The surface
of a
queen bed
is about 33 square feet
A human body
takes up about
nine
Less than that on her side
How can it be
that it still feels too
close in here?
In the Morning Sun
Her blonde hair
and drooling grin
Make me want
to run
Original Poems
The poems and lyrics included here have been written in the 21st Century. They are presented without context or unifying theme, other than my own halting pen, eclectic interests and prodigal nature.
Many, though by no means all, of them were written using Burroughs' cut-up technique, which is one of my favorite tools for getting my ego out of the way of the creative energy.
Somewhere Else Eyes
Eyes in the Mirror
Look so very far
away
Somewhere else
today
I’m always somewhere
else
With Each New Lunacy
to call that man
a lunatic
is an
undeserved insult
to lunatics
we are caught
in an entertainment endeavor
that is fueled by outrage
i used to be outraged
now i am mostly sad
disoriented
a little confused
and more than a little frightened
because there is no normal
to get back to
that’s showbiz
On Seeing a Tripod Dog
We pause at a stop sign on the way to school
Here comes a little black puffball
Skipping and hopping on the end of his lead
Dancing like popcorn in a hot skillet
As he and his tender approach
We see that his is missing a left front leg
Nonetheless whole
Joyful, he is
The Kid smiles broadly catching the man’s eye
And he smiles back
Joyful were we
Sat Nam
Gentlest breeze and sweet smell
of incense
I am
the silent sentinel
at breath’s gate
Before the seat of the soul
mandalas flow and resolve
the orbit of a far off prayer
wheel their motive
the True Name
the Holy Name
is revealed once more
Henlo Fren
My Fren is at the door.
Knock knock I can’t wait.
I run to door. I run to window. See!
I bark! I jump! Oh, Fren Fren Fren!
I jump on Fren’s leg.
They make me down.
I follow Fren to chair.
Fren says okay and I put paws on knee.
Fren touch my head and has soft voice.
I am good boy.
Fren says okay. I snug on lap.
Fren smells good like my favorite smell. Fren, oh Fren, oh Fren!
One day, Fren walks with stick.
They make me down.
Fren says down.
I go to Fren’s chair. Fren says down and pushes with stick.
I am bad boy.
Oh, Fren, I want sniffy sniff.
One day, Fren walks slow with stick.
Where is my good Fren favorite smell?
I down. They wag finger and say “Louie” at me. Mad at bad me.
I want one sniffy sniff.
Fren makes me down.
Why Fren punches my head?
Have Nots After Ten
it was one school drop-off that set me back
the entire week stopped at the grocery store
the car pulled up, and blocked my delicate balance
i remembered
several things happened
remember
distributing might be easily upset
my mother always bit, despite working
people who do, and who are
tire others among us
just at the end of just down the road a ways
he made eye contact
being silently filled with rage at symbolized justice
I watched him walk on people who possess it
He Smoked Luckies
He smoked Luckies
And he was a Dodgers fan
I remember watching him shave
With an electric of some sort
And he was a Protestant
And a Kentuckian
And a Democrat
Beyond that I have no idea
Did he shoot Winchester or Remington?
What was his aftershave?
His reels, I’m sure, were Shakespeares
After he died, Mom sold most of his tackle
My sister watched me salt a beer once
And said
“Daddy used to do that.”
It was then that I realized
I’d spent fifty years
Chasing a ghost
The Saint of Entrance Avenue
He paces
With hands waving and flapping
Electric Slide
Humpty Dance
Prayer
His orange hair
pops to and fro
like a bobber
Since prison, he doesn’t like to be kept inside.
He is on this corner early every morning
and again at 3 o’clock
the hour that his Lord
gave up the ghost
He used to be a hustler
Now all he does is pray
Those who sometimes go out of the way
to pass by his corner
shout from the car
Bless you my brother
Pray for us
You know I will!
Flash of smile
Back to his duty
Electric Slide
Humpty Dance
Prayer
Obama Took My Lawn-Boy
I should have heeded the warning signs
First it was my lightbulbs
Then they came after my junk food
And by the time
They got to
My Lawn-Boy
I was too blind and hungry
To fight
Now I’m tripping over this electric cord
And walking behind a puny seventeen inch deck
And not a hard working immigrant with a Weed Eater
Anywhere to be found
Deported, one and all
The lawns of Suburbia must
From time to time be refreshed
From the oil cans of patriots
And tyrants