Monday, March 28, 2016

After Another

I can't stop hammering one
final nail after another

into an atmosphere where
wind is a stranger often

spoken of, but seldom to.
I want to build a memory

to hold its fleeting moods
at bay, but my vision is a

reluctant advisor in thrall
to metaphor. It cheers me on

like a threatened witness—
stick around to see these

words mean less than
they did before we knew them.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Looks Like Rain

Black coffee in a paper cup
falls into a dialogue with a century of waste.

Get ready to bawl out the horizon
on its little birthday. Squeeze me

in hindsight screwed to the wall.

A good price for a calm conclusion
enters through the ear then,

scaring off a fresh carom of ball;

days fly deftly as a tossed milk pouch
my alma mater dramatized.

These images practice what no one preaches
too carefully, or at all—

I have only two hands on earth;
the rest are fatal flaws in the city,

a glorious production no one comes to see.

In time a street you once put trust in
reveals itself into a deep sleep,

hard of hearing, the hardest so far.

Friday, March 4, 2016

Just a Thought

I was about to say something here,
then thought better of passing out
on my own recognizance—a ghastly scene
too inert to interpret, a forgetful growth
on the nation. And yet,

adding insult to daiquiri, the polka dot stubbornly
refused to go out of fashion, and mere inches kept me
awake on the fringe of an idea
whose time had petered out, petulant as a daisy.

Happiness like that can be hard to read by—
you know how it hunts and gathers,
spalls and spatters—but worth every penny
you failed to pick up in your life.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Beauty Ruins

Thanks for the lovely bloodbath, and for thinking big.
Our bottom line is in stitches. I'm in hysterics over here;
dressed like a recommended bus, the good sport will be here anon
with banjo on the brain. You may go at any time. Strike that—

I have seen a chyron administer a fine bit of cruelty
to save face during peacetime, that notorious season.
The clergy barely noticed

when their own bare legs went missing; the ransom note was blank
yet persuasive. It served as a warning not to appear
in other people's dreams without a bachelor's doggerel.
Accordingly, the economy's expulsive growth is loath
to be alone with my mustard. I never catch up.

Instead I relax into a calamity of spacetime continuity
all comers agree on—the diagnosis that sours us
on aurora borealis. But check it out:
I nonplussed a man in Reno
just to watch him get confused, not unfazed.

It fell to a buttering flame to tell us more
of lovers and their lawyers lying down in darkness,
bonding over technology. There's no one left to thaw out
of auld acquaintance; observe the hospitals, overflowing.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Retro Appeal

They say I have retro appeal; closer inspection reveals the error:
a tornado becomes a mouse via transcendental dentistry.

It flew from the fight into the plot of a life in miniature. They say
that's not the worst of it, that I've never scratched myself

where it mattered, nor found a bargain in a star field.
I'm not one to argue semantics, as thankless weather

puts us in our place, the classroom where we sleep
through a groping for grace that will never be ours but is

a welcome product rollout under the aegis of a cosmic wail
too remote, too haplessly devoid of mirth to take seriously.

Just pop the top and enjoy! Does this nostalgic pandemic
age with us or against us, our story unceremoniously

dumped out like light across an empty stage? At all events
your smile debunks most transportation options;

I sense an old bromide coming on, spinning true.
So there's that, at least, and a lot of lovely bitterness besides.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Beer Barrel Polka

It all starts in the womb. From there it proceeds to the deli.
Never forget what life teaches you: that tombs and nipples
are different manifestations of the same ornery glory,
according to some old law—scrape it off the books
and it just grows back more holy.
                                                            But first a killing
has got to be made, after which the seas
sleep soundly, underfunded. Now quiet down.
The game’s on in the other room, mutely playing us.

See, though, that’s just it: nothing lasts forever,
said the cough drop. The movie version was better,
but the state bird must be appeased, and so on.
Take me, for example. I’m like a fighter pilot:
I like to make doodles of girls on napkins,
stationery—whatever’s lying around inertly.
That’s when security bursts in, brandishing
a zeitgeist of its own impeccable design.

Yet if I had one wish, it would be to deconstruct the day
when “wish” became a four-letter word.
Then I might be famous, or at least famous for trying.
In fact, let's ditch the last dance for a victory nap.
I mean pap. I mean the sky’s the credit limit.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Loose Ends

Got an idea for a new product? Run it by
your local rodent. Countless abattoirs would
kill to get a load of your street credentials.
And maybe some juicy e-mails.

So be plastered beneath an agreeable algorithm—
less debonair tactics have yielded
devil-may-care results, but not enough of them.

Yes, the days do look less real when
they're sitting on a plate before you.
Their static patrols the stoic plain
as dandruff excuses multiply
despite attempts to secure the boudoir.

Guess I'm just holding a mug of lucky.
It's no wonder punctuation's
a major thoroughfare; no amount of
fictive screaming releases one from duty
in love's blood-spattered library.

Account Summary

By some estimates, the cost of a single apple has risen
to walk among the living. They say it's a nice job
if you cannot forget to brush daily.

Excuse me as a minute passes, then see
where that leaves the trees in winter:
naked as deaf ears. Their soft collapse comes

as commuters in cars can only guess, but the ablest
officers look like all the fiercest weather events
went out for tennis tryouts. I haven't

suffocated very convincingly in a
sudden ardor lately, i.e., the moon landing
was not a hoax, but the moon may be.

Thus concludes any up-to-date horoscope
over there in the ancient meadow, being victorious
like a little bitch (a literal small dog).

Friday, January 29, 2016

Think It Queer, Little Horse

Stopping by the roller disco on a snowy evening,
I could see I would not be welcome.
I didn't have any skates, and I
didn't have money to rent some.
My night might have ended with that,
but for some reason I can't explain,
I stepped up to the door
and waltzed in anyway.

Einstein, the famous scientist,
was famous for failing at math.
No matter how hard he tried,
he just could not understand math at all, ever.
Because of this, the world is a darker place
than most places, not to mention
most darknesses. But consider this:

a calculator lying on a parquet floor
in an empty room, on an afternoon
that rolls on and on, right out the front door.

Friday, January 22, 2016

A Few Sturdy Pillars, If You Please

People are informal anymore. More than that,
They are influential. Is that supposed to mean something?
For instance, that we're to advocate less tirelessly for talking quietly
Behind barns? Light spills out from inside and

Suggests an altogether different outcome:
That's no ordinary cardinal you've burped up there,
That's a homo erectus for the ages. Then Jesus went to college
And started a fire. These lands used to be

Over there, controlled by remote. You had to oxidize
Fruitlessly for any given morning
To make any headway past noontime. Uh—
Well, how about we teach it the way we were taught to teach it,

Which is not the same as the ripe grape of a neighbor's
Swallowed pride that gets passed down in the genes,
Those habitual liars; watch as they crisscross the heavens
In search of new buzzwords to inflame.

Friday, January 15, 2016

The Empty Sea

Walking through a door isn't easy, it's more of a
button that communicates you. I hate boring you,

agent of change in worried threads come to pass
along winter's regards. Worse than eating

at your desk is not wishing hard enough,
some would say hardy enough, to live without

legging it out. Why not wave to a new
diameter, here to parry an old razor's flirtation.

That's not a rhetorical equation, but for the sake
of argument let's reproduce reality

just a little, for a nocturnal fee. It may behoove
us yet to abet those who bemoan us.

I've heard of a similar process in the ashes
few bother to wake up to thinking of;

an empty sea was always almost there,
stored away in years rolled up in folds of air.


Silence bites off a bit of afternoon
so cold it doesn't count

toward a new development in boredom.
Maybe a few trees

can be saved, and even more buildings.
Tomorrow doesn't look delicious,

or so the legend went. To wake up
and wig out: I'm dying to see.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Scuttled Repertoire

Just once I'd like to wake up in the morning
without getting chirped at. Too much music

in the room and you lose the benefits
of regulation. I realize this is unrealistic,

not to mention overtly obstetric.
The executioner implied as much

when he curated his calendar
right in front of us. He likes to encourage the idea

that he's popular around town,
that he puts his bells on just like you:

one bell at a time. Better euthanize the moon
before it floats half-cocked into view;

we've evolved enough by now
to rectify our own ineffability

or ignore it, as circumstances require.
Anyone looking for a gatekeeper?

As for last night's sticker shock,
let me be totally honest with you:

No army can touch that, no wormy
apple inspector can evade its grasp for long.

Sooner or later the planet falls over
in fits of specious laughter at the scene

when the poor man's ejaculator
wipes his nose and calls it an off-brand day.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Unadvertised Sail

Let us criticize the cabbage. I'm drowning
in it. Send for the doctor—no, wait!

Send for the actor, by all appearances
the most hump-worthy. It's a slice of life

to tide you over, overseer.
Yet how shall we becalm

the dawn's collapse? If one were to atone
against the grain of such an accusation,

where would one squirrel away the time?
Some call this ruse a rhyme,

others a lost industry, though to speak up now
would be a pickled revenge, albeit a cool one.

See you in the sanctuary—
nothing amazeballs this way comes.

Plenty of fish to fry under the sea
have come to tee us off at the quayside.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

No News Is Good for You

I'm not complaining, but I could joust
a little more flimsily, for old time's sake.

The barometric pressure's almost over,
so there's no need to derive

pleasure from that—in the mirror the fear or
whatever holds one back

unmoors itself from observation.
That's the quiet thing about this habitually

merry span of dented days.
You are my almost-wife, in fact.

It's as if the planet were a wimp
whose pants are down.

Stop what you're wearing, I
can barely hear myself drink.

Absentee bees beget floral no-shows;
fast asleep, the forest fakes 'em all.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Any Tongue

At my age you get that nice ripple effect. It sets the stage effectively for future appointments, rehearsals, big to-dos in backyards in summer. I wish I could provoke a swan. You say there ain't any left to swindle, but that's a farmer's blowziest prerogative. Sincerely we elect to take the wrong boat to town, careful to avoid better offers. Machines do the rest, and better! One of them looks like a giant grasshopper painted black. It pokes up through the haze that covers the amazing shrinking sward.

Death is practically unthinkable in this context. That is, I wouldn't ask it into bed, despite my distant campaign promise. No nation gets out alive, and wrestling with infinity isn't a crime. Still, it's good to double-check the mechanisms; oil those joints, don't leave 'em lounging around. Pizza's here. It'll do us good to leap from roof to roof evading deputies in pursuit. One false step and they put your name in italics. Trust me, you do not want to be taken out to dinner.

If that's all, I'll be going missing. I'll be comin' around the catacomb when I have a hangnail that needs a little loving. Reading about those beat-up old explorers, I'm part of their weather now. I fly like a succulent Stuyvesant pear into the air between buildings. Shot down by sunlight, I joke my way to the next wet whisper in my ear. At one light touch of her tongue—any tongue!—I'm gone. Read the sign: "Press your luck against mine and let's make a baby cash cow shine."