star & navel gazing

it's been so long
since I've looked up
into the skies at night.

what's with that?

i spend more time
watching ants than stars.
i'm a terrible ancient.
i guess i don't believe
there's anything
to learn up there.

and late night time
is just for sleeping now,
or i'm exhausted
in the morning.

but if i can sit an hour
staring at a ten word
classical chinese poem

surely i could
gaze into the heavens
and see something
of interest.

They're only dangerous if submitted
they're wounded or rabid
or backed into a corner—
then the vanity gives way
to what-the-fuck ferocity!
Don't try to mount them,
pet them, feed them, run.
The only safe thing to do
is to look them in the eye
and say, Go on now, take
the gloves off and write it.


Shelling peanuts submitted
                            for Lavonne

Shelling peanuts &
looking for a pearl.

That was my line,
it was my only line,
it was the truth,
and it never worked.

Sure, I got blushes.
Hell, I got laid—
but I always wound up
right back here

shelling peanuts &
looking for that pearl

until the night you
answered me,

If I was you, Mister,
I'd start looking
for peanuts.


Self-Hating Poem

let's bag the capital letters
andthespacesbetweentheletters
a d v r o h r e t r l o e h r
 n e e y t e l t e a t g t e
   everyotherletteraltogether

let's measure our new freedom
not by inch or millimeter but
in syncopated sixteenth notes
of eyelashes dancing on brick
and sell it for a nickel like
lemonade to people passing by

then let's send the nickel to
an enslaved girl of the sudan
and ask her if she wants more


there are no words
there is no song[/i]
          --kitty donohoe

the voices
singing harmony

the little catches
in the tempo

and the pipes
the pipes

are words
and songs


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when I was finally deaf
I broke down and went
to the doctor.
                    he pulled
out everything that ever
got stuck inside my ear.

a little pink eraser from
a pencil.
            a baby praying
mantis now fossilized in
amber colored ear wax.

a word dad misplaced
there when I was four.

Ahr's stinking pile
of pig manure stinks up
the whole street
but to see his
wonderful tulips you
have to climb the fence.


The alphabet no more ends
at Z than Christian scripture
ends with Divine's prophecy.
There are second, third and
fourth chains of letters that
spell out sounds too potent
for our brains to bear, words
that will slice you ear to ear
and shrieks to silence sirens.

The tongues of gods, angels
and demons are not sharper
than our own; but alphabets
they know allow them biting
thoughts let loose in syntax
we half-hear as grass blades
muttering beneath a rabbit's
tred, the whistling of comets
or the odd farts of the dead.


The News Today

After stripping Europe's banks,
the Vikings of Iceland overran
London, Warsaw and Moscow
like a great black cloud of ash
from Eyjafjallajokul's stomach.

In other news today, American
hospitals were ordered to relax
rules that deny visitation rights
to same-sex partners. Love is
like love, the president claimed.


fetti's archimedes

i don't give a shit about math
but what's cool is archimedes
with his big blond beard
and handsome forehead lines

his stubby fingers feeling for pi
from a small globe of the earth
as he stares into a framed mirror
at his chipped wooden desk

at first it looks like sunglasses
perched on his head but closer
inspection reveals it to be
some kind of branch with leaves

he is a man you would like
to have for a father or a friend
kindly if impecunious
but hardly any kind of a genius




Riddle (a tree)

You make a mockery of seasons:
in autumn a mind-dazzling blonde,
but now it's spring, you're brown.
You're a stubborn color contrarian.
No other tree has your shade skin,
gray on the outside, carrot within.


These Long Lines

For no apparent reason your tongue arrived at dread in me when we passed surprises
and it's hard for me to watch an octopus turn quickly through anxiety and then reach out.
Moments pass and at this age I need you but my worry eases love back into the sea
that is so similar on television when it lifts its body out like swells or doesn't listen inside.

Watch an octopus turn love back into the sea. No reason is apparent when it lifts me in.
My worry eases and at this age I reach out when moments pass and then it's so hard for me
to need you but your tongue swells quickly on television like at anxiety or dread.
We arrived and passed through that. Its body doesn't listen for similar inside out surprises.

At this age my worry passed quickly through anxiety and arrived at dread that doesn't pass.
It lifts in moments when love surprises me and then eases back into the sea like swells.
I need you but it's hard for me to reach out or listen when your tongue is so similar.
On television we watch an octopus turn its body inside out and for no apparent reason.

holly rolled her $100 chevy pickup
up the driveway & promised to sell it
for $5 to Gabe as soon as he got
his license & waved to the 2 badasses
low-riding up the sidewalk & they
waved back & said Hey you goin'
downtown? & she said No I'm goin'
to see my good friend Tom here but
you 2 stay out of trouble ok & Gabe
disappeared off to where he was goin' &
she rolled up her sleeves & rolled into
the house & rolled her ass in a chair &
started rolling out tales about her kids &
& her dogs & & & & & the next thing
you know it's 2:30 & she got to roll


The Gardener's Tale

I finally just asked the damn tree
what kind it was, where it came from
and what its intentions were there
in the middle of my precious garden.
And do you know what it answered?
None of your fricking business.

I said, I'll show you what my business is.
Do you see this mini bow-saw here?
Its teeth are dying to drink your sap!
But the upstart didn't even flinch.
I put one hand around its inch of trunk
and touched the saw an inch below.

Don't, spoke up one of the calico asters.
That was the last straw.
Who tends a garden so its plants
can stick their green thumbs in his eye?
I pulled the aster right out of the earth,
reset my hand about the junk tree's girth.

The chance, says my statistician daughter,
of any one hickory nut hitting my head
is approximately one in a hundred; the chance
of twenty pelting me at once, 100²⁰.
Tom, she said, if I were you, I'd go right
out and beg forgiveness of that flower.

Let me explain something: I'm a male.
When you trail by 30 in the 4th quarter
you don't beg your opponent's pardon.
Maybe you should—but you don't.
You go right back out and try to kick ass.
You go down swinging, if you must.

The next day was cold and pouring rain
but I had hot vengeance on my brain.
As soon as I had finished up my All-Bran
I went screaming outside like a banshee
waving the bow-saw, a sickle and shears,
but the sight there reduced me to tears.

The little tree was gone, a pathetic little
hole filled with water where it had grown,
and a dozen calico asters mown
and wilted beside it on the ground.
That must be my daughter, I thought
while the hickory nuts rained down.


Alphaphobic

Zero, one, two, three,
four, six, seven, eight...
not a single “a” shows
up until one thousand.


A Clatter of Shovels

   In first light,
   a clatter of shovels
   on sidewalks pierced
   the white wall of silence -
   while she slept. - Marion Alice Poirier, “A Killing Frost”

a clatter of shovels
wakes me
a clattering of shovels
on rocks

and I think It's me
for whom the bell tolls
bell of shovels
clattering on rocks

then the clattering
of rocks on wood
somebody's thick fists
on the door

I think, Oh death,
but then I think,
Oh no, that's nonsense,
those are rocks

thudding down with
dirt on the lid
of the coffin, and I've
left death behind

and am awake now
thoughts rewired
and free again, an
exhilarating racket


here I am laying the groundwork

here I am laying the groundwork
for my life beyond death

there are, the renowned guru says,
exercises for the imagination

that will get the spirit ready
able and willing to find its way

out of the confines of old flesh
and up into the empyrean

he says, focus closely on your hands
and your knees and the tip

of your nose and try to melt them
into disappearance

and the bed and the walls of the room
and the house and the forest

and the day you succeed
will be the birth of independence

which, if exercised and honored,
will one day open like a silent lotus


Series of Fortunate Events

The Tiloollans monitor Earth
carefully. It's late 1010 A.D.
Their explorers are covering
their tracks and preparing to
go home. Avicenna promises
to share as much knowledge
as he can and gets the aliens
to promise to visit again in a
thousand years. He tries to
explain that he will be gone
then and they say something
along the lines of Nonsense.

One of the Tibetan boys the
monks interview in search
of their lama surprises them
by answering their questions
in Classical Isfahani Persian.
Though he babbles nonsense
it's interesting nonsense. His
mother takes a slip of paper
from one of the monks and
gives her son a goodbye kiss.
No sooner have they set out
in secret toward Lhasa than

the sky is lit up by a comet.
Signs and portents, someone
mumbles in a California haze.
There is a freak, unnoticed
moment when a combination
of snack runs, bathroom runs,
doorbells ringing, chattering
birds and charging horseflies
results in a full second when
no one has their eyes on CBS
and no one sees what miracles
occur.

you think of the grand canyon
as grand looking or grandly steep
but it is three hundred miles long, ten miles
wide on average, thousands of square miles
of sand, rock, air, falls and river

almost two billion years ago
when the floor of the canyon was sea level
over it galloped our ancestors
astride the ancestors of the handsome
white-striped merychippus

and as the canyon walls gave birth
to themselves foot by foot
we respected them and we still do
we are yuman people of blue-green pools
and we dwell on the level of the river

and if the canyon even rises to the sky
we will continue right here where we are
beneath the eyes of sentry milk vetch
the roaring waters prickly poppies
and faint yellow canyon spurge

devoting ourselves to accompanying
the bleeding tiger beetles who have
stubbornly walked with us during a history
nearly as long as legends of flat shadow
in the fleeting instant before sunset


fresh air
is not a metaphor
just cracking
the window
changes everything
calls and sings
brings life inside

watching two
rhinoceros hump
on an internet clip
makes you
wonder about
nature's
sick mind

but it's a drop
in the bucket
compared to sweet
fresh air
and birds and
rustling trees
and cicada cries


Do I like my new doctor?

My new doctor stuck out
her hand and introduced
herself as Dr. Schneider.
It seemed foolish to say
I'm Mr. Riordan, so I said
Nice to meet you. Anne.

My new doctor smiled
approvingly because I
hadn't gained an ounce,
then knocked my height
down half an inch
and said I'm now obese.

My new doctor showered
me with slips of paper to
go get a stress test, rash
ointment, tetanus shot
and colonoscopy I said
I wasn't interested in.

My new doctor is younger
than my old doctor, who,
before he died, would tell
me stories about grandkids
and tell me not to worry
about my weird skin spots.

She asked why I don't get
blood work. I said I won't
make a new appointment
at a lab. She fixed a stern
gaze on me, took out the
gear, and pulled the blood.

I do like my new doctor.


if you are reading this, you are

overly concerned about
what other people think of you
when maybe you should be
asking who this writer thinks he is
where cute ends and rude begins
and why you are still reading this


The Four Mothers

Nana was a tough little gnome
who gave everyone a nervous stomach
and then a plateful of bad food
with foreseeable results.

Her daughter Kitty drank iced beer
and tapped her ashes in her palm
as if heaven was right there
in her overstuffed living room.

Grandma Darleen recanted
when we were seventeen and told us
that we maybe weren't
quite as bad as she had thought.

Mom—well, Mom is Mom.
She has her good points and her bad
but when she pulls her cowboy boots on
she's one hell of a shit-kicker.


Leaf Monkey submitted

Here I am.
You are my only predator,
so go ahead, prey away.
This little floppy orange
ragamuffin?
This tiny, loose-jointed,
big-eyed teddy bear?
Don't worry.
Not much meat on him,
but maybe make a stock.
Take the fur
for a genital ornament.
Or let him go,
the monkey eagles will
take care of him.

It's me you want.
My meat.
You see me as demonic,
child-snatcher,
big black eyes ringed
in orange,
too hairy, all black
except big orange lips,
guilty holes for eyes and
clutching an infant
who looks infinitely
more human,
even wistful.
I don't look nice;
he does.

So aim and shoot.
I'm alien to you,
I'm thirteen pounds
of decent meat,
and people say
I stuff myself with
valuable plantation leaf.
Maybe I am mean.
Maybe I would rip
you limb from limb
and eat you too
if the shoes were
on the other feet.
What else is there to say?
Here I am.

we can't tell the wind
to keep it down
we can't tell the birds
to keep it down
so what makes us
think we can tell dogs
or our own kids
to keep it down
except we can punish
them if they don't

the man who punished
the wind
is licking his wounds
the man who punished
the birds
is grieving in the dell
and the man
who punishes dogs
and his own kids
is gnawing bloodroot


Public Enemy No. 1: South Park

   “We warn Matt and Trey that they will probably wind up like Theo van Gogh
   for airing this show. This is not a threat, but a warning of the reality of what
   will likely happen to them.” —Abu Talhah Al-Amrikee, Revolution Muslim

Matt Stone and Trey Parker are writing. Three assassins are lurking ouside. One wears an
I♂TomCruise t-shirt, one an I♥Ayatollah taqiyah, one a WWJD2JonStewart? belt buckle.
Huddled there in the azaleas, they are uncomfortably close, and keep sneaking suspicious
glances at each other while they wait for a clean shot at the two blasphemous archliberals.

Matt and Trey's bodyguard is none other than Kevin Costner mimicking a cord of firewood.
But he is having trouble with his pacemaker. It transmits up to the minute information on
his heart function through the wireless receiver in his left ear, and the device in his right ear
monitors the local police band. The pacemaker is transmitting static and Kevin is distracted
by the fear that he is having what his star-struck doctor insists on calling “a cardiac event.”

The soundproof South Park writers' room is swept for bugs daily to deter TV espionage
but the buzz around the Starbucks kiosk in the cafeteria is that they are working on a new
series of episodes exploring the scope of Obama's crypto-Islamic sex games with Michelle.
Kevin is painfully aware that any of the three assassins might be undercover Secret Service.
Maybe they put his pacemaker into a tizzy or maybe Christine is using the hair dryer again.

About equidistant from Kevin, the assassins, and the cornerstone of the South Park building,
the First Amendment hangs from a majestic oak tree, ingeniously camouflaged as a piñata.
Below it on the cold grass lie a baseball bat, crow bar, taser stick, and length of rubber pipe.
It's very cold. Everybody is starting to shiver. One of the assassins pulls a thermos from the
webbing of his gun bag, shrugs, and passes it to the second, who passes it on to the third.


River Clean-Up

A small pink bicycle
with a snapped chain,
one third of a 10 ball,
a muffler and tailpipe,
a Speedo, a tennis hat,
a rusted rake head,
a huge steel wrench
maybe for fireplugs,
an animal skeleton,
cinderblocks, bricks,
an archipelago of welts
from stinging nettle.


Letter to Mma Ramotswe

Dear Mma Ramotswe, we traditionally built
people don't all like to drink red bush tea,
but we agree about tea generally.
We do not all beam with pride
about the goodness of our nation,
but we agree in general about goodness.
We do not actually have much
in common at all, Mma,
but I do feel enough like your brother
to ask you to do me a favor.

There is man here who breeds hundreds of
greyhounds to chase down coyotes,
who then savagely rip each other up.
He proclaims that if greyhounds didn't hunt
“you would be denying what
they were bred to do.” It has something
to do with the Good Lord, he says. I would
like you to speak with him and tell
him what your father would have said
if he was asked to speak to such a man.

Would you do that?
It is fair of you to ask why I do not speak
to this man myself. Why must I ask
the help of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective?
Mma, I do not know what to say to this man.
My own father would not have said
anything to him. He would have said to me
something like, “Mind your own business.”
Would your father have said that too?
You see? I did not think so.

If your father had told you to mind
your own business you would not be
who you are today, Mma Ramotswe,
and if you were not who you are,
I would not be asking you for this favor.
Your father owned many beautiful cattle
all of whom he protected from leopards, lions,
painted dogs, brown hyenas and cheetahs.
How did he accomplish this without
sending his own hounds out to slaughter?

I apologize that my letter is going on so long.
I do not know how to end it.
I think I can only end it if you will promise
to talk to this man. His name is John Hardzog
and he lives in Elgin, Oklahoma here in America.
His wife is Charlette. His 3-year-old grandson is
Canyon. He is 65. That is all I know about him.
Tell him that I read about him in the newspaper.
Maybe you could suggest, Mma, that if he stops
breeding greyhounds to hunt coyotes, he could
stop worrying about what they were bred to do.


No Joke

My brother quipped, apropos
of resignations over the pedophile
scandal in the Catholic Church,
that bishops were dropping like flies.
At a family reunion last month,
he advised my teenage kids to say
“And you too!” when the relatives
gushed at how old they had gotten.

They say economists are people who
don't have the personality to be
accountants, but he's a very funny guy.
When it was time tonight for him to go,
he got all the kids to help him search
for the beloved Sea Isle cotton scarf
his wife had given him before she died.
For once, he couldn't think of a joke.

Things that can't walk:

rabbits
sparrows
kangaroos

Things that can't walk
without head bopping:

pigeons
chickens
old hipsters


The Next Lilacs

Thank God
his lilacs
are short-lived--

surfeit of perfume,
as on aged dames,
spells death smell
by a sweeter name.
         --Ken Robson, “Lilacs”

Of all the arrogance
and ignorance—
the life we know is eighty years,
and yet we are convinced
the next stage is eternal.

For all we know, it's a moment.
A weekend.
For all we know, it's getting our
passports stamped
and being waved through customs.


the new plant

the new plant
a present from my brother and his wife
spent two days
on the front stoop
and goes
into the ground today

golden groundsel or ragwort
senecio aureus  they call it
height 20-30”
flower color yellow
blooms in may and
bristling with buds now

the instructions say
it's thirsty
so I find a place for it
not too far from
the mouth of the rainwater drain
from the gutters

right next to
the also thirsty
rare
wild azalea bush
half smothered this year
by rampant rambler rose

like most new plants
its odds of thriving are slim
in this unforgiving patch
of rarely sunlit sterile dirt
but possibilities
invade the air


Twisted Task Post

I'm testy when I test her
and pesky when I pester
her to paste her tasty pastry
pasties to my toasty testes.


HMOmance

My high blood sugar
means fewer pretzels
homefries and bagels,
and less watermelon,
pineapple and pasta.
But I can eat barley,
coleslaw, grapefruits,
fresh ham, sauerkraut,
cherries and peanuts
to my heart's content.

My new doctor must
have said “diabetes”
ten times: You don't
have diabetes. You
don't want to end up
with diabetes. Some
people have diabetes
for years before they
realize it. Diabetes is
a very vile business!

I like a tough woman.
This one looked me in
the eye and promised
me big trouble unless
I do exactly what she
tells me. So I'm going
to. She is pretty much
saying that if I do get
my blood sugar down,
all I have to do is ask.


Wissen über Würmer

Fearing the Palouse earthworm was extinct,
we used the octet method of electro-shock
and drove a large worm to the surface. After
dissecting its digestive organs, we're pleased
to confirm this worm isn't extinct. Last week
it wasn't, anyway.


Fill in the Blanks

1. The prospect of driving
to Mellon Park to pick up a
form they won't mail to me
is clouding a beautiful day.
It will take 15 minutes and
I should just do it and get
it over with but instead I'm
hoping to reduce the sting
by combining it with some
other car trip in the same
direction—and ruining my
entire day. This disorder is
called _______________.

2. Struggling with my son
over all the homework his
school insists on giving him
makes me dread his coming
home from school. I wish I
had the courage to just say
Go out and play, little man,
but I don't. This disorder is
called ________________.

3. Cataloging my problems
as if they were of interest
to complete strangers eats
up a big chunk of the day,
and of course does nothing
to solve the problems. This
disorder is called _______.


Mainstream

If everyone was in the mainstream
it would have no flow,
and what's more,
have noplace to go.

The rills and rivulets,
the babbling brooks,
even the seeping springs
where willows weep secluded
have their say: all mainstream
does is carry them away
to empty them in ocean.

More than one sad trickle
has eventually concluded
the whole trip's but misspent motion.

Yes, I agree, Cheryl. Maybe only #3 has a name.
Thanks for looking in --Tom