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Category: Poems
Poems new and old
Manna, Treacherous Sky
Poor chap, that tramp —his beauty confiscated by filth; Left to pray mindless ly in the gutter, in arrears to the street; At church for his tea-and-two-slices his offering but a burned-up blade of grass and still he prayed; O, heaven, my galoshes are glummed, my ears beaten by duns; O, keep me, even though —
Fall’s Green Tomatoes
Tomato plants Are vines. Make no mistake— In fall they leave An acrid yellow resin On your plucking, Prying hands. They’re slowly ripening fruit Leaving their seed to the ground. You’re only interfering.
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"He Urinates on his Paintings"
My claim to fame is that The New Yorker once published one of my captions. No, they didn’t even do that. I’m worthless.
Advice for Endangered Species
The ruddy turnstone of America
died before my eyes. This
poem is inspired by
but not about her.
I tried to convince the great libraries
to pump me full of rotten fruit.
I tried and died?
No I tried and failed.
NASCAR cars awake to find themselves
empty of engines but slathered in spit and lipstick.
The Vice Presidents have all
gone to pasture, revving
like Alzheimer cows.
Meanwhile, on the North Slopes...
The polar bears are all dead,
even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,
even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,
even the ones we've eaten. The polar bears are all dead,
I admit
it's late and I don't know
who to vote for.
Sunrise in my eyes, coffee and rubles.
This is the American Dream.
Please wait while I await another line.
Audubon’s Suicide Sonnet
Bye bye
bye bye, birdie
& bye to all the other birds
I woulda seen
'I been born 30 years ago.
My best friend, he gets into birds,
he's too late! Meadowlarks
all gone or dead, pretty corn,
sweet clover
Leaving an Empty Bottle of Wine Along the Windowsill of a Canal Boat
I.
FISA light is FISA light is knowing what you're knowing what you're thinking thinking.
II.
I have been in bed
late at night
happy where I was.
When I got up
the cupboard poured me
coffee.
No one else was up yet,
I was the only person awake
in the entire world.
III.
Moscow mule, Moscow million. Moscow million, I don't want to fight you. My country hasn't the troops. Contrary to what your man read over my shoulder on the plane — The soldiers are not feeling the wood, they're felling the wood. You know, getting ready to write really old, long-old novels. Wire between their fingers & wire in their brains. Wire, already, on their deforested teeth.
Continue with this poem...
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Misc. Haiku 51-55
51
What’d I write last night?
The morning is coffee
And looking through notebooks
52
Twenty-eight and still too scared
To say thrice into the mirror,
“Bloody Mary?”
53
Moon at an acme
That no company could match —
Din of merger news
54
Kerouac’s best haiku
Were the ones that went
Uncollected
55
A retreat
Into alcoholism, no
Not me
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