisses deep...
As creatures swim this briny sea
of long lost love and misery,
and scour the bones on which they creep
for any reminisce of sex
or speck of meat which recollects
a love a thousand kisses deep...
...a beacon burns upon that beach,
a brilliant light which does beseech
her men to sail within her keep.
Her hope burns bright, each month and year
with firm resolve to persevere
for love a thousand kisses deep.
Breathing in the Common Air Thereof
Starlight piercing black abysses
midnight's train of cosmic kisses
caught upon the surface of the sea;
lunar crescent sharp and pointed
in its aura you're anointed
as you whisper magic words to me.
Intonations, deep and gorgeous
words that bond, commit and forge us
heart-shaped interlocking love and trust;
softest touch and smooth caresses
inner spirit acquiesces
mesmerized with longing waves of lust.
Eyes afire and minds in union
blissful night of life's communion
sailing on the midnight swell of love;
golden hair and smooth complexion
lovers two, but one connection
breathing in the common air thereof.
Poems About Writing
Plate of Diamonds
What charlatans and pantomimes obsess with endless ways,
of cooking tasteless stanzas on unmetered serving trays?
Who dreams up such unseasoned fare of verses bleak and plain,
in copyrighted flavors, either "cardboard" or "mundane"?
What lean-to structures tower high above the free-verse yard,
from which proceeds a pathway down to "Nowhere Boulevard"?
What unrelenting gridlock rests upon its melted tar,
that's trapped a million poets in a verbal abattoir?
Their flimsy free verse engines sputter cacophonic fumes,
and force the pasty poets into whitewashed drywall rooms.
They look out on the skyline of this dismal free verse state,
convincing one another that there's diamonds on their plate
SSS - The Super Sonic Sonnet
The supersonic sonnets are a source
of anti-cacophonic verbal flow.
Alliteration is the driving force,
that snuffs the other sonnets in the snow.
The S-3's, as they're commonly referred,
whisk wispy waves of whispers in the wind.
They're sleek as any supersonic bird;
their surfaces are slight and silky-skinned.
With quadraphonic quatrains linked in chains
to amplifying filters in the form,
the lines of lacquered letters in their lanes,
preparing for the poet's perfect storm...
she tunes her turbines, tiniest adjust,
transcending all transcription with her thrust.
In the mix of verse and lyrics, dapper dactyls, perky pyrrhics,
there's a universe of pleasant plangent sounds.
Subtle flicks of polyphonics, stirring stresses, sultry sonics,
with harmonics which the atmosphere redounds.
It's with ease we sing the trochees, in the churches and the pokeys;
and the anapest will dance on dext'rous tongues;
then I’ll see you don a spondee, louder lips than Duff or Blondie,
as the couplets and the quatrains light your lungs.
So you kick in your iambic for a tercet so titanic,
that the manic men of music cup their ears,
then amphimacers of megrim flow as smooth as gin from Seagram
so seducing all the sad sack sonneteers.
In a fuss for choriambus as you rack your hippocampus,
in your quest to sing such verb'age soft and sweet;
you play tricks with all the metrics then in poetry obstetrics
try to birth a verse with WAY too many feet!
Certain Precautions (How to Write A Rondel)
Certain precautions when writing rondels
could keep you from rhyming a trite bit o' trash.
Failure to follow will limit the cash
potential your poem could have if it sells.
No one is hawking those odd other-elles,*
they're written one moment then gone in a flash.
Certain precautions when writing rondels
will keep you from writing a trite bit o' trash!
Finding ideas: you know when one gels
it bobs in your brain with a bang and a crash
Scribbling an outline you then try to mash
the rest in accord with the rule which compels
certain precautions when writing rondels!
* Kyrielles, Terzanelles, Villanelles
The Art of Speaking Out
Hang the mystic and the cleric, you can give them esoteric;
razzle-dazzle starving masses, thirsty flocks;
break the rules and use a tactic when effusing faux didactic;
keep your superficial dogmas orthodox!
It's impressionistic banter which I use as chief supplanter
(you should see the etymology of "James")
I will bend from deep dramatic to a scholarly pragmatic
in a lot less time than my detractor claims.
Weighty subjects get inertial as they skim the controversial
so avoid pedantic speeches which could cause
higher levels in the tensions, insurrection or dissensions
try a humanistic speech to bring applause.
Even pundits and barbarians may be civil libertarians,
it's quite plausible, (though radical) and sound,
there's a cultural convergence of the "mainstream" with "insurgents,"
which is everyday becoming more profound!
So remember, stay objective, be resourceful and reflective,
you should keep symbolic nonsense to a word.
It's a philosophic outing so refrain from rants and shouting,
when your critics try to paint you as absurd!
Poems about Women
Self-made Millionairess (☼)
From her tawny tinted tangles to her sapphire eyes of blue,
she's a poised and proper princess with a wicked windy 'do.
She can pass on propositions from the "come on" kings of fun;
she can keep 'em hot and hangin' while she's lyin' in the sun.
From her pad in Pasadena to her ranch in Santa Cruz,
she's a chic and shining sharpie with a hundred pairs of shoes.
Yeah, she's got a winsome wardrobe and she loves to show and shop;
she just loves to shove her shoulders in a thousand-dollar top.
With a dozen-plus diplomas from a drove of different schools,
she's a wealth of information with a rigid set of rules.
There's a PC in her bedroom, there's an iPhone in her purse;
there's a camera on her Bluebird when she's wheeling in reverse.
She's a flashy frequent flyer to the fertile South of France;
she's a Monte Carlo crasher every time she gets a chance;
she's the harmony and chaos of a most successful kind;
just a fleeting mental phantom in my wily wistful mind!
Ardor Rich But Feature Poor
There was sadness in her shadow, with its tortured silhouette,
from a lifetime full of trying to this weekend of regret.
She was such a happy baby, slightly less so as a girl,
now the banner of adulthood has completed its unfurl.
Well, her flag hangs lax and limpid, she's a burned and ashen cloth
as she's stood-up on the altar by a wayward flaming moth.
She will suffer through rejection and she'll bear it best she can
she resigns herself to silence, by herself, without her man.
So it's off to vacuum, pencil, rocker, cracker, bauble, blouse,
from her epileptic sanctum in her claustrophobic house.
So it's off to window, bracelet, carpet, curtain, table, chair,
as her synesthetic conscience spins a spiral of despair.
Now she's sitting in a corner in a catatonic trance
as she's dwelling on destruction intermingled with romance.
It’s her pulse that’s slowly ebbing as she turns completely numb,
till at last her heart is stopping and her life force does succumb
to the cruelty of promise and the hammer-fall of hope,
to inadequate resources in a mind that just can't cope.
She was born upon a highway in the fast-lane of amour
in a small and tender body, ardor rich but feature poor.
You holler in squalor with screaming that's endless;
you're grasping at straws with perverse argumenta.
Your parents disowned you, now single and friendless,
derangement's laid claim to your mind's irredenta.
Civility's stymied, your logic is sluggish,
abnormally stagnant, no forward momenta.
Coercing your neighbors, you're acting quite thuggish
a haggard old gorgon, you're yesterday's yenta--
still scrapping and screaming--your forehead's magenta!
Can't Tell A Book By Its Cover (☼)
There's a chick from Catalina, dimples dipped in Neutrogena,
She's as silky as her silver satin sheets,
With a spritz of purple Passion and the Secret's latest fashion,
She is smoother than her Ghirardelli sweets.
She's as sharp as guided missiles and she's waltzing to the whistles,
Of the California post-pubescent male,
Not a single eye is blinking and it's clear what they're all thinking,
As they're yearning for a little piece of tale.
Just a sentence not a chapter, it's the climax that they're after,
(they're dyslexic when the special moment's past,)
Just a fragment fraught with glory for the crowning piece of story,
(skim her other thousand pages REALLY fast.)
They ingratiate and grovel for a chance to crack her novel,
They'd jump in at page four hundred sixty three,
If they'd conquer their addiction for a momentary fiction,
There's a masterpiece of substance that they'd see.
So our girl is unrelenting and she won't be soon repenting,
For a moment spent in reckless carnal lust,
She can rest upon her laurels reinforced by fam'ly morals,
As she leaves the trail of droolers in the dust.
She avoids all such disasters while she's working on her masters,
Yet society still 'sees' her based on looks,
Her decisions are judicial, never brash nor superficial,
But the best part is...
...she even cleans and cooks!
I get out on the highway,
and drive like Genghis Khan,
I'm yakking on my cell phone,
and putting makeup on.
I never use my blinkers,
my motions are abrupt,
I change lanes in an instant,
and hope you can keep up.
There is an art to passing,
you cannot pause nor lapse,
because when you see daylight,
you gotta shoot the gaps.
I never use my mirrors,
except to dab some rouge,
I suffer other drivers
like Ebenezer Scrooge.
Sometimes my middle finger,
will suddenly uncurl,
but should you want to punch me,
remember, I'm a girl!
My manners may be trying,
oh, some say they're the worst,
my motto sharing road space,
is: "After me, you're first."
I Married A Yak
Our phone went off one morning
before the break of day,
my wife was quick to answer,
she had a lot to say.
She talked about her clothing;
she talked about her nails;
she talked about her hairdo;
and all the local sales.
from preschool through her teens,
she gabbed as she made breakfast
and flipped thru magazines.
She told of all her conquests,
and failures quite a few;
her gossip covered people
from here to Timbuktu.
I must have passed out somewhere
in hour eight or nine,
but when I woke up later
she still burned up the line.
She droned on many subjects,
each detail she would tell,
her brain was slowly emptied,
unloaded cell by cell.
I asked her when she finished,
"Who talked to you so long?"
she said she wasn't certain,
they simply dialed wrong.
Baby's Storm-Driven Agenda (☼☼☼)
Well our baby's in a "coma" for a dude from Oklahoma,
and no matter what we say she's seein' stars.
Yeah, her brain may be a divot,
but she shore knows how to pivot,
and this Okie's gonna take a trip to Mars.
She's a little whippersnapper in a tawny candy wrapper,
and she's gonna break all ever-lovin' rules;
there's a faucet full of moisture,
near her True Religion® oyster,
and it's nothin' that she learned in public schools.
She's a writhin' little boa, and she's ridin' Krakatoa,
and in moments there is going to be a blast,
when the sultry little stripper
finds a statue in his zipper,
and the other girls are sud'nly outclassed.
Now, the Okie, he's been pridin' all the broncos he's been ridin',
and there's never been a bull to throw him yet,
but he never rode a cheetah
that's as soft as fresh Velveeta,
and the rodeo has never made him sweat.
It's a race down to the finish, and there's nothin' will diminish
such a climax that defies all moral laws.
It's the mistress and the master
in a flesh and blood disaster…
in a hurricane of teeth and breasts and claws.
When the one-night-stand has ended
and the broken bones have mended
when her senses have returned back to the norm…
when the Okie has adjusted
t'all the parts that she has busted...
clouds of lust will brew an even bigger storm!
A Valentines' Day Reconciliation
That day you burned my Lotus which engulfed the Harley too,
That day you torched the jet ski then ignited my Ski-doo,
That day you cut my baseball cards, flushed Babe Ruth down the loo,
That day is quite forgotten now, I'm still in love with you.
That day you took a hammer to my big screen and remote,
That day you drilled a thousand holes and sank my motorboat,
That day you took a scissors to my svelte Armani coat:
I tender my forgiveness with this promissory note.
A lot of heated words were passed, they hurt and we were scarred,
It's true my nice belongings are all sunken, ripped and charred,
But Valentines reminds us that it's time to love real hard,
And as for me I will restrain more charges on your card.
You're a one-track, two-timin', three star attraction,
a pill poppin' pyro and a discount distraction,
You're a hurricane magnet who is shy a few levies,
Just a Japanese highway that's gridlocked with Chevys.
You're a cranked up, conked out, queen of deception,
and the half baked bride at a burned-out reception,
you're a street tramp, brain cramp, mental obstruction,
Just a two bit deposit on a c-note deduction.
You're a foot loose, mongoose, free load offender,
a puckered up, buttercup, socialite descender,
You're a high school, cess pool, potty mouthed darling,
Just a peacock pretender with the feathers of a starling
Lullaby of Sweetness (☼)
There's a lullaby of sweetness from her sandals to her skirt
From the softly sculpted ankles to her bottom, smooth and pert
She's the color of calypso when it blooms a peachy white
She's an incandescent goddess in a grassy rural blight
She's the apple of perfection in creation's prudent eye
Yet she taunts the nimbostratus of an omnipresent sky
While the gloomy vapors watch her as she slowly ambles past
Not a single drop is falling from the jealous overcast
Its entrancing oscillations in her undulating sway
That compels the stars and planets to forget the time of day
As the sun is getting sunburned and the moon begins to drool
It's the lullaby of sweetness who continues on to school
One reaction to repression
is surrender to obsession
of salacious streams of dreams immersed in sex;
though I know it's over-rated
there's a union consummated
every sec' as pairs of bodies bend and flex.
There's an ever growing market,
"Got a gadget? Come and park it!"--
for a quicky with a hot and foamy blast.
Flaunt those female folds and ripples,
pinch the pierced and perky nipples...
...thus a queen of counterculture's roughly cast.
Oh she'll pose in robes and riches
sans her K-Mart under-breeches
in some pictures for her pornographic peers;
as a sleazy south Detroiter,
they'll abuse 'er and exploit 'er,
then disuse her in a crying heap of tears.
Though her life has been a shambles,
she envisions larger gambles,
discontent to lay her players in their turn;
common sense can't be a buttress
for a cluster-fuck seductress
with a field of human kindling left to burn.
She's a spunky little screamer
who insists they triple team her
and she humps and bucks with passions set afire.
With a heart that's numb and jaded
she won't ever feel degraded
while she’s filling up her hedonist's desire.
Yeah, they’ll dawdle, dip and dally
in her vulvalicious valley
and her prima donna's Pocahontas' buns.
There's a wanker who will spank her,
(not a single one will thank her)
as they shoot her with their semen squirting guns.
Then they're off to find another
sister, aunty, gramma, mother,
who is willing to part comp'ny with her soul;
selling pictures for a nickel,
as they stuff a human pickle
in the sacred epicenter of her whole.
Feather Dusted Echo
She's a full-blown hotty with
magnetic umber eyes,
she's the ultraviolet lady
who attracts a million guys,
She's a mind blowing beauty
with a silky soft appeal
She's the effervescing angel
who can rock you mast to keel
She's a supermodel trancer
with electrostatic lure
She's a circuit breaking shocker
with a smile prim and pure
She's a stone fox filly
who is always on the fly
She is harvesting the orchards
in the apple of your eye
She's a front row ticket
to the mezzanine of love
She's a feather dusted echo
from the melodies thereof.
Syralexa works in bureaus where she reads the ones and zeros
just as fast as any multitasking Cray.
She can scan those databases as she's filing facts and faces
then reiterate each table and array.
Neither cyborg nor computer, they don't make them any cuter,
she's a lusty dimpled dolly with a gift;
though you think you'd like to date her, she's a human calculator
who would parse your every momentary shift.
With her crystal micro-visions she'd make thousands of decisions
while you dithered in a bobbling state of mind.
She's a quiet little Quaker, packin' pepper in her shaker,
but she'd leave you high and dry and flyin' blind.
So she's truly blithe and merry, and she's all for solitary,
as she sublimates the longing in her loins
into synergistic focus, on the quantum-leaping locus,
of the mechanistic matters she enjoins.
She is solving resolutely any conflicts which acutely
cross the threshold of her hyperbolic brain.
She's a spicy little Pisces who delights in solving crises
making complex questions easy to explain.
~ o ~
When her working week is over down on Cecil Street in Dover
she'll hop in her rippin' ragtop for a ride.
Now a belladonna lily she'll get fancy-free and frilly
with her iPod booming techno tunes inside.
She'll take off for New York City, in her Viper, lookin’ pretty,
got the top down in the sultry evening air.
She receives a psychic tingle as the lights and sounds comingle
with the easy breezes ruffling through her hair.
In belated midnight daydreams punctuated by the bit streams
and Manhattan's peristaltic rock and roll,
all her glands are lubricating as her mind is masturbating
every fiber of her body, heart and soul.
As her universe reduces to the waves of pleasure's juices
and euphoria performs a full reveal,
she accelerates through traffic noting every sign and graphic,
cool and calibrated hands upon the wheel.
She gets off on driving capers, licking toes of those skyscrapers
as she penetrates the womb of man's finesse.
She suppresses shakes and shivers as her clitoris delivers
all the energy her mind can deliquesce.
Now her Daisy Dukes are soakin' as she's cruising through Hoboken
for a last look at "the Apple" of her eyes.
There's an aftershock which lingers as she finally lets her fingers
stroke the salty streamers sliding down her thighs.
~ o ~
Just before the dawn of Monday she'll indulge a hot fudge sundae
for the thick and creamy cravings of her tongue.
Then it's back to work which vexes, obfuscates, confounds, perplexes
once again until next Friday when she's sprung.
Sugar Coated Cutie (☼☼☼)
She's a sugar coated cutie with a silly sunny smile,
who will wink an invitation that'll keep you warm a while,
she can tell you that she's hungry for a really rockin' ride
with a wiggle to her walkin' that'll bounce from side to side.
She's a saucy little siren with a certain sense of style,
who'll whisper wanton wishes as she wields her wicked wile,
She is sure to shake and shimmy in a shapely fashion show,
and before the night is over you will really get to know,
all her splendid curves and curls on her finely featured frame,
and before tomorrow morning you will never be the same.
You will walk about in circles as you mumble, scratch and drool,
you will ponder all the pounding in your tender tuna tool,
you will dwell on all the mem'ries as you contemplate her skin,
you will reminisce her nakedness when first you eased it in.
So you're going to go bananas if you cannot make her yours,
and you shut your eyes and dream again and almost cream your drawers.
So you feel the need to call her, though she just stepped out the door,
and you try to find her number and it quakes you to the core
when you re-a-lize those velvet thighs have left your life for good,
as the number that she left you doesn't dial where it should!
Ladylove's Electric Dolly Trolley (☼☼☼)
Striking on a Sapphocaster, spark-arrester, Saturday night,
with a full metal jacket and a manic delight.
Spiking in a supercharging,
breast enlarging, channel of tease,
for the shock rocket model who's addicted to squeeze.
Dyking with a stable sailing, dust inhaling, sister of sin,
who's a shrewd dominatrix, does her duty to win…
Hiking through an autotelic, psychedelic, jungle of joy,
with a transgender Julie and her doe-dipping boy...
Whipping on a' utopistic, masochistic, sucker for pain
with a six knotted granny and a harlequin chain.
Stripping with a sugar shotting,
treasure trotting, madam of love
for the five finger follies from her right-handed glove.
Tipping down a cryogenic, schizophrenic, shot for the nerves
with a fast-acting whacking from her savage hors d'oeuvres
Dipping in the raw alfresco, San Francisco, cauldron of sweet
in the game warden's garden on a cul-de-sac street.
Notes on Selected Poems
Mullett Lake: Written for a contest with several prompts, one of which contained the phrase “thousand mirror glitters”. In spite of the fact that the poem won gold (yay!) I’ve seen fit to rework a few passages. The word “coruscating” fit much better than whatever else was there before, the trade off being that it isn’t a commonly known word . [Do you get the idea that I like using the and characters? ]
Locust Tree: A co-worker of mine, Michelle, was laid up for months after she sat on a locust tree needle. I suspect that I never would have had the foggiest notion that there even was such a thing as a locust tree if it hadn’t been for this unfortunate incident.
Scavengers: Many ravens are seen scavenging roadkill, particularly in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I have twice seen ravens sharing their roadside spoils with bald eagles up there. See related photo, page 12.
Subservience To…: OK, I wouldn’t perforate the entire wilderness, but I’m not opposed to using small patches of it for the betterment of our civilization. I do not believe in the Global Warming Hoax, as I am quite certain that it is precisely that, a hoax. Initially there may have been some cause for investigation, but media hype involving the imminent dangers of global warming and cooling can be traced all the way back to the late 1800’s, usually cycling back and forth in periods of about two or three decades. This round of paranoia is no different.
Seasons Without You: is one of the oldest poems here, and yes, I admit, a bit of a cliché! This has to hail from the late 80’s or so, as it was written one night while working a production machine that pretty much ran itself. I had the job from 1987 to 1990, so it’s going on three-plus decades old. It was originally written under the title “Autumnal Surprise” with the surprise coming in the last verse
Next autumn slowly ambles in, replacing summer’s fading din,
And nature paints a bright collage, upon the forest’s entourage,
Of hickory, maple, oak and elm, and as my eyes are overwhelmed,
A state of mental thrombosis seizes my cerebral drive-train triggering
wildly sporadic convulsions resulting in great globs of phlegmic ejecta
being spewed at the ceiling.
If memory serves, it was some well-meaning soul at the old (now defunct) Writer’s Write forum who convinced me to polish up the ending for general audiences. He was right.
The Cauldron: Good heavens! What would I know about eating lobster? I certainly wouldn’t know much were it not for a corporate training facility down in Georgia where lobster is frequently on the menu. I often end up sitting next to or across from someone who voraciously pulls the poor dead beasts apart limb from limb. That whole getting boiled alive thing just really doesn’t set well with me.
Atom Jack’s…: One of the rare free verse efforts here. Atom Jack was awarded gold in the contest which simply asked for a free verse poem starting with “I am Jacks…” Apparently the prompt has something to do with a television show(?) I know there used to be a Reader’s Digest series: I am Joe’s Stomach (Heart, Brain, Liver, etc.)
Weeping For Her Love: Let me reiterate my thanks to Diane Wilson for allowing me to use her nice Photoshop effort. Somebody found this photo and created a contest out of it. As I recall, no awards for the words!
( Then again, rhyming “love” with “above” was a masterstroke of creative genius… so good I used it 3 times! ) ;-)
Andromeda’s Girl: A poem which looks forward to the day when space travel has advanced to the point where ships can be deployed to gas-rich regions where stars are born. Not tomorrow, but hopefully before the next millennium if we haven’t nuked one other into a plutonium-rich retirement.
Uwoduhi Elohi: Written for a contest on AllPoetry the theme being Native Americans. The contest was being run by a girl whose user name was “Cherokee,” so this was a brazen attempt at getting the gold. ;-) It worked!
Punctujuana: Written for a contest with the theme “Punctuated Living”. Another effort that took gold.
The Dreamwine Poet: Written for a contest on AllPoetry to write a poem based on one’s comment descriptor. I finished my days at A.P. as a “hidden phosphate” poet for 4610 comments. A few other classifications were: a “lyric diamond” poet for 2704 comments; an “obsidian idea” poet for 665 comments; a “tigereye texture” poet for 1378 comments. I just happened to be a “dreamwine” poet for x? number of comments at the time.
Byzantine Clocks: This was a gold trophy winner in a Bethan-gaze contest for coming at the contest prompt “Doors” from an unexpected direction. OK, I agree, in any other context it’d be a silly sort of poem.
Infinity Minus One Equals Zero: While I don’t recall this poem taking any prizes, I was running a bit of an experiment with long lines of 15 and 16 feet. Could they be made to work? I guess I still don’t really know, although one reader mentioned that they liked the interludes of short lines the best! Explanation of title: Infinity only exists while you live. From your perspective then, secularists would say: Infinity minus (you) will equal zero!
Freelance Ricochets Muted Somewhere: Gold again! The poem was written for a contest to describe someone's abstract long-exposure nighttime photograph. Thanks George!
Stylistic Online Bombardment Continued: A little commentary on the people we trust with our money, not only the wizards of Wall Street, but the politicians who made the recent financial collapse not only possible, but impossible to avoid. This probably fits under the Society chapter a bit better, but included here as a stylistic counterpart to Freelance Ricochets Muted Somewhere. No award.
Pressing Against My Eyes: When you shut your eyes and gently press against the eyelids, do you see all sorts of intricate patterns floating about? How would you describe them?
Just the Cold: It’s about a guy listening to music as he’s checking out of the human race by stepping off a dock into a cold lake. Apparently he wasn’t listening to Bad Company’s “Live For The Music”.
A Sunday Confession: If not every guy’s lament, I’m sure it touches the majority of us to one degree or another. Five years after this poem was written “the dam” is under just as much pressure as it ever was.
The Infinite Touch of the Finite Woman: The same, fortunately still unfulfilled, yearnings as in A Sunday Confession (above), but with a little more explanation from the spiritual side of the equation.
Midlife Crisis: A funnier look at this topic and, yes, “decent didgeridoo’ is probably a half dozen syllables too big for where I jammed it in, but dammit, I’m the author and it stays! You know, it was only after the poem was written that I became aware of the fact that, in aboriginal Tasmania, women aren’t allowed to blow on the didgeridoo! (pronounced 'DID-jer-ee-DOO) Twice as interesting as that: I learned that fact from a woman who owns one! Thank you Marilynn!
Seeking Hellp: Originally written as Seeking Hell(p). I’m still not sure which I like better. Perhaps Seeking Hel(l)p is the most accurate way of displaying it. Isn’t it fun to watch someone dither as they fumble about trying to make up their minds on something so simple as this? Did you ever shop for a couch with your wife? Argh.
An Adequate Ex-spleen-ation: Seriously folks, if you’ve never tried this it can be a lot of fun.
Hiiii-YAH!!!!: With many thanks to my sister Carol for the inspiration behind this piece. Buy a can of RAID already!
Some Unusual Senior Activity Noticed Lately: By all accounts, Susan is one of the nicest persons you’d ever want to meet… not that I’ve met her… but she’s a dear under-paid, over-worked soul who’s devoted a large share of her life to serving others. God bless you Susan, keep up the good work. (Won gold twice, woohoo!)
Black Sunday: What is it about “A Night Before Christmas” that makes it such a fun poem to parody?! I’ll bet if one does the research they’ll find that this is the world’s most parodied poem! Why should that be? I couldn’t help but include two such parodies in this collection. God love you, Clement!
Terminal: Lest anyone think me guilty of lampooning the terminally ill, let me state emphatically that the inspiration for this was the way I was feeling during a bout of illness I had somewhat previous to the poem’s creation in 2004. (“I’m too healthy to be sick” is my motto, but every once in a while…) It’s a shame that such disclaimers have to be made in a climate of increasing “political correctness” which is more often than not “political absurdity.”
Ongoing Obituary: “She” is the spirit of the United States as symbollically embodied in the Statue of Liberty. “She” is that which seems to disgust modern liberal academia, and journalists of the day. Such a shame.
Tea, Anyone?: A poem in support of the thousands of “Tea Parties” in America on April 15, 2009; July 4, 2009; and whenever and wherever else they might occur. If the word Robber Baron ever applied to any entity, certainly it must apply to the new regime of government intent on nationalizing everything in its path.
Jellyskillet: The gelatinous spine of the American Republican Party with the iron skillet smacking power of the American Democrat Party brought together under one nonpartisan roof. At the upper echelons, both parties seem to have the same world view and, oddly enough, I don’t believe it’s one that is shared by mainstream America. For a country founded in liberty, which thrived on entrepreneurial capitalism, the two major parties are sure eager to throw us back into the political dark ages. Who originated the old axiom: “That government which governs best, governs least.”? I resolve to vote 3rd party from here on out.
Fight A War To Keep The Peace: Written for the prompt: "In this holy world, war is playing havoc in the lives of human beings." The contest holder was, incidentally, from India, so that may throw a little light on his cultural alignment with the quote. In spite of the fact that I disagreed with his premise, I came away with the bronze trophy for his contest. It’s great when you can find a truly objective contest host.
Glitzing to the Gizmick: “das Bleistift ist ein mögen Gegenspiel” = “the pencil is a ‘to like’ counterplay” = gibberish.
The Aphex Twine: A play on the “Aphex Twins” who, far from being twins, is a one man “group” who plays electronic ambient music. The “tunes” are largely amorphous soundscapes that take you from one place to another but without particularly memorable in-betweens to reflect upon. In that sense the “tunes” remind me of twine. It’s neither pretty cordage, nor strong cordage, but it does sort of do what it’s supposed to within its limitations. Like twine, the function of the ends depends on the middle remaining intact!
Poly Want a Syllable?: Written for a contest that required a plethora of polysyllabic words.
Seven Deadly Snippets: I’m having a wee bit of fun with all things English, plus some other stuff that just sort of schnarforkled out of my brain. It’s not every day that one feels compelled to write about the national implications of Seven Deadly Snippets.
Ode to This and That: “This and That” being the contest prompt, of course. It seems the contest host wasn’t much into rhyme, as I recall. A nice comment from him/her, but no award.
Poetic Hallucinations: This abstract might have fit just as well under the rather anemic “Writing” category that starts on page 157. I felt a little anxious posting this on AllPoetry, but in the end it was rather well received. Reworked to incorporate a non end-line rhyimng scheme.
Where the Sagebrush Eats a Shrike: “Eating a shrike” – a reference from the movie Flight of the Intruder. A Shrike was an air-to-ground missile that was used to destroy enemy radar installations. If the enemy wanted to shoot down planes he needed radar-controlled gun mounts to do the job. Leave the radar on, it’s likely to eat a Shrike… turn it off, the radar is safe but so are the attacking planes.
When and So: A selection of Randomized Mind Edits from somewhere near the drop-shadow of Reason.
Plexure: Plexure means: The act or process of weaving together, or interweaving; that which is woven together. (From: thefreedictionary.com who sourced: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, published 1913 by C. & G. Merriam Co.
In this case, it refers to mind-bender puzzles that are beyond difficult bordering unsolvable.
Zero: Just another oddball journey through the cross-connected circuits of sparkling Technicolor adjectives blasting through the cathode ray tube of high voltage mind emissions tickling articulated verbal phosphors on the rhyme-starved taste buds at the tip of your tongue.
Synthegraphic Soundscapes: This poem got a thorough reworking since its departure from AllPoetry. It attempts, albeit in an abstract way, to connect the natural rhythms of light, stars, and all forms of celestial motion to the harmonics of our own music, especially as realized through synthesized electronic means. The properties of sound seem to land somewhere near the average of nanosecond wavelengths of light, and the millennial cycles of galactic rotation. Recommended listening: Jean Michel Jarre, Synergy, William Orbit, Pete Bardens, Robert Schröder.
Her Contemporaries Were Wrong: I don’t know where to find the original picture that this was written for, but it was something along the lines of what you see next to the poem, hence the references to “duality of color”, “a boxed existence”, etc. As I recall, the poem in it’s original form, didn’t place in the contest. ,, Revision is a process that goes on constantly with at least a few poems. Now, free from contest constraints which influenced its early morph, it reads much smoother and easier in its (hopefully) final form.
Cheboygan’s Philharmonic Orchestra: Cheboygan doesn’t have, and to my knowledge never has had, a philharmonic orchestra. I can also attest to the fact that at least some of Cheboygan’s musicians who live in and around town are quite accomplished. The 2009 High School Jazz Ensemble were absolutely terrific as they played several tunes in the Opera House (which is real!) with professional musician Wessell “Warm Daddy” Anderson.
Christmas In Michigan: Written for a contest where contestants would write about Christmas in their state. Each state would only be represented once, so you had to jump on early. Unfortunately, the contest holder never judged it in a timely manner so the AllPoetry staff deleted it without judging. Another . Michigan is leading the country in high unemployment and it is with no help from our state politicians that this is so. Michigan has so much to offer, and has enough natural resources to be very prosperous, but bureaucrats tie the hands that feed.
Feeding the Muse (American Style): While I’m a bit more cosmopolitan than this poem would have you believe (notice how many foreign dishes are “acceptable,” e.g. quesadillas, Australian brew, etc.!) I do marvel at some of the things that people in other countries put in their mouth! My travels have taken me to the Far East and I’ve sampled some of the unusual fare of Korea, Hong Kong, Japan, Philippines and Thailand. While there is some good eating in all those countries, each of them has something that will make you do a double take. Balut in the Philippines is a case in point. Fertilized duck eggs, as I understand it. Thank God I was three sheets to the wind when I tried it. Curry Chicken in Hong Kong will certainly sizzle your socks. And what was it they served in the slammer in Pattaya Beach that night?! YECKO!
What They Say About Canada: At least they have good music and friendly people up there… B.T.O., Loverboy and Honeymoon Suite are some of my 70’s – 80’s rock-and-roll faves. Wanna go curling?
Hot Springs: This is a poem about Maxine’s Motel in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Apparently Maxine Jones had a going pay-for-play business on the upper floor of the establishment, while a legitimate motel was being run downstairs.
Swell and the Sway: The picture of the tramp freighter looks like it belongs to the other poem “My Psychotic Mother” but is, of course, intended for “S&S”. The picture was created in TrueSpace, a 3-D modeling program. Here is the same ship, on its side, borrowed for another project:
In The Year 2022: Written for a friend, Kimberly Bell George, who was being treated for a serious illness. This was to welcome her return to the boards. Kimberly is the only person on A.P. who ever attempted to methodically read and comment on every one of my works, which, at the time, was in the high 300’s. Thank you Kim… hope you’re doing well, now and always.
Brooklyn Personified: Information from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_people_from_Brooklyn – and might I take this moment to interject how much I love the Internet – for where else would you find a list of famous people from Brooklyn? My town’s library probably has no such book. In “Always Lots To Do” (pg. 85) I used a similar Wikipedia page to find a list of businesses on Park Avenue. What a wonderful tool… long may it last.
Me an’ Mad Dog: Mad Dog is shorthand for Mogen David 20/20, a cheap but effective brain lubricant which often creates an efficient shortcut to trouble for those who don’t want to be bothered with the longer route.
Also, “some orc they made a bouncer” might be lost on some readers. Orcs are J. R. R. Tolkien’s half man, half creatures from Mordor, a region of Middle Earth in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. They look gruesome in the movies! See also “Insomnia at the Middle Earth Motel” (pg. 110).
Snap, Crackle, Poop!: This is something that never would have been written if it hadn’t been for the contest prompt: “Cereal Killers”. The contest host liked the composition well enough he graced it with gold!
Huckleberry’s Bath: Huckleberry was a great cat and never got too bad at bath time. I got bit and clawed once for some infraction or another, but he was a model cat for the rest of his days. He lived to be a little over 13 years old when a blood sugar problem caught up with him. Rest in peace, Hucky.
The Setting of a Rising Son: This passage will undoubtedly raise some eyebrows:
So you're still a banzai bunny
and I know you think it's funny
in a Hiroshima/Nagasaki way
There is nothing remotely funny about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The protagonist believes his girlfriend has become so jaded (she is demanding his demise) that he’s mocking HER haughtiness and arrogance.
Aberkromby and Phitch: This poem is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real founders of an actual clothing corporation are purely coincidental.
What, you doubt me?! I… but… you see… well…
ok… I lied.
Prudence Brown: This was written to fit Chantelle “Asylaarix” DeJong’s contest prompt, “Morbid Erotica,” and managed a first-place seat in the winner’s circle.
A Plus-Size Poem: As indicated somewhat in “The Infinite Touch of the Finite Woman” on page 34 and more so in “Seeking Hellp” on page 36, I have no ill will toward people of size. Humor is humor wherever it’s found, and in this case it just happens to be with Matilda P. McCuddy in her slimmed down 88’s. In the next poem it’s me blowing myself to Kingdom Come while extracting food from my freezer.
Christmas Dinner: It’s a toss-up for who I despise most… the “mainstream” (ha!) media propagandizers, or the bureaucrats of both parties, all (99%) of whom are endeavoring to sell out the American public on a near 24-7-365 basis. Why do they so loathe freedom and American greatness? Mysteries abound!
Nessie’s Appetite: This drew a lot of criticism as there are neither whales nor squid nor garbage barges in or on Loch Ness. My visualization of the scenario is based on more modern theories that suggest the loch might be connected to the ocean through some as yet undiscovered subterranean passageways. This would explain how a plesiosaur, say, could live most of it’s life at sea (remaining undiscovered) and then only return back to the loch occasionally (think: salmon) where it is occasionally seen. This would also explain how such a creature would seemingly survive for hundreds of years… because it is really generation after generation coming back to the loch only during their annual migration. Anyhoo, if Nessie can go between ocean and loch, then so can whales and squid, and a garbage barge could be munched in the ocean.
The Tale of Clara Carp: This is a poem done in the style of Cyril Fletcher. A contest held by AllPoetry’s Passim prompted contestants to write a pastiche using his signature starting line of “This is the tale of…” followed by the name of the main character. The meter, iambic tetrameter was also his preferred medium. gold!!!
The Dilemma: was an entry for another Passim contest…. reveal what “The Thinker” is thinking. GOLD!!!
Tension Between The Species: As I recall, this was also supposed to be a pastiche of a famous somebody’s work, but now I can’t for all the tea in China remember whose style it’s supposed to be. < (fuming)
A Man at Ease: Here was an entry for a contest based on an acrostic of your user name, hence the bold type for the leading letter of every line which spells EarthToJim in all caps.
An American Husband Foresees His Life: A parody of a famous William Butler Yeats poem, a poem made more famous by the movie “Memphis Belle” in which an airman, Danny, tries to plagiarize the poem as his own. After he’s wounded he ‘fesses up that he swiped it from Yeats. As a young child I did the same thing with Walter de la Mare’s poem “Bones.” Hmmm, the lengths we won’t go to for a attention and acceptance!
My Chapbook: Written as a Terza Rima Sonnet: ABA BCB CDC DED EE.
Urethra: The contest parameter was to write a poem on any seven-letter word that started with the letter “U” which wasn’t already reserved. What can I say…all the good ones were gone already!
Safe and Secure: Contest prompt: Irony. Took first prize
Going For A Spin: From Encyclopedia.com
Jalal ad-Din Rumi, 1207-73, great Islamic Persian sage and poet mystic, b. in Balkh…
…Rumi also founded the Mawlawiyya (Mevlevi) Sufi order, who use dancing and music as part of their spiritual method, and who are known in the West as Whirling Dervishes.
Berry Tangerine: Contest prompt: Choose one scent from a list of candle scents.
The Wondrous Beauty of Self Discovery: Pure fiction. This never happened to me… honest. I mean it… really… you can ask my mom! I did have a “caught in the zipper” moment once though. Not quite as bad as in the movie “Something About Mary,” but close.
Persistence Pays Off: “540’s” – “1080’s” – “front side blast” – “stalefish” – all standard snowboarding terms. “Triple Lindy” – well, for the uninitiated or forgetful, do a YouTube (or similar) search on this—there are plenty of video clips of this particular scene in the video forums. It is funnier than a “freefall 86” and well worth taking the time to watch. It hails from the movie “Back to School” starring Rodney Dangerfield. After watching the video, you’ll appreciate how difficult it was working a Triple Lindy into my snowboarding routine! ;-)
For Love A Thousand Kisses Deep: Written for contest prompt: “poetry inspired from a Leonard Cohen song title.” No award.
WOMEN: This section was put last because of its relative high concentration of adult content. Think of it as either saving the best or the worst for last! The picture was a prompt for the poem it accompanies. (3rd place)
Many of these poems also fit, to some degree, the Grieves of Lass theme.
Ardor Rich but Feature Poor: A lament for the countless women who are filled to the brim with a burning desire to share their love, but who were not blessed with the features which will help them secure a mate. Studies show that men predominantly marry for looks and women marry for security (financial, physical, etc. (Please don’t make me footnote this! I heard it on the radio the other day!) ) Modern society doesn’t do much to help stabilize marriages and support the family unit.
Peacock Pretender: This is commentary on WAY too many (not all) American and European teen and early-twenty girls… so many are trying to jump into the front seat of cool before they’ve graduated from the baby seat of smart. What is this all-depressed-all-the-time attitude, the cutting, the perpetual gloomy overcast: of ADHD, of pessimism; of bulimia, of anorexia and bi-polar disorder? Good grief, what happened while I was in the Navy?
Epicenter: The “sleazy South Detroiter”; the “spunky little screamer”; the cluster-f*** seductress; the “prima donna”; etc. are intended to represent many different women in spite of the fact that the poem seems to be written as a continuous narrative about a single person. The poem is based on my traditional understanding of the porn industry’s offenses against humanity, but in a 21st century world, any horndog with ½ watt of brain power, who can run a video camera and manipulate HTML on a web space can be a pornographer.
(One might ask, “Why ***-out a word here that is spelled in full elsewhere?” In the poem the “f-bomb,” as it were, is used for its meaning, syllable count, assonance, consonance, etc. Here, the asterisks serve just as well.)
Syralexa: Just conjuring up my dream woman who’s so mentally agile she can sublimate and compartmentalize all her sensory input. Merriam Webster shows the preferred pronunciation of “clitoris” as 'kli-tərəs with the secondary pronunciation as kli-'tȯr-əs. The poem’s integrity of rhythm relies on the preferred pronunciation.
Ladylove’s Electric Dolly Trolley: Just a descriptive series of abstract thoughts and inventive imagery about a side of life which I admittedly know very little about. It all seems wildly interesting to the outsider looking in, but like so many other places real or imagined, it comes across as a better place to visit than reside.
E n c o r e :
She's a rigor mortis maven from a haven cast in stone,
there's an air of condescension in her prim and proper tone.
She's a drawn-and-quartered phantom in a bantam sort of way,
with blasphemin' inner demons whom she can not keep at bay.
You'd dissect her evil specter on a slab of polished slate,
but her presence will, in essence, never lose it's love for hate.
Liquid malice in her chalice overflows with pure contempt,
she anoints the disappointed with the hauntings that she's dreamt.
She's the countess of consumption in a homicidal mood,
astral neighbor with a saber and her lust is unsubdued.
There's derision in my vision of her tyranny of pain,
as she's fractious tending factious with no reason to abstain.
She's a fully bloated bully with a parasitic eye,
penning active propaganda and a consecrated lie.
She's diaphanous and solid in a quasi-stable state,
she devours human psyches at an ever faster rate.
Her ambition for perdition forms her bedrock core ideal
She's myopic... misanthropic... and there's nothing she can feel.
She's a spirit who, to hear it, drains the life from every cell,
just the mother of ten other apparitions sent from hell!