Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Montage


Peace is approaching, ready to school you
In bed with a funeral's obsolescence.
Hairy bettors and erudite cannibals
Sue for it, abusing the zeitgeist
Wherein an exciting new product
Knocks around the old neighborhood,
Drab and uninspiring. Every word the
Calendar fed to the cat comes back
To ruin us, though we be gainfully employed.
Adequately defective, we all split up to verify
That babes exist. Why shouldn't they?
They contribute to the economy . . .

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Somebody's Idea of a Joke?


Our prom theme was usurped by world events: I threw up
Looking for comedy gold between curfew and cremation.
A pluperfect stranger fell in step with our orderly exit,
Parallel to but not a part of it: this self-described "salad poet" 
Was dressed for the wrong occasion, as usual.
Luckily we were only in the second inning,
So there was plenty of time for a black hole to swallow
Underneath a plastic palm tree on fire. Memories
Like that are more than a mere smorgasbord of
Soupçons of wisdom force-fed to a negligent super
They also define who we are as a people, especially those who,
Heeding the Boy Scout creed, prepared themselves for death by lahar.
The last dance was prorogued; fax me your social
And all will be well. The heavens would like a nonce word with you.
I'm only sorry the zoo, in its reluctance to reform,
Would not admit our hunky, crossbow-wielding crew.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Americana


There's something tonsorial in the way
The faculty remains intact following
The citrus accident; nothing's left for them
But to wonder darkly why
The floodplain looked uncanny
As I related to it my story
About a little bug with big dreams
Whose disquiet lives on
In the figure of a molecule on the lam.
Out here, in memoriam,
The deadpan obtains: do no harm
To the brioche man. It's his barouche,
He can do what he wants with it.
And then the alphabet was arrested.

Monday, August 4, 2014

From a Distance, Faintly


Around the bend of a new day's expiration
All your palette's colors are held in abeyance
As they unlearn the dreams our sponsors
Couldn't foster forever, much less entertain
In light of new performance standards—

The thing is to fake it until you forget it.
Even before the merry-go-round starts up again,
Gathering your thoughts pursuant to
A circular logic most days are too troubled
With noise to make room for, you begin to see

The error of your ways as it crawls along
Ahead of a shy, stiff breeze bearing secrets
Relatable in their candor. No wonder it
Feels like home (or better yet, a hotel)
When in the course of a coy unraveling

You awaken the infinite in a sneak attack,
Poised to milk its magic to bridge the gap
Between good conscience and good riddance—
Only to find the approach impassable.
Passing anyway, you feel pure, like a mock trial.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Of Murky Origin


If not for my purely academic interest in the matter,
I might never have bothered to surveil the sunbeam
That fell across my schoolroom desk, but its attention
To detail was radically forgetful; I couldn't help admiring.

Inspired to think with my hands, I set to work renovating
Every uttered distance of my shadow self's design,
Putting the ideas down and circulating among them
Like a proctor at an exam that will likely determine

The thrust of history's artifice. Fortunately my stakes
Were never so high, just high enough for tuning out mistakes
Who rubbed my lighted way into the existing template
For living and found out later what that really meant:

Waking up in the morning, hitting the snooze, rising finally
Into the honking air, my hunger for its breath doing
Little to sweeten the deal with all those routine reversals
We make unwitting room for, though not unwisely.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

One Thing I've Learned


No longer widely enforced, the old melodies are fondly refuted 
By miles of misnomers and the hairy legs who love them
The sharp fragrance hits home, where the buffalo refinance
And the children are ejected from obsolete dashboard cassette decks,

Laughing their politics off; the architecture of the day soon gives out 
Under the weight of our infamous hospitality. Waiting for no green light, 
An archive of boneless attacks on the art of the meretricious 
Spills onto the streets like a gang of onomatopoetic heartthrobs. 

Meanwhile I'm just trying to be a good corporate citizen here
And boy are my jokes tired. I know better than to take it personally
When the drollery of a fugitive timepiece elects to escort me out
Already I can hear my hair receding into the distance like

A soiled shirt's trumpet being played by a madman posing
As a monthly payment plan. One thing I've learned: there's nothing
Quite so restorative as a dart in the neck of a terribly earnest opinion.
If you'll excuse me, Sheriff, I'm wanted back at Walgreens, dead or alive.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Our Mutual Mission


Violence is a pithy contribution to the color in my vowels—
Big band music gives me an urge to split the atom.

Penitentially I float down a river of New York minutiae,
Restoring the city's faith in me. Out of the toxic hunger

For a performable psychodrama erupts
A fountain of missed connections, fragments of fate:

These are what decide the rate of death's progress
Toward the gape of a raw mouth. More suspect, though,

Is the idea that this will complete our mission, our sleeping
Through the alarm that, once set, cannot be disarmed

Except by consent of an imaginary author falling to earth
By way of Zeno's parachute, eternally on the verge of opening . . .

Friday, July 25, 2014

Electric Parvenu


Some of my best friends are billionaire space-tourists . . .
Next up, we hear from a man who eats his own garbage!

Sandwich artists rarely have literally thousands of
Good T-shirt slogan ideas. "It's chilly in here,"

Said no one ever. "Is a window open somewhere?"
Every store in town is fresh out of context.

Ever think of offing yourself? Default to factory settings—
I prefer Perry Como to Bing Crosby . . . sometimes.

Armed to the teeth with old saws, the cutest among us
Have all gone loco—who cares how we motivate our hair

When we have the means to employ
Ancient astronauts in our entourage? I mean,

You could at least try to see my nut in a virtuous light—
It rewards us with rapture via 1080i clarity.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Dimensionless Highway


The breath of night gave me an order so tall
It resembled a dance, rare in my oeuvre.
I didn't want to say anything but
An overhanging tonality soon
Kind of demanded a sidekick.
Free of all rulers, I planted my foot
And boom went the windy cube.
The sky was closed down for some time
As unheralded hellos and even more softly unsung
Schools of ill repute felt blessed to matter.
No one was happier than a shoddy likeness
To a jewel in the robber's mind,
In reality an angel who was a cure
For concealment. But my phone isn't talking
Nor should back roads be forsaken
Until the last heliotrope decides to pack it in.
At best I'm bleeding rainbows, so let's draft
Another headlong rush into random
Vanishing points, only to cut it loose.

What I Meant to See


Morning examines the room,
Paradigmatically shifty.
Alienation is underrated,
As promised by the usual

Bather's kind remorse.
A careless rumor reads
Into the silence of cool
Machinery to corroborate

The daydream's torso; this
Idea talks to itself the way
Found objects are known to do.
Soon the sky of tomorrow

Is devoted to doubting what
The business end of today's
Would not hold up. At least
This eternity is temporary.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

New Findings


As any physicist will tell you, the so-called phenomena of dark matter and dark
          energy
Are essentially nothing more than a cosmic lack of self-esteem. In other words,
The wisdom of the ancients, once thought debunked, was valid all along:
You have to love yourself before you can love at all. Think about it—
Trendy as summer plaids, this theory eludes lazy attempts to pigeonhole its
          essence,
Much the same way an aeolian harp encourages a species of mild reflection
That looks inward even as it keeps an eye out for nature's
Fruitful interruptions—ah yes, the Australian baobab . . .

Also known as the boab, the bottle tree, the upside down tree, the dead rat tree,
          the gouty stem tree, the monkey bread tree, the cream of tartar tree, the
          gourd-gourd tree, the gadawon, the larrgadi, and of course its scientific
          name, Adansonia gregorii
Never heard of it? Me neither, yet it persists in the face of our ignorance.
It's a good role model, you see, eschewing cultural relevance, the pointlessness
          of which
I felt firsthand the day I experienced my first quotient.
All those aboard the dividend looked pale, their faces a sea-green blur
In the foundering twilight. Operators sailed by without stopping,
Solving for not a soul, least of all us misfit variables.

And that's not even half the backstage drama
I have personally witnessed . . . O assorted meats who call the shots!
Take home and serve these germs of thought I wish to pursue
Along the avenues of souped-up awareness I have so far lacked
The wherewithal to construct, let alone violate to the satisfaction of Martian law.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Unwritten Song


A feeble echo trampled in the brush with fame
I was busy exorcising is lost to time; no sooner

Did I jump aslant it than a higher function
Mapped and catalogued the waft of cinders

Defying my stubborn description of a vacuum
Rubbed into a wound too true to occupy

More than a deftly broken hour I'd rather
Not needle or hurdle over, the stain of which

Alarmed the hills we deified in the spring
When our dreams had inflamed the barracks.

Sadness grew a universe then, soft enough
To connive by but insufficiently scouted out to maneuver

Within its outgrowing, the surly index of which
I'll recite to my love in spite of a scrape with her anthem.

Launch Party


I don't think I'll bother going home again; the firmament's cooked
And the goose is unhinged. There's really nothing on TV. 
Are you calling me an outlier? Go engage with meaning 
On a thinking man's dime. Abuse no cookies. Tonight
Is all wet and good, but my coffee is starting to reek 
Of a laptop's disquiet. I think it needs to be changed. 

Christ, this is some launch party. The furniture has friends
Draped about in positions of authority, but the moon isn't 
About to comment on this, so give up now 
While the giving's good. Chaos resigns if
We're not careful. A most agreeable vacillation 
Lingers inside us long after we're gone—that's all 
The marching band is willing to admit. What a 
Bunch of woodwinds. Whatever. Party on.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Crassitude


Throw another concerto on the barbie. It's in the Bible. And all this
Because you just had to get a look at your bookie's pussy.
Men with the strength of ten vests adorned with floral patterns
Are here to wrinkle badges. Something in my lap occurred.

The news burned down in sobs, straightening eighth notes worthy
Of summer's cumshaw. Its Festschrift was a fancy route to
Elephant squirt. Residua begin the slow slide to murdered
Hours in mobile abasement. A tennis racket glued to a shepherd farts

Muses; break glass in case of electric mandolin, it says here. Fetid
Yews in the bank are stapled to fists. I'm drunk and a
Stump is assented to with brisk abandon; its devil bifurcates
The snores of cues to incite cupcake death rites jumping us.

Killing the darned sock was kept secret for a time, then traded for
Consuetude gifted with intimate oil but absolved. Snooze and relent,
Violate the fraternal. Culpable denizens involve the stars with our citywide
Humps-a-daisy. The nuclear family blurbed itself to bits in high-def.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Terror from the Year 5000


Flunked out and bug-eyed, the jittery dawn
Spices up the wrestling match. Cool beans
Drown their sorrows. An eclipse of the sun
Resides in the mason's heart, wanting it all.
Another bee battalion has settled the bill.
Lick my finger or bestir a flaming pizza.

If you're ever in Paris, ask a stranger for pizza
Without looking directly at the uppity dawn
Which has vetoed night's revolutionary bill.
The enemy of my noumena is my beans.
Testimony to that grand effect wasn't all
It could have been, but nevertheless the sun

Shined on my birth. And lo, it was the same sun
That later founded a school: L'École de Pizza
Was its moniker. And baby, that's not all!
The sun is responsible for every dawn
That hits your eye like a medicated bean
In shock after seeing its hospital bill.

Wow, check out that mallard. Got a hell of a bill . . .
(That's probably my cue to get out of the sun
And retire to the care of endangered beans.)
In the square a chant was begun: "Death to pizza!"
Evidently lost was the protection of dawn.
Just give me my life back already, and all

That goes with it—if the dang thing goes at all.
How I long to see my name on a playbill
For Nightmares Are Best Supped on at Dawn!
This and other mirthless maxims about the sun
Are the jelly and butter atop my pizza.
Go forth, milady, and think about those beans:

How shall we cope with a shortage of beans?
Will the crisis hit home, or just the parlor where all
The community's pillars eat their pizza?
One of them, my wily alter ego, is named William.
He conquered his crippling fear of the sun
And now he's a tireless shill for all things dawn.

But how do beans feel about the dawn
Of all our naive utopian dreams, comrade Bill?
"Phooey!" he says. "Pizza awaits us in the sun."

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Night Sky Askew


My bedroom window went berserk—it saw right through me
To the naked ambivalence that was never an issue
But in fact was a laugh I lived and denied too strongly.

Turning to split the scene, I spy a rogue pixel
Throw its hat into the party mix; the city of reticent miracles
Is never the same. (I ask for nothing less.) The war
On television wants me, I don't know why. I have not yet begun to seep
Into a pattern of thought better suited to lunar camouflage.

The coast is as clear as it's going to be. I pursue the worst of it
And have come to rely on phantoms I never knew—
Proof that the buddy system has failed us once again.
Fooling myself on foot from here, I'm overrun with orgone
I don't see a need to thank the stars for; the scope of
My search has outlasted their waste of time.