The Poetry of Objects
This silver M. Hohner harmonica,
Is tuned to the major key of C.
Though it is not the Cleveland Orchestra,
It's chintzy, but it's good enough for me.
It weighs about the same as a large egg,
And its about three point five inches long.
On each side it has two golden pegs.
With a guitar it can play a blues song.
Sandwiched between, there's a black monolith,
Like in Kubrik's great film, "2001".
It's a little less than an inch in width,
It's a hot dog between two metal buns.
The instrument was made in Germany,
And is the " Marine Band Special 20".
Let's concentrate on the circular coin.
It has 119 ridges
On its rough edge where its front and back join.
One side has a scene where a bridge is,
And the other has Washington's bust.
George has a pony tail and an arched nose,
To his side it says " In god we trust."
He looks sexy and naked in the pose.
A quarter is worth just 25 cents,
You'll need at least 8 at the laundromat.
You'll need about 3,000 to pay your rent.
And a car? I can't begin to count that.
A quarter can also reflect light well.
Like a mirror or a golden bronze bell.
I am looking at a brand new "Rubik's Cube."
It has six colored rotating sides.
Each face looks like nine small t.v. tubes.
And three layers spin like fair spider rides:
Up, down, across and back; left right and middle.
Colors: red, white, blue, orange, yellow, green;
Have me thinking my mind is too little
To correctly arrange these video screens.
I ponder who was this guy named "Rubik"?
And how he made blocks that weigh a tennis ball? How he made fortunes out of cheap plastic,
And how I had one when I was small.
Solving the Rubik's cube is a tough task,
You'll probably need help. You'll have to ask.
A Bowl of M&M's
I see my soul in an M&M bowl.
(a thousand colored tacks packed to the max)
I'm digging a rainbow of chocolate gold;
The whole universe is here, nothing lacks.
Most are well grounded, but a few are tipped.
I tap the top of the black and red pot,
To see if any fall, (a few are chipped)
But none do. Three days ago these were bought,
But the Japanese crock I had before.
Orange, brown, yellow, green, red and deep-blue;
I was excited, I began to pour.
Chocolate chiclets, there were more than a few.
The blue are like rubber wrestling mats.
The brown, well, they look just like rabbit scats.
Is it Fuchsia I see in this flower?
Or is it more iris, purple or pink?
I'm sure I could spend more than ten hours
Getting lost in thought about what I think.
There is a touch of white at its center,
With lines running outwards in spinal streaks.
Wafered and awash, the dull eye enters;
Mounted from a cataract point, I peek.
At the core of the core, yellow stars shoot.
I think the scientists call them "stamen".
The watercolors dilate and dilute.
What do I know? I am just a layman.
So yellow is yellow and white is white;
What we name is the same as the sight, right?
A Glass Bowl
The lamp brushes light onto the glass bowl
With a very visible arm and brush.
Oily light smears and drips around its hole.
Like a shutter speed too slow for the rush,
The white paint is refracted into motion.
The orb is inscribed on its lower tier
with a circular swirling emotion.
A droplet touches the lip like a tear.
Spirals streak stars in a small galaxy,
And the canvas is warped into a sphere.
Art with a spiritual ecstasy,
Is nothing less than what we have here.
Did the lamp have any formal training?
In having created such a painting?
Little blue Plymouth Cuda matchbox car
With interior white and leather seats,
You take me away to summers afar,
And my scorched scalding bare skin touching heat;
To belt buckles, benches and windows closed;
To temps of 210 degrees.
My wood rackets would warp and bow,
Vinyl records would melt like cheddar cheese.
Your speckled 1970's color
Is like the banana seat on a bike
That was ridden around by my brother;
It too had its rear-end hot rodded, hiked.
Cars in those days smelled of gas and exhaust.
Oil and fumes were consumed at quite a cost.
Deck of Cards
A red deck of cards with spiral designs,
Bicycle spokes and nude winged riders,
Astrological gears and heartshaped signs,
Birds in "v" formation fly like gliders.
Shifted off- center, the deck's a slinky,
Or a swept landform in Arizona,
Or accordion pumped by thumb and pinky
By some Spanish guy in Barcelona.
A layered archeological dig.
An ancient Chinese game of chance and luck.
The pack is new, I don't believe it's rigged.
It is waiting for a deal to be struck.
I used to play "war" with my grandfather.
We'd become bored, then we'd play another.
Wooden Chess Piece
The butter ringed chess piece of brownish green,
Carved like it was on a turning clay wheel,
The most powerful mover called the Queen
That makes the pawns, knights and bishops all kneel,
Is standing on top of a red table.
She is shaped like the lamp posed next to her.
It too is wound and coiled in bronze cable.
(I like playing chess much more than checkers.)
She's about as tall as a pack of gum
with a bulbous knob on top of her head,
And she is about as wide as my thumb.
She is omnipotent just like I said.
I guy beat me in two moves, long ago,
Think It was in Japan, or maybe Seoul.
A Looking Glass
A bronzed baby holds up a looking glass;
It has a thick set of hair and wings.
(I feel like a pervert seeing its ass,
So I will concentrate on other things.)
The child is standing on top of a box,
That reminds me of a chocolate bar.
The angel is naked, not wearing socks,
And looks like it was sculpted by Renoir.
The mirror has a 5 inch radius;
is circumscribed by a twiggy relief,
With branches that sprout into various
patterns, designs- the occasional leaf.
I try not to look at my reflection.
This helps protect me against rejection.
Black handled and small magnifying glass,
Circular hub-capped, with metallic rim,
Conveyer belt factory made in mass,
Iv'e viewed letters through you, Iv'e scanned- Iv'e skimmed.
You pop my eye wide, searching for a clue.
Fingerprints of light floating off the lens.
Dots go bipolar falling into you.
Inspector Clusoe, a Mercedes Benz.
When I was 8 years old, I fried hot ants.
They popped and flared on our back patio.
They'd scurry and break the trail, look askance,
As I focused, perfecting the zero.
Are these the signs of a young psychopath?
If they are, help me see another path.
Words tumble toss across my surfaced mind,
Like glass blocks thrown by a master spirit.
Its invisible hand I cannot find,
The photon escapes when I near it.
But forget all that! Strike the keys! Type to print!
The fly is on the square and circled cup!
I must have been nice cause its peppermint!
Gifts spread leaning on edge, tip then flip up!
Rock and rolled dice jiggle- they are possessed.
A sheet of white paper to the floor - falls-
Info bits change states, skip, then slow to rest...
Till four skulls sit with black-spotted eyeballs.
A five- four- two- a one- that was the dance
In a twelve hundred and ninety sixed chance.
Ray Ban Sunglasses
Ray Ban sunglasses with a brownish tint,
That were found hanging on a court net chord,
With water spots- dust and fingerprints,
(That female New Zealand singer named "Lorde")
Your filter is a yellowish-green lens.
You remind me of Eval Kaneval.
Or of a Land of the Lost alien,
Like a gray slay stack or something evil.
Your ear-hooks sit Indian cross-legged.
You rock like a baby when upside down.
Your fitted for the fairly large-headed.
Your frame is a leopard skin spotted brown.
Next to "Ray Ban" there is a printed "P".
Don't know what the meaning is meant to be.
A crystal brown and sugared frozen clock.
A chunk of cake or crusty baklava.
A million year old chiseled stone or rock,
Some molten fudge transitioned from lava.
Some matter caught and slowed in hard time.
A miniature from a landscaped garden,
A neanderthal's gripped - sling- shotted crime.
A make-believe candied frosted mountain.
Glacial crumbs scraped by tectonic plates-
The very beginning of creation.
Train tracked, both of us destined by our fates,
Light in an extremely low vibration.
It feels good to the thumb and searching touch.
Rough-edged, it stimulates my soul so much.
Orange starfish ghost, gliding with batted wings,
Sea saturated and tie dye colored,
On manta ray wind you fly -haunt and sing.
Your skin is tattooed, tanned and leathered;
Your psyche is falling -soon to be gone.
Heat has evaporated all your life,
Down - down upon the browning lawn.
A kite strung to a family and wife,
The wind is blowing- You look like a leaf-
When I twist your stem your hair catches fire-
A twirling flame in spirited motif.
A wild whirling dervish - a funeral pyre.
Your back has lines of a strong spinal chord.
The golden ratio in perfect accord.
Here's a woman in a pretty blue dress,
Her arms are resting on her strong broad hips.
She's an hour glass- a porcelain goddess
Who can hold flowers with her mouth and lips.
She is delicate and easy to break
So you must handle her with extra care.
Put her low and your allowed a mistake;
But if she's on a pedestal, beware.
She is a woman who demands respect,
Her parent took much time to bring her up.
Like a clay sculptor or an architect,
Her mom turned her on a wheel like a cup.
We're both lonely and have become wearied,
So we have decided to get married.
Bubble Gum Blue Marker
Magic bubble gum blue scented marker
I can rubber gum glue the sky with you
And be reminded of Sandy Parker
At the old Mississippi River school.
Your a towering God- a skyscraper
And I love the sound when I sketch- you squeak.
When I scratch and scribble on white paper
You chirp and twitter as I wonder- seek.
And so I describe the describer
And am drawing upon the drawer
Like a hand inscribed by M.C. Escher
I curl in - creating the creator.
These marks are turning in upon themselves-
Inward remembering- they inner delve.
Candle Flame and Holder
Asian dragon legs kick a fiery stance
Wooden cherry oaken - smoked and marooned-
Holding a purple candled wicked dance;
Flames turn, flare and burn in and out of tune.
Match heads lay around like fallen lumber.
The square wax looks like a castle or rook
And smells of the Northern Woods and its timber;
Light pops, pulls, flashes - a bobber and hook.
The five licorice legs of a lizard
Seem to fuel the blue miniature blaze.
They shine on edge like rich snaking wizards;
When one really looks, there’s much to amaze.
I am that wick - threads of red coal aflame;
Cooking and smoking out the word and name.
The oboe is swimming across the lake
While under her an orchestra plays.
Behind her echo ripples of a wake
That trail off mouthing in a windy bay.
The oboe then begins to flap its wings
To relieve itself of loud built up stress.
Just as she takes flight, the violin strings
Are struck and plucked and given to express
that " tomorrow will be another day-
it is all in the life of an oboe."
Later, she waddles with a breast that's gray,
Poses curiously for her photo.
The oboe is a proud - beautiful bird;
So much so that I can't find the right word.
The book is a block that holds hard letters,
Its pages form a rectangular box.
A circle is stamped on its tan cover,
“MP”. The face has darts, dashes, marks, knocks,
Scars, scratches and stains and smudges and smears.
The cloth is tearing at the spines front edge.
If I felt, this book would bring me to tears.
Leafing through half -way, a book mark is wedged.
On the side of the book- the sheets pile up
And striate with slight ridges or grooves.
This volume was made for a coffee cup.
Just judging by its jacket- I am moved.
I wish I had the mental strength to write,
Something great, like what is on its inside.
A telescope is an extension of the hopeful eye;
A rocket held up to the eye socket.
A missile to the moon and a great spy.
Some so small, you put them in your pocket.
It is an exponential projection
Reaching destinations faster than light.
A huge erection - made for detection
Of crystalized celestial satellites.
The spyglass! A metaphorical ship,
On a single pupil hinge it does steer.
Giant taste buds of the visual lip-
A black hole sucking the universe near.
I can blast to stars and zippety zoom
As I sit on chairs in my little room.
A Tube of Oil Blue Paint
Or how about a tube of blue oil paint?
At the first take what a boring object.
But maybe I should just better acquaint;
There must be things I don’t see, I neglect.
The volume weighs heavy in my hand…
I could think on how much sky I could spread-
Or aqua green sea shoring to some land.
Or how it turns purple if mixed with red.
It’s skin’s a bit pitter- pattered, hodge - podged
Like a Jackson Pollack modern painting;
Different colors smudge, smear, drip, and dodge,
To be honest it’s quite stimulating.
When I unscrew the thumb gripping cap,
I see buttery - fat, wet and blue crap.
A Safety Pin
A clothes pin, paper clip, a bobby pin...
Its wire wound around with a needled end.
(Im looking online and rubbing my chin).
What in the world are these things called again?
Oh .. a safety pin. I found its photo.
One had better be careful not to prick
Ones finger tip, gentle hand or big toe.
-A tack or a tick on a seat to stick -
Some blood could bubble into a pin drop
Onto the soft skins corpuscle or pore.
You will have to put cotton on to stop
It. A swab of alcohol or maybe more.
Iv’e used one to keep my pants from falling;
I had lost some weight and they were sprawling.
A corkscrew is a mechanical man,
His arms lay straight and rigid to his sides.
He has enormous scarecrow, tin -man hands,
And his wheeling shoulders are gear- toothed drives.
His spinal chord turns like spiral clockwork;
His head is a bottle- capped alien,
All together he’s like some stiff desk clerk.
His neck is like Alice in Wonderlands.
He is floating on a fishing cork,
Like he’s afraid of sharks in the water.
If I’m objective, he looks like a dork
Frantically tilting on a bobber.
Or a dummy who’s been drinking early;
Or a sunken sailor getting surly.
Russian Tea Pot
Life is a nightmare and then you are dead;
( And who could argue?) But in the meantime,
I am looking at an elephant head.
Its color’s shiny like a silver dime.
People tell me its a Russian tea pot;
And I’ll take them for their knowledgable word.
The brew, I guess, comes out from its trunk - hot
Into a cup, then condiments are stirred.
The elephant’s ear lobes look like they’re pierced.
Not knowing better, I’d think it was Thai.
A kettle whistle looking something fierce
Turns out to be a knob on his head. Guys
I knew from Moscow University,
Had a lot of Vodka and one of these.
A Cup of Coffee
Bubbles form round the muddied waters rim;
They froth and pop like effervescent soap.
The white pottery’s smooth and molded brim
hugs the stewed brews - anti- depressant dope.
The polished handle looks like Snoopy’s nose,
the cups opening's an egg-shaped oval.
Im in the mood for stimulating prose
Rocked by beans browned - those burnt colored opals.
A mind- altering intellectual
I become; I could use a cigarette.
Tonics - pills are also effectual;
Restoratives, but in the wider set.
Swirling steam spins in mini-winded straights;
A whirling gaseous entropic state.
The salt shaker sits bright on winters day.
Snow reflects in the white colored crystals.
The shaded values descend to dark gray.
Im sitting in a cafe with windows.
The glass container is an octagon
With a perforated and swollen head.
(A metallic chef bakers hat screwed on).
You could toss it over some fine french bread.
For all I know there’s cocaine in the flask
Because I personally never salt.
Some people put the top on- as to mask
That its not on tight. Then some sod, no fault
of his, pours it all on his dish and plate.
Im sure there’s more you can do with sulfate.
A Bar of Soap
Gathering lather, some chubby cream green
Lubricating my plump body with oil;
I scrub and brush my hairy arm pits clean,
And use thickeners on blots that are soiled.
I mix lithiums with soluble lime,
(for the hard spots I use metallic acid);
And hygiene thinners for slippery slime
On my blubbery belly that’s flaccid.
I glide gelatins on my femur bone,
And rub solvents on my pimples and boils,
But palm splash the side I sit on the throne.
(with toiling tussle- and toilet turmoil).
And with turpentine and bubbled molecules,
I skim grime getting on my bald jewels.
My love is trailing off into a grove
On a hazy day in August summer.
Down tracks of time and through shaded alcoves;
Of course I can hear a distant drummer.
How many miles have I travelled since then?
Why do I feel Iv’e learned nothing at all?
If only I could turn back the time when
I was young, innocent…. before the fall.
Somewhere down that line I became bitter,
hardened by practical necessities.
I forgot about the magic glitter
that floats aloft softly on a faint breeze.
What is life if you have no one to love?
But a drudgery? A push and a shove?
Any old broken piece of weathered wood,
Yellowed and airy , a hollowed wind pipe.
The cold rains and icy snows its withstood
give it its light charcoal black and marked stripes.
When I twist it in my hand like a piston
In a shaft, gritty fibers smoke my mind.
A fire forms fueled from the forced friction,
Kindling and fanning a rich flame for rhyme.
Its bark sparks and spikes my frontal cortex.
Galvanized with explosive incentive,
But suddenly I dip! “ Oedipus Rex.”
The thought crosses with a self -invective.
A guilty conscience smothers my hot verve;
Dampened, smoldering, how could I the nerve?
Im the golden blue- eyed boy of tennis;
I move well in my tight t- shirt and shorts.
From Columbus, Ohio to Memphis.
I dance championed wins on hard and clay courts.
My chest broadens with pride and arrogance;
Those were the days I was a superstar.
Before I tripped into drugged decadence,
I travelled the United States by car.
The cup’s a viking’s helmet upside down.
The winged handles look like a “V for victory,
Or an “A” for pompous “ass” turned around.
Tween the two I waver unsteadily.
Supporting myself so I’m not a drag;
But not to the point I begin to brag.
Th Half-Way House on the Hill
Merciless, the clouds move -mercurial
Over the red half - way house on the hill.
Stalking the steel blue sky- homicidal,
Their cold - manic, on a moody thrill kill.
The house stands like the falling titanic,
With a gothic double stacked brick chimney.
Lights on in two rooms but not the attic,
Like a sick play put on by Walt Disney.
An Oak and Maple tree foreground the scene,
How many have come and gone down the lawn?
A man’s on the walk, he’s over eighteen;
The house must look and think, “ my how they spawn”.
Im sorry to be alarming and grim;
But Times I view the world - a horror film.
The pen brushes on ten syllabic strokes
Tracing the contours of some plant still life;
In blood red dye, the silk sumac is soaked,
The word is the color and it is rife.
White Yarrow’s a popping combination.
A sentence is an extended paint line.
Reedy stork grass dances like an Egyptian
Near draping backdrop curtains - cherry wine.
The sumac branch is fuzzy like velvet,
An adolescent deers budding antlers,
I haven’t really described it all yet,
I haven’t reached acceptable standards.
Maybe I have no imagination;
Painting what I see, with no distortion.
A pumpkin is a Childs warm memory
Mushrooming magical minds to wonder.
Its marshmallow orange and rubbery
And it grows from a great ground swell under.
It wears a green witches hat on its top
That bursts out like a bratwurst cannon ball,
or candle wick on its head - its squash crop
Celebrated in the wild winds of fall.
Harpies brew it in their stew to ward off
demons. Ghosts unearth them in late midnight.
Pigs slurp them up in muddied sloppy troughs,
Frosts love to hug them in morning daylight.
Middle aged men buy them at grocery stores,
And write about them for ancient folklore.
A Russian Tin
Rubles inside a Russian canister,
Tumble like gold inside a barreled keg.
A red and licorice black, thick, lacquer
Ornament the half -oriental egg.
Rotundly ribboned stripes, swirl
Around its bulging and hooped mid section;
Feathered and fanning foliage unfurls-
Encircling in rhythmic directions.
Green, gold and sprouting silver petals-
Flow around like flowers blown by the wind.
The paint is so smooth it feels like metal.
A Soviet treasure troved jingling tin.
Who’s responsible? This fabulous thing?
Their names are forever lost and missing.
A Tennis Court
The game of life is a tough tennis match;
If you start to win, turn the screws double.
Otherwise your opponent might catch
An airy hopeful bubble, then?…..trouble.
Winning is awful, but not like losing.
Your adversary of course is “the other”.
And they want to give you a blue bruising,
Especially if it is your brother.
What was your salvation just seconds yore,
Now, if acted again, is your demise.
Context is everything. What is more
The drop shot is no longer a surprise.
When all else fails, all the strategy,
Get the ball in the court once more than he.
Mother’s reclined with her hands under head,
Or are they plugging her hurt but deaf ears?
She’s copper alloy on a marble bed.
Disappearing into the leaves and years.
The clay is bronzed and browned, cast in red earth.
Her hips form the folds of a hollowed tomb;
Her paperclip pelvis is giving birth
In the molded empty space that’s her womb.
A shadowed ghost - moth in coiled chrysalis,
My mothers death has made me infantile.
She’s barely half -way out of existence.
My memory stretches back for miles
To when I was a child on her shoulder;
I’ll be with her again, when I’m older.
Windows seen through windows eases my pain;
A mirror inches backwards in my head.
Black paper’s placed behind a crystal pane,
Some extra space through which the light is led.
Where distanced and adjacent angles meet ,
They give one the sense that there’s more volume-
An aperture, or puncture in the sheet,
Broadens perspective - objectifies room.
Grief’s refracted in a mirage of space,
Diluted between the mind’s two glass eyes,
And the plane that stands rear inside your face-
The image and place where the real truth lies.
This poem is meant to extend your scope;
To air your care, so you can better cope.
Objects in the Back of the Head
The Double Slit Experiment
A womans the two slit experiment.
Is she a wave or just a particle?
A man spies to see what is evident.
But she’s illogical, nonsensical.
When the scientist forces the issue,
She escapes from his cage of concepts.
He longs to touch a piece of her tissue.
But She will not be groped by his forceps.
The slut is split into saintly spectrums.
Heavens condensed into a single slut.
Repeat the test this time in a vacuum,
With one of the observation slits shut.
The lab work’s beautifully uncertain,
between cellular hell and pure heaven.
A black licorice wick standing in air-
Parts of us from the nineteenth century.
Illuminating gardens - public squares.
Keeping robbers at bay in big cities.
Candle lit, oil, gas, coal and electric-
Baltimore, Paris and of course London.
A place to hang haughty, noble skeptics
During the naughty French Revolution.
Down murky winding streets- try not to trip.
The gory days of Edgar Allen Poe-
That last passer-bye might be Jack the Rip.
Fossil -fueled soldiers smoking in a row.
Culture and Civilizations lamp posts;
Lighting the way for naive souls and ghosts.
What’s a thing? Take for example a bridge.
Its made of grey blocks - concrete and wall stone
With an arched negative -spaced ridge.
So what? Maybe it looks like an old phone?
Is there anything more than description?
A scattering branch frames a cold scene.
The water’s liquid metal. There’s vision,
Hearing, smell, touch and taste - a bush is green.
Paul Revere’s late! Gallops the overpass!
Maybe this is where fiction wins the day.
People want to be lied to with pizzazz-
They just want to be taken far away.
But Ive put faith in realities fire;
Shunning the imaginative liar.
A classical nylon dusty guitar,
Light and shadows shine magic through the strings.
Like everyone, I want to be a star,
With a song- a psalm, a lieder to sing.
The guts, the sinews have been plucked and drawn;
The skin has been pulled tight over the drum.
Oh ye primitive man- let’s play till dawn,
Even if we sound outdated and dumb.
The will vibrates up the vine - vertebra.
The bone shadows on the wall climb like fire-
The spine counts out meaningless algebra,
While we dramatize, play, the timeless Lyre.
Smoke rises onwards through stars and through life-
Dancing to the mystical pipe and fife.
La gravure sur bois orange d'un homme japonais,
Il tient un bâton d'allumette dans sa main.
Il est vieux et ressemble à un sorcier
Maintenant, il rit comme un petit enfant.
Il a une très longue et droite barbe,
Il porte une pomme de terre sur la tête,
Il porte un long costume drapé, ou garb
On dirait qu'il vient juste de faire la fête.
Sa tête est très grosse comme il est omniscient,
Comme pour dire ne vous inquiétez pas, tout n'est qu'un jeu.
Peut-être qu'il s'appelle “Yamamoto” ou “Jean”,
Mais je parie que ses yeux ne sont pas bruns mais bleus.
Il est à la hauteur de la chaussure d'un homme;
Le mot "aum" je pense qu'il marmonne.
L'homme Japonais en Bois
Cathedrale Notre-Dame de Paris
I saw Notre Dame cathedral today,
I think that she has never looked better.
“You’ve lost reality.” I hear you say,
“Oh how can you say that after the fire!?”
Her double choir was glowing in the gold sun-
Her nave and facade were just breath taking!
Her spire and statues- almost fixed and done.
Her rib-cage: vaulted, buttressed, and flying.
Time, place, and things can be mixed and jumbled-
I never pay heed to reality;
Even if I’ve tripped on it and stumbled.
I’m an optimist! Like Don Quixote.
Tomorrow I’ll go to Musee d’Orsay;
Or perhaps the Louvre, it’s hard to say…
Numbers, Letters, and Paint
Painting with words or painting with colors,
One never really will get at “ the thing”.
“1… 2… 3…” ...nor will painting with numbers.
Even in the word “ string”, something's missing.
On a gigantic “invisible force”,
The whole wide universe seems to be based.
Upon which everything runs its course-
Numbers and paint swirl- but just surface chase;
Even “gravity”… what the hell is it?
Other than hard to defy in mornings?
It pulls at my face and it drops my shit
And my oatmeal bowl receives its pourings.
Whatever it is… I’ve thought it unfair;
We all disappear into “it” …nowhere.
A Lunch Box
Mom wanted me to be like superman;
I remember when she bought me this box.
Of Christopher Reeves, she was a huge fan;
Dad’s homosexual, a paradox.
Dad wanted me to be a tennis star;
And so he was a total psychotic.
We travelled the states together by car,
And so it was borderline erotic.
I wasn’t what she wanted me to be;
She wanted me polite with etiquette;
Dad didn’t much give a fuck about me;
So long as I held a tennis racquet.
Not really sure what it is Iv’e become;
I don’t think I satisfied either one.
A Fire Hydrant
A blood vessel bursts in Chicago’s streets;
A red pepper cooks in an oily pan.
A place to cool off in the summer heat.
“Oh, this is a job for the superman.”
A pump used to discourage rioting;
One more 19th century invention.
Pressure cannons that are disquieting-
Others having the best of intentions.
A thing that saves lives or other objects;
Hook up a hose to flush a sewer drain.
“An apartment’s on fire in the projects, But we’ve blown a valve in the water main.”
A place for iron to corrode to ash;
A spot for your wobbly knee-cap to smash.
The Cherry and Silver Spoon
Ive been told it’s “trash, a sign of our age.”
The sculpture, “ The cherry and silver spoon.”
What do I know? It is so hard to gauge.
I admit it is easy to lampoon.
But I’m partial to maraschino’s. My
Grandfather put them in our 7up.
I find them much more….more… why should I lie?
More meaningful to me than Christs last cup
And Da'vinci’s last supper. White wild- rice,
Campbells soup, tupperware are the new gods;
and the massive exchange of merchandise.
No more the musculature of a bod.
What is good? What is bad? What’s beautiful?
Generations on …..still disputable.
A Tennis Ball
A rubber yellow-green felt tennis ball;
A group of them makes your room smell like farts,
Or a muddy salimander’s swamp. Walls
Will bounce them back to you. Buy them at marts.
They have loops, seams, kind of like baseballs do.
(This may all seem pointless, a waste of time.
Least I’m not causing a hullabaloo,
Or out committing gross and heinous crimes.)
Its fabric’s like peach fuzz - a young man’s face.
It’s the size used in billiards or pool.
In clubs you find them all over the place.
In suburbs they’re often soaked with dog drool.
I'm sure I have seen 500 thousand;
Singles is like prison on two islands.
Post Card from London
Im in London today… bought a cheap flight.
I am in a slightly bad part of town.
So I hope everything will be alright.
All of the leaves have turned to rusty brown.
Big Ben’s clock-light was out, it was pitch dark.
But I love the lampposts around the Thames.
The Tower Bridge- the towns defining mark.
There’s unrest in some Muslim parts, it stems
From religious differences they say.
I also saw the St Paul’s Cathedral,
Buckingham Palace, early in the day.
Reading up on London Tower …lethal.
P.s. I will write again this weekend.
For tomorrow I will be in Scotland.
Sculpted Old Man
The sculpted old man, still wet with black clay;
His rain coat is dripping perhaps from rain.
He looks somber, resigned- he’s had his day;
No longer fights as hard against the pain.
He leans to his right but he’s a leftist.
(At least that is what my best guess is.) Why
that’s no concern though today. What’s left is
A step… a shuffle… a timid reply.
The leaves are golden and wild like corn flakes;
Another nobody- I’ve overlooked.
Perhaps he has the Old Parkinson shakes.
(I snicker) … but violently mistook
these frumpy suckers to be without souls;
Stampeding them in pursuit of my goals.
I guess the charts say I won’t reproduce.
Maybe to mine own self I was too true.
I never found the treasure or the use.
Maybe the waves were too rough and too soon.
I hear a sailor, “ you had it easy!
I would have loved to have had what you had!”
That just makes me feel all the more queasy.
Maybe I loved too much, it hurt so bad;
And that is how I have become so cold.
I didn’t start the harbor evil- mad.
When a young boy, before my soul was sold;
To help and serve others, I was so glad.
In oceans of evolving sea warfare;
Foundering ships must abandon their care.
A Day in Scotland
Oh what a day today in Old Scotland!
The castles walls were sprouting like mushrooms!
We got to wear kilts up in the Highlands.
We saw one fortress host a bride and groom.
The citadels got lost in perspective;
Grew… just like they were jack in the bean stalks.
So charming! Like they lost their objectives.
We were led by tour guides who gave us talks;
Walked down to the shore and foaming sea side.
We laughed…I got a geyser in my face.
Regrettably, I lost film in the tide;
They rolled out from the side of my suit case.
Luckily I still have a few shots saved;
Here’s a couple, a couple of my faves.
A Falcon on a Fence
I saw a falcon sitting on a fence
While walking in the middle of Paris.
She peered keen but friendly, but also tense.
As I neared she fluffed her feathers- an heiress
To her space. I was taken by her size.
I felt slightly threatened and in danger.
A foot larger, I’d protect my face - eyes.
To her I was just another stranger
Walking down the pass. As I got closer,
It was confirmed… she flew over my head.
Had I been twenty years or more older,
Its not inconceivable I’d be dead.
The wild kingdom’s power is beautiful;
Often so long as one’s still strong...youthful.
What is my muse? For I used to have one;
Reduced to looking at various things.
Truth? I’m afraid of love; so I have none.
Ive strived to be a self- sufficient King;
Subjecting no one to my leaking strife.
Yet in the pressure to contain my pain,
I spilled some more leaking strife. Others lives
We can’t help but flood, it all seems so vain.
The cure’s the disease- the disease? The cure;
Back - forth this has been going on so long.
Who’s you? Who’s me? - its so hard to endure.
My bucket has holes and I’m not as strong.
The lines are awash fading into blue;
Crossed- out, smudgded, smeared and lost, tween who is who.
I think I’ll write for the rest of my years,
For that is who I really am. I lose
The real me in those other endeavors;
I get angry… start to gamble and booze.
Even if no one ever hears or sees,
I’ll always keep my keys and papers safe.
I’ll do what’s mostly convenient for me;
Dare I say, if I become a poor waif.
Someday maybe I’ll write a good story,
Not sure what about. I’ve an idea…
“An old English man drives a green lorry
Down into the bowels of India”.
When he gets there he becomes a Hindu;
Renounces all, then becomes a guru.
I didn’t let the wild rabid dog pass…
I got down with it in leaves and wrestled.
Now I’ll spend the rest of my days an ass;
Foaming at the eyes and mouth, unsettled.
I kind of knew it was a big mistake.
As I twisted round to gawking viewers,
The deranged dingo jawed me to ground steak.
When he was done, the crowd closed …I got skewered.
Now I hang around town with my eyes crossed;
With a side of drool hanging off my lip.
People ask me directions, but I’m lost...
I point to vague clouds with a finger tip.
Now my life’s a total non -sequitur;
A Tragic Theatre of the Absurd.
Paranoia- the Disease is the Cure.
People I know would love to see me mad,
Quietly removed from society.
They’d pretend to be all worried and sad;
But inside relieved of anxiety.
I stand in the way of their ambitions,
Unwilling to play a part in their plays.
Just being, I block their plans… grand missions.
Lives live on lives- you see it everyday.
It’s late in the game, but I eat salads.
They say fish is also good for the brains.
I’ve even heard singing songs or ballads
Will diminish toxic stresses and strains.
I have one goal, and that’s to keep my mind;
And stay awake to duplicitous designs.
Anger forms from affronts to self-image;
The fear of depressing diminishment.
A response to external "sacrilege";
A “me” taking a holy precedent.
Occassionaly there's a Holocaust
That justifies, demands righteous outrage.
Bot more than not, most things get lost and tossed
Into petty - trivial mind games. Pages
Turn- folks learn there’s no stock in getting mad;
It’s all about becoming an adult.
But by that time they’re far too old and sad;
And to add by then too weak to assault.
I’ve driven “anger”, I didn’t get far.
In fact, we went in reverse in that car.
A Mansion in Cornwall, England
We arrived at the mansion in Cornwall;
It must have been a half -past ten.
They say Jane Austen stayed here in the Fall;
It would have been great to be alive then.
We drove a carriage like the 1800’s;
I felt like I was going back in time.
Saw desks where Wordsworth wrote about druids,
And stone walls where English Wild Ivy climbs.
For I felt I could stay here forever;
Our breakfast windows framed the countryside.
But alas! I have endless endeavors;
For a long vacation, I can’t reside.
Life’s a journey, but we can never stay;
Always being called to be on our way.
Some years ago, I declared my “genius”.
I had been reading too much Oscar Wilde;
And a friend of mine said I was. Venus
Was hot in those days, all things were defiled.
I was a loaded camel in wastelands,
Bowing to the lord dragon of “Thou Shalt”.
Nothing grew on those grains of fiery sand;
For renewed loads, demands, I knelt and knelt.
Till I saw other undulates break free,
Galloping the mirage and oasis.
They turned their heads with contempt for me,
Their speed, new views, made me look complacent.
Suddenly conscious of my slavery;
I threw off my load in proud vagary.
A Summer Hat
Like the proud owner of Curious George,
I will write about a man’s wicker hat.
I get out my pen and anvil, and forge
Ahead. Fortunately I’ve never sat
On this one. On its inside it has two tags;
Its perforated in yellowish white.
The “v” shaped warp and woof has a slight snag.
Airy, it blows off when I fly my kite.
A wafer with texture like a triscuit,
It tapers off in front with a slight bent;
A bristled whisk, worn while watching cricket;
Two thick lawn chairs gave it a skewed shape dent.
I’m a fuddy dud, all I need are slacks;
I'm losing my hearing, hope its just wax.
Shaving Cream, Aftershave, and Razor
A whisker’s encrusted on a rust can,
and the after shave smells like scotch whiskey.
The instruments are the sign of a grown man,
For 5 o’clock shadows when jaws are grizzly.
An aerosol blasts out some frosted foam
Like a tire being pumped by pressured air;
Fluffy clouds billow out into white domes,
Melted marshmallow whip- cream. Facial hair
Cut clean and peppered with cool liquor cheeks,
Metal blades run grist on wired sand- paper.
Memories of my grade school teacher who reeked
Of thick cologne and barbasol vapor.
One of several pleasures in being man;
That, and drawing up - building master plans.
Music and the Piano
A xylophone of bones- or black capped teeth;
Sonic chances layed out on a keyboard.
Modular moods on a vertebra of keys,
From “Piano Man” to “Thou art my lord”.
Schopenhauers “will” translated direct,
“Grasps mankind, but mankind cannot grasp”.
Harpsichord, Grand, or modern electric,
When Beethoven played people cried and gasped.
Anxiety art vibrating down scales:
Sonatas, dances and Bach’s baroque fugues.
Rap- country -Jazz- the blind played it like braille,
From Guam -Texas - Chile - back to Dubuque.
I got a late start on learning to read;
The teacher got pissed and told me to leave.
During my life I was madly oppressed;
Men tried to mold me into something else.
They changed my name- face, and even my dress;
But I couldn’t conform to something false.
I was extremely upset at the first;
“Oh how dare they define and confine me!”
I felt I was under some kind of curse;
I became bitter, ugly and angry.
But they were the strainers - I was the strained,
They were the sifters and I was the sift,
Particles -gold separated from grain,
For years this went on until what was left...
“Purified by pain, I would still be read;
And I would live, long after I am dead.”
A Roll of Tape
Here is a roll of silver duct tape,
It probably has a hundred uses.
Some work it to tie- muzzle and then rape;
Others to connect coils of house fuses.
Usually just a temporary fix,
Has veins under its skin where tape got tucked.
The adhesive’s some kind of backing mix;
Sticky enough to get a house mouse stuck.
Made from paper cloth, plastic film - tacky,
Like a latex gum. Keeping car bumpers up-
Been applied to things that are simply wacky;
Like splints securing the legs of hurt pups.
Everything’s broken and falling apart;
If your life is too, they’re down at the mart.
When I faced evil, I cowered and bowed;
He was always to be the stronger man.
The proof was how I shied away -been cowed;
Twas obvious that good was lesser than.
In a perfect world it should be reversed.
I shouldn’t have had to flex a muscle.
Just his thought of darkness would be his curse;
Good vs Evil shouldn’t be a struggle.
But to hold my ground I became the foe,
And used his warped weapons of destruction.
And after the war was done, I didn’t know,
When it was time for a reduction.
I kept blasting guns in sharp popping flames,
At innocent names like Paul, Sarah…James.
A Pine Cone
Fibonacci sequence is in pine cones,
And possibly as well a fractal structure.
Winter mint- chew, menthol blue- and ice blown;
Needles surround them like acupuncture.
Their sticky sap’s a frosted coated gum,
A crystalloid and wax turpentine.
A plop of white snow on top like a plum,
Grandpa had a line of colored shoe shines.
He would use the guck to buff and spruce up
His loafers- in tints of browns and blacks.
The dyes came in tobacco dip tins -pucks.
White ankles ‘neath static electric slacks.
Twas a tube vacuum next to the polish,
In grandpas house basement. (now demolished.)
Animals skins wrapped around the soft feet,
The same thing 40,000 years ago.
To cushion souls from hard roads and harsh streets;
A jump and a skip and a stones throw.
Broken - penciled in like an artist’s sketch;
Man must make what nature forgot to give.
- A step, a stride, a trample and a fetch -
The homeless need them up north just to live.
Stamped hides, tanned, needle worked and thread leathered,
The soles are blistered like salt on raw meat.
There’s a drag on the toe - the treads are weathered-
Some are waterproofed for rain- snow and sleet.
You get lopsided marshmallow loafers;
When you scurry round town like a gopher.
A Poem is a Hi-way in the Head
If I see a word coming up ahead,
I drive into its outline with headlights.
If it matches ones rhyming in my head,
And even if it doesn’t feel quite right.
Sometimes the sign’s a dark Jungian thing;
Many would suggest I guide around it.
Like, “ BEWARE OF PEDESTRIANS CROSSING”
Or, “HUNDRED FEET AHEAD THE HIGHWAY SPLITS”.
Gambling - “ better to address, than suppress”,
I accelerate into curving lines;
While shaded shapes trail off into ditches past -
Ghost-shadows are chased away from behind,
You might think me a wild madman and mean;
But keep your eye on the projecting beam.
They tell me I am just a “cute” poet,
Never showed interests as a “dramatist”.
( they take jabs, I pretend not to know it),
Nor even in being a novelist.
Desire’s the pain, the source we all suffer;
So I will play the role they want me to be.
But I’ll fire a pit in space-times fiber-
My core- that transcends all categories.
Here in this black hole I’ve fabricated,
The fabric folds into a carpet burn.
My whole mass, my body concentrated,
A warp- a tugging of events up- turned.
In pressure -pulled rugs twixt chaos and form;
Perhaps a new Universe will be born.
Cherry chapstick is occasionally
(if the scent is just right- out of the blue)
A source of a very fond memory.
But not always. Its weird. Like some shampoos,
The smell needs to catch me off guard.
I know its from my childhood, the details
Though, I can’t place. As I’m older its hard
To remember these things… memories fail.
But its never a bad recollection
involving cherry chapstick. Just nothing
happens. But in right channels, connections;
the right strains or whiffs- a certain something
Can be triggered. Up til about aged 6,
Life was wild magic - cherries, kites and tricks.
Twas in London again two days ago;
I didnt realize how close it is.
These mansions were in the district “Hounslow”,
(don’t worry- I won’t make you take a quiz).
Someday maybe I will move from Paris
And get a small apartment somewhere there.
Near Apple Studios, or that ferris
Wheel, or maybe even Trafalgar Square.
Walked on cobblestone down old Baker Street,
The black lamps stamped diminishing patterns -
Saw where Sherlock and Watson would meet
Under those very same coal lit lanterns.
As you see, I hate being in my skin;
I’d prefer anywhere- even Berlin.
Tom was fidgety, he picked up a glass;
Diane was upstairs with the little kids.
He looked out the window at the green grass;
he anxiously put his keys up amid
A shelf nailed into the wall. He put down
His brief case near the sofa. Yelled upstairs,
“ Hey Diane- what are these ribbons around
The floor?” And she called back, “ those are Jane Eyres -
Katy is portraying her in a play!”
Tom was strange, his hand quivered. He replied,
“Ok… so I will not throw them away”.
But the truth is that Diane had just lied.
Diane had been seeing a handsome man,
He’d been there before with flowers... name’s “Stan”.
I wake up feeling guilty everyday,
For not defending self, or far too much.
Being born, is the debt I have to pay,
This life- game demands a delicate touch.
Hanging on a dam by my fingernails,
There are eleven holes- I’ve only ten.
A thousand feet below are wet rags - pales,
I plug one thumb- the other sprouts again.
I’d have the mind to just fall off the cliff-
Let the massive river blow me away;
Bursting chunks of concrete, breaking my skiff;
My bod, washed to smithereens in white spray.
Life is a blind willing or a clinging urge;
That keeps me filling holes, amidst the surge.
A Tape Measure
Tape measures measure an abstract concept;
Like “time”, the number “5”, or “large dollars”.
In this case - "inches", "meters", and "footsteps".
Its dragon tongue runs like a blade runner-
Giving the illusion of open space.
It’s a metal box to be clipped on belts,
At building sites there all over the place.
Sometimes they’re where irons are being smelt.
When building a landscape, there nice to grab.
There’s almost like a file or a small vent-
“Just push down on the black and silver tab.”
They’re cooler when they have a couple dents.
I’ve used them to assess the length of string -
What kind you may ask? I am not saying.
A Nail Clipper
Skippers needed them I am sure at sea;
especially if gone more than a month.
Along with their lemons to prevent scurvy.
They probably bathed with some soap and sponge.
Has a lever top - a Big Dipper cup,
That pivots - balances on a fulcrum;
Its heel digs down but its edge pulls up
On a pin- (thats where the power comes from).
Then two chomp choppers- are buried beneath;
They look like a vaulting board - gymnasts horse.
Their necks press down into sharp biting teeth;
And you don’t even need to use much force.
Be careful not to cut a fingertip;
Otherwise you might just hear yourself yip.
Planes, trains - mailboxes in the USA
Have not changed in 50 or more so years.
The four -legged cans are ones yesterday.
Mr. Mcfeely and that Cliff in Cheers,
Played mailmen in some television shows.
Often called: post, pillar, mail, or drop box,
Depending which side the ocean you go-
The eagle’s a cool sign… image of flocks
of seagulls flying over the blue sea.
Bullet- holes bolt shut metallic seems - rims.
Love the color blue.... I’m in the Navy.
Incoming- out- watch the letters swim!
The first one? Paris 1653.
I also loved them on Sesame Street.
A Mailbox No. 2
Blue /white with a red line near the eagle.
Jump out of car- there’s one on the corner.
A sign of the government- its regal.
This one’s stapled to slab of block mortar.
From the side it’s oval, the front a square.
I like the swinging handled door on top.
A key hole at its belly- or near there.
A snuff box - pepper tin…a letter drop.
Four feet tall- a rounding or gymnasts horse
of The United States Postal Service.
Often found in any public concourse-
Like our old coronet car’s blue surface.
This one has some scrapes and scratches in front;
Could go with a red tractor in a stunt.
The Cattle and the Crocs
To bully no one and not be bullied,
The sickness of the world has made me sick.
The goal, “to defend myself - unsullied!”,
ironically made an offensive prick.
I bullied mom to give me manly space-
For a wide berth from the Oedipal curse,
Twas doing it for the whole human race,
But mom suffered alone for the worse.
The wildebeest is driven by dry lands,
Corralled by need to a watering hole,
Led by blind thirst, (an invisible hand),
To find crocodiles devouring him whole.
Lives live on lives and I have done my share;
Iv’e been both the crocodile and the mare.
A Paint Brush
A false eyelash on a foot long wood -stick;
The handle is stained in blue and green oil.
The headdress of African shaman chicks,
While she dances on alluvial soil.
A mohawk- massive spike - a feathered fan,
Good for the textured impressions of shrubs.
From the left to right- a peacock’s tail that’s panned-
Or the hair style of young men in night clubs.
A blush damp pamper - a dabble of paint.
A powder print flavoring - fan felt dash.
The finest of featherings ever so faint,
Did I mention my aunties false eye-lash?
Twist it in your hand and it might brushfire;
Or pepper a face for The Sixteen choir.
People want authenticity
In literature, not phony voices;
So I kill them, but not literally.
I do not know what the other choice is.
In reading others works, do but a sec-
Otherwise they may leave a false timbre-
A foreign tone - contaminating speck.
When I write, I am a mass-murderer;
And I would expect you to do the same.
Read this thing here, but then run- clear your head;
Kill all voices that are not in your name.
Here, take this gun... do what I have just said.
Shoot me as I smoke this lit cigarette;
For I might or might not be in your debt.
A Cherry Chair
The Cherry Chair- its seat’s a pumped cough drop;
Its back rest is a cork- pinned butterfly.
A place for your middle-aged ass to plop,
As you both let out a deflating sigh.
The frame reminds me of a tricycle,
Or our red wheel- barrow in the garage.
And that orange tent that Chris and Michael
Had up North… fake vampire bat…a barrage
Of memories and sensations. Perry
Mason comes to mind for some weird reason,
Maybe it’s because it has a very
50’s style…a guy’s smoking…treason
He’s in a diner - damsel’s in distress;
Perry reads next morning he’s “dead”in the press.
Here’s a red octagonal lollipop
On top of about an 8 foot high post.
It’s telling drivers to slow to a “stop”,
But many don’t bother and they just coast
Through. The army green rod’s a javelin,
Spear -headed into the November turf.
Some drive to the store, not travelin
Far, others on way to the L.A. surf.
I’ve come up with: “stop”, “tops”, “spot”, “opts”, “post”, “pots”.
There are two pellets pelted in metal;
I can’t find more, can you find some more dots?
The two bolts have bent - dented the frontal
Part of the frame. The sign’s like a wafer
Or a frisbee, sucker, or life saver.
A Stop Sign
Early dawn’s a fawn - a baby pink birth,
High noon’s the full chest - a young mans prime,
Dusk, the musty mildew - a dusty dearth;
You can see why humanity hates time.
So ‘stead of the arc, I’ll stick to the thing;
The sun’s a bursting starburst -blinding eye,
White light with yellow spiked rays and rings,
Lemons tasted and then squirted awry.
Uninterrupted till earth turns her back,
Few dare to look it, with a naked peep;
Put your hand up with four fingers just cracked,
Squint your lashes together - screen the seep.
When Bill is dying, he will have no son;
But the one out the window - looked upon.
A Pine Tree in Fibonacci Form
And the sentences
Are high branches that are growing,
Broadening down in greater fibonacci sequences
and going in reverse from top to bottom in this new pattern that I am testing.
Above, are a source,
A Recipe - measuring cup.
Thirteen is next in this natural syllabic course
And I’ve made up a rhyme scheme that seems reasonable so there might be use in questing.
Every grouping downwards gains an extra branch that is a little bit longer than the grouping before, (in terms of how many beats it gets).
Down here is the trunk
I ‘ve chosen be sunk
Into the ground…shrunk
where the water's drunk.
I am a man from Minneapolis,
I am a prisoner of circumstance.
My last name is not Panagopoulos,
Nor am I from Berlin, England, or France.
When viewing things I see particulars,
And never ever the Universal.
No one ever gave me binoculars
So I could see the forest boreal.
You and I are different as dif can be.
You, from Canada, Egypt, and Japan,
We share no patterns, similarities;
nor commonalities I imagine.
I do as I am told, I jot it down;
If men say “city”, I’ll never say “town”.
A Spruce Tree (read from bottom up)
Thought I won't
Is my spirit “5”
This right now?
Wheres feeling? Are we mechanic?
If all is numbered.
It is time. (a pre- programmed, encoded hieroglyph.)
It mathematically knew
Branch again as if
Starts a new
With greater and greater confidence and strength as it finds new space to expand its base.
You can see this lime pea green seedling as it uncoils
Finding its place or destiny.
Is rising from soil
A spruce tree
The Golden Ratio ( read from bottom to top)
The roar of the shore,
This also looks like a feather
Yet another floor.
The skull of a diamond rattler, or grass, or corn crop.
upon which we are being led.
rising to the top
A spear head
(We don’t sound Narcissistic. Were’ not sorry. These break throughs are alI we have.)
Who just stole fire from Gods to give to humanity.
We feel like cool Prometheus
or a vanity.
And we can see ourselves passing druids and nymphs in our stately progression. This feels good, this extending horizon. This feels so divine.
Into holes. And as we climb up these stairs of liquid, the fluid flows through like reeds -vines
Or water falling down, a mountain stream, it’s draining
buoyant -effervescent -bubbly.
fountains or some springs,
we can see
One wonders how it all got started. What caused the number “1” to arise? And then after that why do the numbers feed off of each other? Building in progression off of one another? But I like the informalities
Sea shells, sunflowers, pine cones, hurricanes, ants, Elephants, DNA molecules, black holes, whirlpools and many mountains that we like climbing.
As are all of the proportions of our body; Earth land masses, spiral galaxies,
Are made from the same pattern as this tree Im typing,
To find something real. Our two hands
Created out of a desperate need
And so it expands.
From a seed,
When out in groups I encountered evil,
men talked about "pussy" and "ho bitches".
There was lots of drinking and upheaval;
And so I stayed home and saved my riches.
But then I read articles on loners,
And how a lot of these gunmen were such;
So I thought I had made a slight boner,
and next day found a girlfriend for some touch.
But then we got fighting, and I pulled her hair,
She lied and cheated on me just for fun;
I threw her across the room in her chair.
Can you believe? The police came with guns?
Everywhere I go, evil stalks behind;
Inside and out, the seeing and the blind.
Evil is Water
Evil’s water…. finds ways to trickle in;
Drops to low levels, sculpting even stone.
I boil it by playing the violin,
(In this leaking cave where I am alone),
But it condenses again, wetting walls.
It dribbles down icicle stalactites;
“Oh to be rid of it once and for all!”
it builds canes- recycling stalagmites;
They shoot up then shrink… then boom to the brink!
(I play fast to evaporate it out!)
But sometimes I get so tired I just sink;
And listen to faucet drips from a spout.
“Resist not evil”, that is where I failed;
And why I sit here with wet mops and pails.