JULY 16TH, DR NO
By a bag-like structure
on an island near Fuji.
I'm smoking from my
right-angle pipe joint
and driving a stale-smelling costumer to a
gym where he tells me he
plans to slam
un-returnable tennis serves
like a venom dispenser.
He looks like a TV comedian or a
swamp reptile or
one of the original
thirteen pharaohs of ordinary language.
I give him his tab, he becomes my nemesis.
He tells me I'm worse than
a black-hearted sea rise
and a gladiator's last venue.
I tell him he's bashful with deodorant.
We chatter-box and swap barn stories.
We grind teeth like melodious pieces
or historical periods.
Remove the wrinkles of unfamiliarity.
We make amends and
exchange post-sneeze words,
"Oh, sure, take every bit for granted."
Published by Free State Review and featured in the magazines forward. Presented at the Projectionist Speaker Series. Collage done by Christopher Jenkins.
CROSSWORD POEM: CLICKITY CLACK
Clickity-Trip Stumble On
makes furious, old afternoon rests
on a tranquil 2k lbs of cattle food.
Mornings are eggs with
small crown corned beef bison,
the hubbub at British Taverns and
a side of... this is getting old.
In the distance, a gallop.
A leather shoe-string
blows in the air.
Clothing and cavalry sword
fly to Sioux City.
A heroic tale of a knighted
woman unlocking a landlord's
collection of bookish-fellows.
A messy fountain,
zero baby birds and
eight-armed sea creatures
wear away the shortest months
into nights of
fragrant wood
put in order
stiffly formal
by a barking marine sergeant.
There is a no-fly-zone over
half the world and
early this morning
I heard a cyclist fly
out of control and
strike a tree.
My next-door neighbor complains,
"I couldn't get home for two hours"
Unpublished poem. Presented at the Projectionist Speaker Series. Collage done by Christopher Jenkins.
EATING DINNER AND DRINKING TINCTURES
I opened my refrigerator and
there on the second shelf sat an
unopened pumpkin pie
an orange eye glaring back.
I did what any American
would do
I swallowed it whole.
Just as I want to eat pie
all across America.
Fork-fulls of pie crust between my
tires and lime-lit chariots in my eyes.
I want to find a small town out there
in the scattered souls of the west
where in diners every morning
they’d give me pie with my coffee
and in the summers women with my lemonade.
A place where everyone knows each other—or of each other
and the main street barber moves like Fred Astaire.
Does such a place exist out there
in the labyrinth of roads and ropes
and highway cones?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Maybe I’m destined to be stuck here,
where the sky is zebra skin a mile long
and city dregs have big brown eyes like
the bottom of coffee pots.
Poem previously published by Grub Street