Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Unicorn Cat

I heard a sad ‘meow’ in the woods near my house
And ran off to see where it led
To my wondrous surprise, I encountered a cat
With a sparkly horn on its head.

Why do you cry, cat? You ought to be glad.
Aren’t you pleased you’ve got such a nice horn?

“No, I am not,” mewed the unicorn cat
I used to be unicorn full
With muscular legs and a glittery mane
And a tail of silver and gold.”

What happened then, cat? You must have transformed.
Were you cursed? Were you punished? Bewitched?

“I’d just learned to fly,” moaned the unicorn cat
“‘Twas the very first time that I flew.
“Fly near to the rainbow,” my mother had said
“But never, don’t ever, fly through.”

What happened then, cat? Did you go very high?
Or get blown by tumultuous wind?

“I flew to the rainbow as quick as I could,”
Said the cat with its mythical prong
“I thought rainbows were silent, but this one was not
It broke into a beautiful song.

Its voice was enchanting; it pierced through my heart
And turned all my muscles to glue
The song had two words, and they echoed like bells:
“Fly through!” sang the rainbow. “Fly through!”

What happened then, cat? Did you manage to flee?
Did the rainbow keep singing its song?

“I pictured my mother: her silver-white face
Her voice saying: Never go through…
But her image went *poof * and then all I could see
Was red, orange, yellow, green, blue.

I passed through the rainbow; the feeling was bliss
The world was a colorful blur
And when I arrived on the arc’s other side
I was tiny and covered in fur.”

What happened then, cat? Did you tumble and fall?
How is it now you’re alive?

“The woods broke my fall, and I landed on leaves
And now all I do is meow
I want to find meaning and joy as a cat
But I’ve honestly no idea how.”

Do you want to be mine? You would be a good pet
I could feed you and polish your horn.

“That won’t work,” said the cat
“I’m a unicorn, see? I must live my life in the sky
I have to be magical, wondrous, and free
But I don’t even think I can fly.”

Have you tried or attempted? Perhaps you still can
With the magic that’s found in your horn

The cat scrunched its face, and made low growling sounds
The strangest I ever have heard
It managed to summon its magic, I guess
‘Cause it flew to the sky like a bird!

It had rained hard that morning, and then there’d been sun
So there now was a rainbow of course
I saw the small kitten fly straight through the red
And I thought it’d emerge as a horse!

Instead it came out as the cat that it was
And so, for a sec, I was sad
It’s no magical horse with a glittering mane
But hey, for a cat, it’s not bad.

Wonkbeast and Blinkworm

Wonkbeast, antlers big as goats
Skin like barnacles on boats
Teeth are yellow, eyes are red
Maggots dwell upon his head

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Blinkworm, handsome, thin and tall
Skin as perfect as a doll
Smells like fresh-baked cakes and sweets
Silver slippers on his feet

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Wonkbeast, shy and good at math
Never learned to take a bath
Stutters when he tries to speak
Hairy wart upon his cheek

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Blinkworm, extroverted, loud
Loves to talk in front of crowds
Drives a brand new Rolls Royce
Has a lovely singing voice

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Wonkbeast, gentle, clumsy, fat
Cooks his oatmeal in a vat
Rescues birds that fall from nests
Knits scum-colored sweater vests

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Blinkworm’s wallet’s full of dough
(Where’d he get that money, though?)
Throws a giant public fair
With circus girls and dancing bears

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Wonkbeast lives to ninety-three
Sits beneath a willow tree
There he sucks his final breath
And, alone, succumbs to death

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast

Blinkworm leaves a paper trail
Of laundered money; goes to jail
But someone with a lot of clout
Proudly bails the blinkworm out

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Wonkbeast’s corpse has turned to dust
Blinkworm dies, as blinkworms must
Hordes of mourners come in waves
To sob upon the blinkworm’s grave

Everyone cries when the blinkworm dies
But none shed a tear for the wonkbeast.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Savior

I danced with you last night
Your hair like polished mangos

Everyone wanted to dance with you also
But you were my treasure

A blood spot on the shoulder of your dress
From where the flying dog had sunk its teeth

You must have smelled like Martian meat
Your space suit was too flimsy for those fangs

I heard your screams and stumbled from the bar
The dog pack turned its vicious snarls to me

You hovered while I laser-gunned those dogs
The heat from your jet boots brought sweat to my neck

You danced with me on earth as my reward
I chose a smoky dance hall in the South

I watched the dogtooth blood spot as we swayed
And only sometimes traveled to the planets of your eyes

Monday, December 21, 2015

A Buddha Very Silly

A Buddha very silly
With a ribbon on his willie
Went a-seeking for some women
Who would play with him croquet.
But the Buddha very silly
Due to ribbon on his willie
When approaching fancy ladies
Sent them scattering away.
Feeling rather under-flattered
‘Cause the women all had scattered
Buddha sighed and sadly juggled
All the balls of his croquet.
Then he heard a sudden giggle
Which provoked his ears to wriggle
And he turned and saw a badger
And he heard the badger say:
“Excuse me, Buddha, sire
But it’s quite hard to acquire
Women who will want to join you
With a ribbon on your dick.
If the garland you remove then
It’s quite likely you’ll improve
Your probabilities and hopes
Of finding croquet partnership.”
“I like you, Mr. Badger,”
said the Buddha. “And I’d wager
That you wouldn’t give advice
If it were not profoundly good.
If I ought not wear this lace
On my most manly body place
Then what should I use to cover
My enlightened sword of flesh?”
“I do opine,” the badger said
“That trousers would be best.”
So the Buddha very silly
Took the ribbon off his willie
Bought some trousers at the market
And walked back into the town
He asked a woman in a dress
And to his pleasure she said yes
Would her friends join? Yes, indeed!
And this reversed the Buddha’s frown.
The partners found a lawn
And played croquet from dusk ‘til dawn
Using special Buddha headlamps
They had bought for just that use.
The Buddha lost the game
But much enjoyed it all the same
And during sunrise, all enjoyed
A lovely picnic of fresh fruits.

Mud Hole in the Desert

I can remember life before this
When I used to eat cauliflower

I went to the desert to observe the rocks
Everything was flat

I stepped into this mud hole to cool off
Got stuck here

Now, for life, I am trapped in the mud
My throat is dry

I sleep during the hottest part of the day
Sometimes the mud boils

I wake up at five p.m.
A blue raven flies overhead, always punctual

The harsh mud-warming sun goes down
I am awake during all of the night

For the first few years, I saw the light-lit sky
A black banquet with so many candles

Then, as my education continued
The sky became a blackboard

And as I could not solve celestial math
The gods erased the stars.

Pantano en el Desierto

Recuerdo la vida antes de esto
Cuando solía comer coliflor

Fui al desierto para ver las rocas
Todo era plano

Entré en este fango para refrescarme
Me hundí

Ahora, y por siempre, estoy en el barro
Tengo sed

Duermo durante la parte mas cálida del día
A veces el barro hierve

Me despierto a las cinco 
Un cuervo azul vuela por encima, siempre puntual

El sol que calienta el barro se baja
Estoy despierto toda la noche

Los primeros años, veía el cielo encendido
Banquete negro con tantas velitas

Después, cuando continuaba mi educación
El cielo se convirtió en tablero

Y como no podía resolver las matemáticas celestes
Los dioses borraron las estrellas.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Moonfetti

The xomwoggler goon
Did ate with a spoon
The multi-hued sprinkles
He found on the moon
That was long time ago
So now nobody dream
That the moon is a scoop
Of funfetti ice cream
Thanks to xomwoggler goon
No one knew, no one knows
Unless, as we speak, the moonfetti re-grows

The Indecision Monster

The indecision monster
Is the meanest one of all
He’s made of murky mushness
And he’s ten or twelve feet tall.
He’s bigger than your want-to
And he’s bigger than your will
And thoughts like: “I shall buy these shoes”
He’ll torture, slash and kill.
He’ll stun you to a statue
When you try to send a text
And set your inner GPS
To ‘address of your ex.’
He’ll make you want to go to Spain
Or maybe write a book
And then his team of ‘don’t elves’
Show up everywhere you look.
The don’t elves sing cacophonies
Of pros, cons, fors, againsts
And when you try to run from them
They strap you on the fence.
You can tape the monster’s mouth shut
And ignore his don’t elf team
But they’ll re-emerge as actors
In a cautionary dream.
This nasty monster traps
Your most assured, decisive thoughts
Then injects them with an equal dose
Of “ought tos” and “ought nots”
You’ll be chewing on your flounder
Thinking: “Should’ve got the steak.”
He’ll make you wobble like a top
‘Round every choice you make.
The more you try to fight him
The more massive he will grow
‘Cause after all he feeds on words
Like “shouldn’t,” “don’t,” and “no.”
You might as well embrace him
Since he’s only made of mush
And as it’s such a shock to him
It often makes him shush.

Mountains of Sugar

Mountains of sugar
Sugary dust
I ate it all up
As a sugar freak must
My eyeballs turned red
And my tongue-skin turned white
I jumped rope on a treadmill
For half of the night
And then I collapsed
And the sugar drained out
Spilled out of my nose
As if it were a spout.
I woke up to find
Piles of sugar with snot
I ate it all up
As a sugar freak ought
With kneecaps a-shaking
And knuckles a-tense
I drilled eighty holes
In the planks of a fence
And then I collapsed
And the sugar I lost it
Poured out of my ear
As if it were a faucet.
I woke up to find
Piles of sugar with wax
I ate it all up
(That’s how sugar freaks act)
My forehead had spasms
My liver went limp
I caught and released
Forty thousand small shrimp
And then I collapsed
And the sugar just stayed
There’s a three-swallow rule
And the sugar obeyed.
I twitched while I slept
And my insulin spiked
But when I woke up
I felt pretty all right.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

I Wish I Was a Wicked Man

I wish I was a wicked man
I hate to be a saint
I wish I did the kind of things
That’d make your granny faint.
I wish I had an evil glare
An evil cackle, too
I’d glare and cackle just before
I stabbed and burgled you.
You’d say: “Who was that wicked man
With such a chilling stare?
I wonder what dark treasures
He stores up inside his lair.”
And you’d be right, I’d have a lair
With flapping bats and snakes
And eerie ghosts who’d give
The most heroic men the shakes.
The cops would try to find me
They'd recruit their smartest hound
But I’d be so sly and cunning
They could never track me down.
I’d be drowning puppies, cackling
MUAHAHA without restraint
And you can’t have that kind of wicked joy
If you’re a saint.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Futile

Snake tries to eat its own tail
Thought tries to think its own thought
Veil tries to veil its own veil
Knot tries to tie its own knot.
Dying to know your own mind?
Cage cannot make itself caught
‘Cause objects are different, specific, distinct
Except when All’s One, and they’re not.

Friday, October 9, 2015

I Like to Make Eggs for My Friend the Old Man

I like to make eggs
For my friend the old man
I crack them and beat them
He sits in his chair.
“Are you comfortable, friend?”
He nods and looks distant
His head has brown age spots
And tufts of gray hair.
He likes his eggs scrambled
And cooked ‘til they’re shriveled
He likes them so roasted
They stick to the pan.
He doesn’t have teeth
So he has to just gum them
He likes to say: “Gums
Can do all that teeth can.”
And I don’t like eggs
So I just watch him eating
The eggs make him sleepy
He sleeps in his chair.
I take out my fiddle
And play while he’s snoozing
Performing soft music
I wrote for the air.
At six it’s the sunset
And that always wakes him
Snaps out of his slumber
Sometimes in mid-snore.
“Sunsets,” he sighs
“Are the paint strokes of angels
I’d murder the fellow
Who said they’re a bore.”
And after the sunset
He has to get going
His cat needs its dinner
And needs to be pet.
I hand him his hat and say:
“See you tomorrow?”
He says with his gum-grin:
“Sure, sonny. You bet.”

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The Useless Broom

No, no! I’m afraid
That you can’t use that broom
It’s an old haunted broom
That we found in a tomb
It won’t collect dust
It just scatters it more
And it makes screeching sounds
When it’s dragged ‘cross the floor
At night, when I’m sleeping
It stands by my bed
Sweeping nightmares of doom
To my dream-heavy head
When I wake in the morning
I’m desperate to clean
A clean house would assuage
The dark visions I’ve seen
But I can’t
‘Cause my broom is an agent of Death
So it’s best to stay in
And just snort some more meth.

Don’t Look A Gift Horse in Any of Its Orifices

Behold the zebra, it’s a horse
With white and blackish stripes, of course
It also has a stripey mane
I’ve stuffed its butt with pure cocaine
We’ll border cross without a hitch
Then me & zebra filthy rich.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

I Like Some Things More Than Others

I like to write poems
More than I like combs
More than I like phones
More than I like bones
More than I like foam
More than I like drones
More than I like domes
More than I like stones
But not more than I like putting gnomes in rest homes.

Yellow Moon

At night I saw a yellow moon
It looked a lot like butter.
Its smile was like an aeroplane
I heard it start to mutter:
“Doozle grimple grog mabop
Spizznit twimble fwee.
Poox-a-flimbat sozzle bot.
Zop da-kumquat blee.”
“Excuse me, yellow moon,” I said.
“I didn’t get the gist.
I heard you mention ‘kumquat’
But the rest of it I missed.”
“Grizzle doom-rock neeple-bap.
Bicnick poffle hoo.
Moog gorilla weezle gauze.
Rimbim moz-man koo.”
“Doom-rock? Poffle? Moog?”
I said. “You’re talking like a loony.
I guess you don’t know English, huh?
You must be speaking Moony.”
I turned to go, because I thought
I’d never understand.
We lived in different worlds;
we were like hummingbirds to sand.
But as I turned to leave
The moon again began to speak
Its aeroplane smile made dimples
In its butter-yellow cheeks.
“Shh,” it whispered. “Pretty boy.
I know your secret charms.
You’re not insane. And someday soon
I’ll hold you in my arms.”
“Excuse me, you’ll do what?” I said
But then a great gray cloud
Obscured the moon’s celestial face
A sort of misty shroud.
Who are you, moon? Why tell me
That you know my secret charms?
Why promise that you’ll hold me
When you don't have any arms?
I went back to my chilly house
And asked my grandma why
I’d heard such strange, uncanny things
From something in the sky.
“The moon knows only nonsense.”
Granny said. “Don’t pay it heed.
But ain’t it true that sometimes
Nonsense’s just the thing we need?
It’s all mysteryus, sonny boy.
Don’t understand? Don’t try.
C’mere, let granny tuck you in
And sing a lullaby.”
Although I’m not a child, I let
My granny tuck me in
Her breath made fog-clouds in the cold
And smelled like flour and gin.
“Doozle grimple grog,” she sang
Spizznit twimble fwee.”
I fell asleep at “sozzle bot.”
Began to dream at “blee.”

Monday, September 7, 2015

The Clairvoyant

The clairvoyant peered into her clear crystal ball
Her eyes grew big and her nose grew small
“You are doomed!” she proclaimed. “You must exit this place!”
Then her nose disappeared—got sucked into her face
She was just eyes and mouth, and her eyes got gigantic
Her breathing was frenzied, her pupils were frantic
Her eyes getting larger, her limbs shrinking small
Her body turned into the size of a doll
“You are doomed!” she repeated. “You’re certainly cursed!”
Then her eyes grew so huge that I thought they would burst
And they did! And their eye jelly splattered and flew
Landed smack on the walls, like wet, ocular glue
And I couldn’t help then but feel slightly annoyed...
If that is clairvoyance, I’ll stay unclairvoyed.

If I Were a Hedgehog

If I were a hedgehog
My name tag would say:
“Not usually hedgehog.
It’s just for today.”

Thursday, September 3, 2015

A Friend from Japan

I would like to make friends
With a girl from Japan
I would make her dessert
Like a burnt caramel flan
We’d sit on the porch
Putting gloss on our lips
And the men that walked by
Would say, ‘Look at them chicks.’
At night we’d watch films
And eat popcorn and sweets
We’d paint all the nails
On our hands and our feets.
I’d only speak English
And she, Japanese
So we wouldn’t much talk
Just say, “thank you” and “please.”
She’d live down the street
With a cat as a pet
She’d be scared of the dark
And of things that are wet
So on days when it rained
I would go to her floor
I would take off my shoes
When I entered the door
We’d read anime comics
And pet the cat’s fur
I’d be giggly and loud
She’d be shy and demur
Her name would be Momo
Or Kyo Mitsuru
And I’d bring her warm soup
If she came down with flu
She’d make me a mobile
Of bright paper cranes
I’d paint her a picture
Of old-fashioned trains
We’d be always together
Link arms on the street
I’m a little bit wide-ish
But she’d be petite.
I'm alone, so I hope
That she comes in a hurry
But she probably won’t
‘Cause I live in Missouri.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Transvestite Garden Gnome

Two weeks ago my garden gnome
Had snuck inside my house
I caught him in my closet
In my frilly socks and blouse.
“What are you doing, little gnome?”
“Um, nothing,” he replied.
“It’s fine if you like ladies’ clothes,”
I said. “No need to hide.”
“You’re not upset?” the fellow asked
“I’m not. I’m just surprised.
But let me see if I can’t find
Some outfits in your size.”
I found a shirt I used to wear
(I’d shrunk it in the wash)
I also found a wide-brimmed hat
The color of a squash.
“Do you like skirts or shorts?” I asked
The gnome replied: “Skirts, please.”
And so I found a ruffly one
That fluttered in the breeze
The garden gnome was shyly thrilled
“What lovely clothes!” he gushed
“You look just gorgeous,” I replied.
The garden gnome just blushed.
“You think I could come every day?”
He asked. “To try things on?
And wear a different outfit
Every day upon your lawn?”
“Of course you can,” I offered him
“If that’s what you desire.
In fact, I’ll give you all the clothes
That shrunk up in the dryer.”
“Wow, thanks!” he said, “And one more thing…
I know you named me Schmee.
But could you call me Trixie?
I think that it’s more me.
“Okay,” I said, and now, each day
When I head out from home
I smile and wave to ‘Trixie’
My transvestite garden gnome.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Half-Boozer, Half-Parrot

This is my beak
I use it to speak
My mom was a parrot
My dad was a drunk.
Half-boozer, half-parrot
I really can’t bear it
My torso has feathers
My liver has shrunk.
My dad wasn’t sober
That fateful October
He thought he’d got hold
Of a girl, not a bird.
Because of his habit
That lusty old maggot
Knew not what he screwed
‘Cause his vision was blurred.
I was born from an egg
And I nursed from a keg
And now I’m as drunk
As my lousy old man.
He’s degenerate waste
And has terrible taste
In his partners. But hey,
He can’t fly, and I can.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

A Curse on Mosquitoes

I have been bitten
I wrote, it is written
That I have been bitten
By biters unseen.
Those unforeseen biters
Those come-out-at-nighters
Have bitten me everywhere.
Why? ‘Cause they’re mean.
Some folks call them skeeters
They’re pro blood depleters
They’ll suck ‘til they burst
With the weight of your gore
You can try citronella
But I’m here to tell ya
There’s nothing that won’t make
The bastards want more.
They’re not earthly creatures
Those demon blood-leechers
They’re born from a dark, diabolical void.
Sure, you can kill one
With your finger and thumb
But the unholy masses?
They can’t be destroyed.
And when they do bite you
I warn that despite
Your best efforts, you cannot avoid
Those blood-sucking meanies
Those vampire houdinis
They’ll bite even more
If they know you’re annoyed.

Poems as a Response to the Cyclic Consciousness of Nature

A poem is just a poet’s way
Of sniffing out the season
She writes the poems because she breathes
There is no other reason
In autumn, poems go floating
To the earth, like leaves to lakes
In winter, poems are crystallized
In icy, mirrored flakes
In springtime, poems go fluttering
Like tiny birds from nests
In summer, poems burst forth
Like drops of sweat on women’s breasts
The poet sees and smells it all
And breathes it out in words
And poems are written just like chirps
Are uttered from the birds.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Weak Old Man

Here I come, I’m a weak old man
I can barely push my shopping cart I’m so weak
My shopping cart has all the things I own in it
A sleeping bag, some bananas, a dead ferret
I’m so weak my heart could stop beating any second
I don’t have any children so no one will care if I die
I don’t know how to use technology
But I am happy because I know how to watch the sky
And look at the withered skeletons of the clouds
Seeing in them a reflection of my own weakness
I know how to listen to the language of the birds
I can hear them cursing
They have dirty, dirty minds

Saturday, July 18, 2015

A Cave of Blind Birds

We crawled through a cave
That was full of blind birds
We waded through pools
That were full of their turds
It was so very dark
We could not see at all
The cave was enormous
And drippy and tall
One girl in our group
Lay down and she sang
With long, haunting notes
That slithered and rang
The cave echoed back
Like a vibrating gong
The melody softened
Dark, spooky and long
I felt like an outcast
Long-lost in that cave
I knew, to survive
I would have to be brave
I’d have to find out
How to hunt those damn birds
That nested above us
And dropped down their turds
I’d have to find out
What water to drink
The cave water sure wasn’t fresh
Like the sink
And if someone died
Would we eat up their corpse?
Would we bury them somewhere?
Or feel much remorse?
I thought of the time
When our flashlights would die
And we would be blind
Would all of us cry?
We’d live in a dark world
Of echoes and cold
Not able to watch
As our faces grew old
A life with no mirrors
A life of long beards
A life in the dark
It was all that I feared
But we simply kept crawling
And then we saw light
A hole at the tunnel
The end of the night
No one would be eating
The other one’s corpse
No one would be living
In sightless time warps
We simply jumped out
Of the cave, where we found
A pool that was crystal blue
Lukewarm and round
We splashed in the pool
There were no blind birds
We sometimes sang out
But no echoes were heard
And then we returned
To our everyday lives
Not wondering how
To kill birds and survive
And I do miss the cave
With its dark, drippy fright
But I guess in the end
I prefer to have light.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Ooze

There is a piece of ooze on the sidewalk
It could be the casing of some wondrous slug
Or a segment of jelly made from cow hoof.

It could be some snot from a child,
Or it could be alien ooze
Invisible antennas perked, listening.
Relaying your voice to its masters as you say: “Ick!”

And when your voice is decoded,
the masters will know you feel disgust at their form.
We cannot go there, they will say, to share our marvelous instrument, the Celestial Harmonica.
No, if we ooze aliens go to this earth, they will see us as mere hunks of snot.

Better, then, if the ooze is the casing of some wondrous slug
Or a segment of jelly made from cow hoof.

Friday, July 10, 2015

To Not Have Needs

Among the dead, I sat and read
The book aroused some grief

A digger dug a nice, neat grave
Less tidy were his teeth

A girl walked by in Catholic skirt
Put flowers on a tomb

Her grandma had gone on to dwell
In some post-mortem womb

The digger in the sun is brave
To do his morbid chore

A grave is brave to hold the dead
Not vomit up the gore

The skirted girl needs Grandma back
The digger needs new teeth

But I am needless in the shade
The book, the grave, the grief

Monday, July 6, 2015

Angels of Death

Some angels are dangerous, angels of death
They look like old rags and they smell like burnt meth
They’ll watch from above with their squinty, red eyes
They work for the devil, professional spies
They’ll leap down from their perch on a telephone pole
They will land on your chest and they’ll sniff out your soul
And if, in your soul, they smell shame, fear or doubt
They’ll stick in their straw and they’ll suck your soul out
So unless you’re scrubbed clean of such things, I’d advise
You watch out for old rags that have squinty, red eyes.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

A Love Poem

I want to make you out of clay
Your hair will be curly snippets of yarn
You’ll have raisins for eyes
Did you know you have raisin-black eyes?

I want to craft your tits
As two clay hills
I want you to sit in my fridge
So on days when my hands sweat,
I can hold cool clay.

I don’t want you to have free will
Because you might end up in someone else’s fridge
Someone who always has cold hands, even in summer,
And doesn’t want to hold you.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Bears

You and me, we once were bears
And bears we once-time were
We both had claws and pointy teeth
And thick, protective fur.
I tugged and pinched your fuzzy fur
And asked you to be mine
With rat bones, leaves and squirrel guts
I made a Valentine.
You said, “How sweet! A Valentine!”
It sounded like, “Rarr-rurrrr.”
And how I trembled when you tugged
And pinched my fuzzy fur.
We made sweet, bearish love in caves
And hunted fish in streams
We slept together, paws held tight
And met again in dreams.
And when the winter came we slept
The cold was sharp as pins
And when we woke, we were not bears
But Homo sapiens.
We went into the city then
And each obtained a job
You changed your name to Susan Beth
I changed my name to Bob.
We don't have caves for making love
Just mattress-on-the-floor
We don’t snatch fish from raging streams
Just buy it from the store.
And we don't tug or pinch too much
Because we don't have fur
But you and me, we once were bears
And bears we once-time were.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Jabberwocky Does Chores

‘Twas brillig and the Jabberwock
Had much to do around the house
Replacing lightbulbs, sweeping dust
And setting mice traps for the mouse.
And when he’d done those basic chores
No more did he the Missus fear
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And drank a large and frothy beer.
And as in uffish thought he stood
He scraped his claw upon his tooth
And then remembered: “Frabjous drat!
I’ve got to fix the leaky roof!”
So, Jabberwock, with eyes of flame
Went whiffling up to fix the roof
But ladder’s rungs went snicker-snack!
He fell with one galumphing OOF.
“Ooch, ow! Ow, ush! I’ve bruised my tush!”
The Jabberwock began to moan
And with his tail between his legs
He went galumphing, sadly, home.
“And hast thou fixed the gutters yet?”
Mrs. Jabberwock was quick to ask
He shook his head, and showed instead
His bruised and battered Jabber-ass.
‘Twas brillig and the Jabber’s wife
All beamish, called the Bandersnatch
Described in full her husband’s fall
And chortled something awful.

My Weirdest Tinder Date

Chasing after my most recent Tinder date
Shouting: “Hey, you left your sweater, baby! Wait!”
She runs faster; I speed up—is this a race?
Tap her shoulder and she turns; I see her face
What this?! A gumdrop nose?! An oven tan?!
She's transformed! She is the Gingerbread Man!
“You can’t catch me!” she cackles, and I gasp
She kicks me, takes the sweater in her grasp
Still in shock, I watch her run for two more blocks
Running after her are bankers, maids, a fox…
Pretty soon half of New York is on the chase
They're obsessed; they want to eat her cookie face
“You can’t catch me!” she exclaims, “It’s all in vain!”
Then the gray Manhattan sky begins to rain
She turns soggy and she stumbles; she is weak
Her cookie flesh is melting-- "Help!" she shrieks
The mob attacks her; fox and maids are crushed
The bankers stuff their mouths with bready mush
The world is sick with mindless greed, I fear.
I take the sweater as a souvenir.

Water

Water—when I climbed to the top of the tall tower, gasping
I looked everywhere for you, but oh, you sneak!
The only moistness was on the back of a slick toad
I grasped at it once and once again; it leapt from my hands like soap!
And so, Water, I ran down the staircase to the underground
Searching the crypt to see if I would find you there
And oh, you sneak! I found your dewdrops on the rattiest shrouds
And from my candlelight, you winked at me, so cheeky!
I would lick you from a toad, but from a shroud?
….
Yes, as it turns out.
But don’t let it go to your head.

Monday, May 25, 2015

Grasping

The human mind is not capable of
grasping the Universe
The human
mind is not grapable of casping
the Universe
The not-Universe human is crasping
the not-grapable mind
Grasping the mind is not
the capable Universe
The mind of the Universe is not
not casping the grapable
Mind of human not
not-human
Capable universe
Of not is not
Grasp. Grasp. Grasp. Grasp.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Caught

That is not a very good poem, said the fly to the spider
Referring to its web
No, I’m afraid you misunderstand, said the spider
It is not a poem, but a net of silk threads to entrap you.

Dangerous

You might think there’s nothing more dangerous than a dangerous, dangerous dinosaur riding a dangerous, dangerous dirt bike over a dangerous, dangerous desert full of dangerous, dangerous dungeons.
But the most dangerous is not to know your own mind.

The Peg-Legged Beggar

The peg-legged beggar near the bridge
Observes the stream go by
The sun is hot; he sees a hawk
And hears a field mouse cry.
He dips his non-peg-leg inside
The ever-rushing stream
The sun collects itself into
A burning noon-light beam.
He doesn’t feel refreshed
To feel the stream on non-peg skin
He switches; dips inside the stream
His worn and wooden limb.
At last, a rush of calm and cool!
His peg-leg cannot feel
But wood is wise, and has a knack
For sensing out the real.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Crazy Old Man

I am a typical-looking old man and I went to a public bathroom
There was an image of an old man there
“Are you a mirror?” I asked the image
“No, I’m another old man,” said the image
I was frightened, and ran off
Back to my home, which I know has some mirrors
I know I should be grateful that I’m not the only old man in the world
But I wish I could tell the difference better between Mirrors and Other Me’s.

Gastronomic Recidivism

One time, alone
I ate
A thing
I shouldn’t have.

It was
A thing
I shouldn’t eat
(I ate).

I wish that I
Could say
I never
Ate
That thing
Again.

But once
Is not
Enough
For eating
Things
You shouldn’t
Eat.

The Witch

Good riddance
Said the witch
She had just burned off the wart
That had once defined her sense of beauty and identity.

Mice Inside My Oven Mitt

There's mice inside my oven mitt
But take them out, I can't
'Cause when I try to dump them
I hear their morbid chant
"We're mice inside your oven mitt
And here's where we belong
If you evict us, all the world
Will crumble, rot and wrong.
The trees will melt, the dust will cry
The plants will wring and coil
The air will stench, the fur will shrink
The ponds will seethe and boil.
Black-putrid will be mothers milk
Choked dead the bluebirds' song
Sulfuric smoke, the once-pure air
The winter ten months long.
The earth will flood, then shrink and starve
From never-ending drought
So keep us in your oven mitt
And do not dump us out.”

Friday, May 15, 2015

Death to the Terrorist

We caught the terrorist!
and found that all his organs were made of glass.
He was sentenced to death,
and because I was that year’s Beauty Queen
I was also the Executioner.

Hair in curls, lipstick red
I took him to sea on a boat
and dumped him overboard.
“Drown, terrorist, drown!” I screamed
But before his glass lungs could fill up with water
he was crunched by the glass-eating mermaids.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

The Giantess Wolf

Look at the big tall giantess wolf
Who sits on her giantess chair
Her paws can be found with their claws on the ground 
While the clouds brush her ears and her hair
Giant wolf, giant wolf, can you tell me, my dear
Where you found such a long-legged chair?
Though I'm just a small boy, I as well would enjoy
Bridging earth with the clouds in the air.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Angels

We go running around with our angel wings on
And our wee naked butts in the air
“We are angels!” we yell, and we hoot and we hop
And the well-dressed aristocrats stare
And they whisper: “What hooligans!
Surely they know that an angel is modest and mild.
Real angels wear dresses and carry a harp
And their hair is well-combed and well-styled.”
“Poo that!” we reply, as we climb up the church
And throw melons and eggs from the top
“Gifts from heaven!” we cry, as we watch the goop land
On the fancy folks’ heads—squish squelch slop.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Surely I'm in Paradise

Surely I'm in paradise
Surely I am here 
For chimes and birdsong enter
In the seashell of each ear
For goats are grazing near at hand
And chickens peck through dirt
A snake a-wiggles, bugs a-crawl
The mountain stands inert
And all around, there's only green
Banana trees and plants
There's green until the moon devours 
My paper, pen and pants
Until I'm nude and empty
In the bugs-a-chirping night
Declaring, "I'm in paradise!"
'Til all fades out of sight.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Crazy in Love

We held hands and got ice cream, took turns taking licks
We held hands and watched buskers perform magic tricks
We held hands and we window-shopped painted guitars
We held hands and we lay on our backs counting stars
We held hands and each chewed off the other one’s thumb
That was dumb.

The Royal Steak

A princess stands still on a bed of pale lettuce
In her hands, she holds a dark, raw steak.
The steak drips red and stains the pale lettuce
And the hands of the princess start to shake.
She tries to keep hold of the steak, but it’s slipping
‘Cause her hands spasm wildly in the air
The dark, raw steak drops splat on the lettuce
And the princess in her trance can only stare.
“You have dropped the royal steak!” chides the King
“You’re a moron! Fifty lashes with a whip shall be your prize!”
With a thwack thwack thwack, the Lasher whips her back
And her buttocks and the flesh-twins of her thighs.
The princess stands still on the bed of pale lettuce
‘Til her blood runs down her backside to her feet
Then the King scoops up the bed of pale lettuce
And says to the princess: “Eat.”
The princess eats the blood-imbued lettuce
With her hands, which still haven’t ceased to shake.
“There, there,” says the Queen. “I know it’s not pleasant.
But it’s only fair. You dropped the royal steak.”

Sunday, March 29, 2015

The Beautiful Wolves

The beautiful wolves
In their tuxes and gowns
Have secret soirees
On the outskirts of town
Walking on their hind legs
With their snouts in the air
The females look classy
The men, debonair
They enter a building
The outside is plain
But the inside boasts gold chandeliers
And champagne
They sip drinks and they schmooze
Whisper gossip, make quips
Invent scandals, spread rumors
And lie between sips
They are there to be viewed
And each wolf is a viewer
A waiter serves fresh, bloody meat
On a skewer
A magician breathes fire
And is met with applause
Dainty flutters of praise
From their manicured paws
Then Arabian she-wolves
Perform for the crowd
Tinkling coins on their skirts
And their snouts in silk shrouds
And the beautiful wolves
Say, “How fetching!” “Divine!”
As their pour down their gullets
Their glassfuls of wine
And by four in the morning
Their eyes are all glazed
Their cacophonous chatter
Occurs in a haze
When it’s time to depart
They say, “It’s been a treat.”
And wrapped up in their furs,
They hail cabs from the street.
Oh, you fine, sumptuous wolves
Have you had a nice night?
Then return to your dens, you drunk fools
And sleep tight.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Toy Boat

Toy boat toy boat 
What keeps the boat afloat afloat?
Perhaps it is the water beneath
Which holds the boat in watery teeth
Perhaps it is the air above
Which grips the boat with an oxygen glove
Perhaps it's held by invisible string
Puppeteered by a bird with a silver wing
When the teeth unlatch and the air lets go
And the bird disappears, then I think I know
Yes I think I know and I know I think
That when that occurs, that the boat will sink.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Transitions

In the tub
Eating a hundred plastic dinosaurs
Swallowing tiny stegosaurus spikes
Feeling Jurassic.

On the roof
Planting a hundred yellow daffodils
Watching the sun watch me plant daffodils
Feeling paranoid about the possible personhood of the sun.

In the bed
Scratching my ears with a fork
Scratching the fork with my ears
Tickling between the four prongs
The fork laughs…

In my dreams
Hearing the laughter of the fork
Digesting the dinosaurs
Feeling paranoid about the possible personhood of the moon…

Because, are they on our side, the celestial bodies?

It hurts
I can’t digest the dinosaurs
I wake up with sun in one eye and moon in the other
I can’t remember how many daffodils
Or whether I watered them
Or whether they were seeds or bulbs
Or whether I grew from or was planted in this world.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Termites

One child has termites in his belly.
They are grateful for the food.
They pass it among themselves, termite mouth to termite mouth.
Each termite plays a part in digestion.
When the sun sets, you can hear them say “Goodnight, Mom.”
They have no other word to refer to the child.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

A Man Who Needs a Friend

There is a little man who lives in a little house and hates whenever he sees something blue.

If you offer him a stick of gum and it is green no problem.

If you offer him a stick of gum and it is blue he will pull out fistfuls of his own hair and shove them madly into the small spaces surrounding his eyeballs.

If you show him a poem you wrote in black ink no problem.

If you show him a poem you wrote in blue ink he will bellow and whine and screech and howl and defecate in graveyards.

Please be his friend.

He so desperately needs you to show him things that aren’t blue...

Sunday, March 15, 2015

To Sit Still Long Enough...

At night when you can sit still
Long enough to love the cockroaches
Long enough to forgive them their germs, their exoskeletons
Long enough to invite them warmly into this world
Long enough to know that they are you, really
Then the smallest angel will alight on your shoulder
And that will be bliss.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

When you arrive in Medellín

When you arrive in Medellín
The air is dirtier
The women have fake breasts
An ad the size of New York says ‘Sex Underwear’
The subway intercom tells you to smile
The sliced mangos come with salt
The old men are cute and wear their belts tight
To keep their pants from sliding down
Their flat, flat asses.