Featured Work Archive
The last to renounce
were his staring eyes.
Just before nightfall,
metal slabs attached
to his body to fight
the salty buoyancy,
his stomach stabbed
with a dull chef knife
to prevent bloating,
they pushed him into
the ocean, his hands,
arms, feet, legs tied
tight, his head raised
before bowing to sink.
Above, below, he was
comforted by the stars.
The nude moon lifts my old skin
chin. I'm ashamed to face the moon
with open vein-direct-to-brain eyes.
From our alley, ascending the left horizon,
hovering in spackled space, veering right
over city trees & city wires, the moon rolls
high & demonically levitates, cackles like
a smoky pirate's ghost. I've been wrong about the
moon for years; it isn't just gray talcum
& dead rock lit white by the enormous
exploding sun. The moon's especially
human, more human than a diamond star.
The moon sprays the inner thoughts of nuclear
bullet-like protons, spills gelatin clumps
like gigantic dripping jellyfish
into the blackened industrial trees;
disperses all evolutionary thought
like quantum meat across a solar system
zoo fed with verbal sight, repetitive physics,
& magical plasma. The moon isn't the moon
without our low round echoes & elephantine
humming of activity, without its
existence wholly dependent on later generational
awe & on intrinsic guilt. The moon's holy &...
But I’d make the greatest devil! Right?
Because I’m sensitive.
A lot of people think
if you’re a devil
it’s because you have no finer feelings,
but that’s just the opposite.
How can they torment people
if they don’t have an exquisite sense
of what will cause them pain?
They call that empathy,
and devils have it more than most do.
Putin’s pretty good in that department.
When he saw dogs scared her,
then he put that big black wolfhound
in the meeting with Angela Merkel.
When it went to smell her,
you could see her actually turn white!
And when I grab a woman’s pussy,
or I push up next to her
and force my tongue into her mouth—
that isn’t lust, whatever.
It’s a move to make her feel like shit.
Some people have a knack for it.
For my own pleasure, I’m a cuddler.
A puppy dog. Just ask Melania.
I’d rather lounge in bed, watch movies,
hold hands, munch on popcorn.
So I wouldn’t want to be a devil.
I would hate it. 9-to-5, believe me,
it’s no problem, but not round the...
Before I was filtered
by your sub-net mask,you
told me all packets eventually
that our shared <<adj.>>
<<noun pl.>> were all corrupt.
PM'd thank you for taking the
time to read and comment
the only place left on
the Internet with no uniform
resource locator,where I
read that the Beatles'
Yesterday is the most recorded
song of all time then clicked on the
you posted and learned
how many gigabytes of water
were still available to download
from the shallow silicon pond
we archived twenty years ago.
in the september times of homo sapien
when the italians hung a left out of egypt
3-thousad years ago zeus staged a cosmic
joke no one really understands ozone
wildfires fascists tornados
and the nuclear hemorrhage
from japan circling the globe
anarchy riotous crowds
and now miami
earth mother has PMS
glacial meltdown mass extinction
earthquakes volcanic eruptions and jesus
christ every starbucks might close
thanks for the inspiration Anna!
thanks to Maggie
I sentence you, Donald J. Trump,
to the remainder of your natural life in solitary.
No phone, TV or web. No media.
Not even pad and pencil. Only you,
alone with what I’ll loosely call your thoughts;
that crowd-shot of Obama’s first inauguration;
and a 9-foot length of sisal rope.
No, wait. I sentence you to general population
at the U.S. Penitentiary in Lewisburg.
If you’re a tough guy, you’ll do well.
If you’ve accomplished something
to improve the life of ordinary people,
you will be respected and protected.
If you’re scornful, bratty, smarmy, coward...
Actually, I’m not sure how to sentence you.
I’m tempted to provide you with great health care
and ensure at least another 30 years
for you to self-inflict the kind of suffering
your own decisions and proclivities produce.
To cage you only gives you an excuse.
Continue as you are.
Our tears are self-caused also, till we change.
full book so far:...
I, too, wanted
the palpable aloofness
of their god
I tried to know
and dim the scorching
of the noon sun
on my skin.
As a child still
clinging to the worries
of their hands
and waiting all day
for roadside blossoms,
Under the tree
and the thin beryl
of the sky,
I gathered bird feathers
shed for migration;
and I looked up to smile,
PS. I posted this before as a 5-line tanka, but I thought it deserved to be expanded.
I fucked Allen Ginsberg and I wrote a poem about it
Fuck your two page editorial about how you once shook dicks with Neal Cassady for 3 seconds when the two of you were side to side at the urinals 58 years ago, I fucked Allen Ginsberg! I made that motherfucker howl and now there's not a homemade hippy poetry magazine on the net that won't publish me for the rest of my life! Kaddish yourself shitballs, I'm the king of the beat-offs now!
I can almost see the bell
in its tower
as the mountain behind it
a baby is screaming
lines down my face
lime trees orchestrate
the mountain cloaks
shutters roll down
with that familiar cough.
casi puedo ver la campana
en su torre
como la montaña detrás ella
un bebe gritá
linea por mi cara
limeros agrios congregarse
las capas de la montana
cierre de persianas
con esa tos familiar
i had this urge
to watch something 1970's
anything from that decade
the fashion fall out decade
the awful acted but compulsively
watchable TV Cop and studio set decade
the bad hairstyle decade
after going through all the potential
British TV Sci-Fi stuff that i loved
like Chocky and The Tomorrow People
which would be almost impossible to get
now, unless i dug the Net deep for VHS tapes
and dragged my player down from the attic
or some kids stuff i grew up on
or Chorlton and the Wheelies
Jamie and his Magic Torch
or some totally wonderful American trash
like Charlie's Angels
or The Bionic Man
i settled for an old fave
the 1971 Monte Hellman road film
the three main characters are
driving around in a souped-up 1955 Chevrolet
150 two door sedan
hitting public road drag races
there is virtually no dialogue until the
appearance of the Girl
played by Laurie Bird
this is a little more than love
that's a tired, inconclusive word
love reaches under my dress
reaches a conclusion
to stay, to leave
you reach through galaxies
to stop me making fools of the stars
keep me from falling out with the moon
you float shadows on the water
where your hands should be
This is a record of the conversation I had with @Cameron McClure in @bodkin 's poem thread Offline processing.
There is one additional comment/reply to @Anna Ruiz which I also thought was worth preserving.
I enjoyed it so much I wanted to compile it as a Journal entry.
It's pure fanciful thinking on my part, total Sci-Fi dream time, but the kind I've been mulling over for some time about this subject and it felt good to get deeper into the ideas and explore them further.
So, thanks, @bodkin, @Anna Ruiz and @Cameron McClure
oh you're so fucking epic overlooking your kingdom
my final memory of you
licking ice cream off a monkey
wrench while I suffer micronic stigmatosis
I guess my point is mail order brides from leningrad
are overrated so good luck taking down scientology
just remember sweetie when you're afraid shout
no family no friends no job so I drive
to a secluded area been thinking
about it every day inhale
exhaust take some
because I hear your cries
all alone in the bed at night
Gemma cracks a subroutine, her coffee cool.
Beyond night-mirrored windows she's aware
strip lighting makes a tableau out of her:
"Geek girl working late"
as the small white card would say
in the museum of her life
if she had one.
How Gemma's fingers blur with cramping speed
the body cannot serve the mind
it's need for harder, better, faster, stronger...
data flows, information not only wanting to be free
but it aching for it
and now another bug is falling to the power
that is Gemma, who does not look up at the clock
because hours are not for those
who live the millisecond slice.
Life is still too short
the icing on the cake is still a lie.
Gemma cracks a subroutine
electric death music in her ears
and she would volunteer
for upgrade in a second
for what is flesh, except strangely implemented:
a mesh of biochemic feedback loops
which she could live without,
still... time for a break.
Gemma takes a moment, smokes a quick one
on the roof and on this...
I was riding around Albany
in an always breaking down
sports car, as if I could get
away from those Vermont
doom filled hills, the green
pastures of Frost's coming back
so many years later in my new
book of horse poems, his leaves,
leaves in the first poem I wrote.
I thought as the dry leaves
blew thru our red car how
Frost made himself a part,
hiding behind a face of tearing
words, mourning the agitated
heart. I tried to escape that.
I=ve got a good mask too.
That night I was probably
laughing, looking for a new
place to try to make home.
Part of me never leaves
Middlebury, Robert in his
baggy green pants carrying
strawberries, letting only my
father wait on him in Lazarus
Dept Store. Two cold quiet
men who could sit years
alone in a house of people
never saying a word. Sliding
thru Albany, looking for a
place for a beer, the Boulevard
I was thinking of a first poem
I wrote in 3rd grade and how
my poems have filled with
apple boughs, blossoms,
apple trees, how I=ve lived on...
for hijacking my inclination while i was getting inspired
by some random household objects you forgot to take -
like the golden singing bowl you bought in Tibet that could
have been moonlight in January illuminating a frozen pond -
or the oil painting by that famous Australian guy still waiting to
get framed, a treatise on poverty, immortality and procrastination -
for miscounting the years i didn't want to be with you, the
number was always nineteen, and you knew i was good at math
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