Friday, February 25, 2011

poem: bubba-lithe

Moammar in his sleek silver travolta
disco ultra sheen,

acquiescent fetch-bubba of the lithe

ruling class:

ring your bells, child

this ain't your mama's

ruling elite, it festers

the gruel right out

from under your feet:

it ain't like you didn't see it

comin'. Give Imelda a call,

see can she give you

some red rubies

get you on home to your

disco Kansas:

this will be the grill

you never wished exposed:

them derricks ain't exactly

toys, boy-toy-grabbin'

artifacts of world-gone-by

hubbalub the rightwing

authenticity of prurient labor,

nab the last bit o'honey

for the sugar-foxes

at the bank - swiss-fried

in all likelihood -

i'd say the quick exit

makes best for keepin

the sheen on your shine,

boogie with respect to the average

fare, it's an inquisition on which

you just might

want to pass: smokey seconds,

stevie's uptight, and you,

bloody amigo, best be





Saturday, February 19, 2011

poem: drippings ask

tamale kings
highland queens

daylight jack of all the pumice trades

china girls in they big dog

terrapin teenage dreams

up & down the 29

bird-dogging the rest

the recompense:

in leisure

a treasure

in gathering troves, tyrone

derelict twilight

troglodyte samsonite

the nested way to gainsay

the nylon drippings

ask & ye

shall she & he

& all will be



Sunday, February 06, 2011

flash fiction: judgment day

Buster creamed his coffee; his disarray straddled table, on and around, teeming room with conga lines of turbulent creases, thundersnow, vagrant absence. Where in hell's name was solace for the passing jello-minds, frivolous ubiquiters of this brave blue Sunday morn? No chance up against Buster's hirsute avalanche, fire-breathing postmodern daddy in the throes of peace-bondage and mommy-come-lately revenge.

"Space in the next room," said the cup at my elbow. "Beats hell out of this opera."

Next room is the chin-level window-slab: ogle the street traffic, wonder the whys you always wonder. Buildings across the way stripped of logos, mirroring Buster's rumblings in the back room. I'm feeling stripped today, too, John Lee Cadillac-stripped, naked before the judge. I'm guessing Buster's done his own cough-and-turn in front of Judge Judy in recent days. Sagging jockeys in they own shoddy grey disarray.

"Spare me the change, Buster." Judge J always was a charmer.

Just exactly who is the grey lizard back in Buster's rumpus room, scaring off all the Sunday Times debutantes? Sabbath day therapist? Nose-cone attorney? Baker's dozen-stepping sponsor? Innocent slob strangled by Buster's albatross? That lemon yellow v-neck was enough to scare me off, why not Buster?

My Michelin eardrums pop to the sound of "And how does that make you feel?"

Buster seems wrapped up in a soliloquy that signals danger up ahead; he seems hellbent on meting out justice to one and all, when in truth his soul covets nothing more than time on the grey beaches of Port Angeles, if only his spinal fluids could ooze him to another land. God hasn't the rosaries to hand out for this chapel of disquiet.

"Sizzled," says Buster, an adjective I can applaud: his cranium does, if nothing else, resemble a foggy marshmallow. Or blackened pompano, if you squint your eyes enough. I tried both, settled for the fish, all yummy in its uncertainty.

Lemon pledge seems befuddled by the less-than-standard, closed question response. Beyond the ejaculatory color of his own togs, he is bereft of a conversational palette up to the turbulence in Buster's grey breast.

I toddle on: my day is calling, lemoning and sizzling in its own pas de deux. I've prayed between sheets, opened tonsils to night sky, evangelized in poorer straits. There ain't mirror enough in those around me can't make me shiver.


poem: óvissu býli

uncertain farms

uncertain drudgeries

uncertain vagabond loops

uncertain the last time you saw mary

uncertain the exact time of day

uncertain down which aisle

uncertain whether you want to

uncertain if luther ever bothered

uncertain the never-dreaming possibilities

uncertain how to fly so high

uncertain if this is the really

uncertain why you even care

uncertain the gods in their siesta'd glory

uncertain if presbyterianism carries weight

uncertain the price you pay

uncertain why you received the honorable

uncertain two blushing lips

uncertain the qaundary of downsizing

uncertain the warehouse on basse

uncertain why stevie ever wrote that one

uncertain the prerogatives of the nesters

uncertain the latitudes of your regal hair

uncertain the tropics of capricorn

uncertain why harry aped analise

uncertain which thousand remains solvent

uncertain vamps

uncertain blokes

uncertain lucy meets ethels

uncertain the prince of peace

uncertain the delicatessen where last you meet

uncertain the pending rhyme

uncertain the golden opportunities

the cadillac jacks

the ypsilanti facts

the fashionable vagaries

the apologetic bibliographies

the ballyhoo'd abnormalities

in the trenchant vein . . .


Saturday, February 05, 2011

poem: icarus days

uncertain farms
fuzzy taco train tracks up

& down the jelly highways

vagabond tumeric infernal

rondo: i ask at the window

the answers say no, as

if the delectation is ribbed

beyond belief,

a casual dress day all

down the six, the seven,

the eight ways of pity,

your western elegance

fights down the need

to wander, to vary

the myths and posters

of icarus days

angling with fortitude best

left unmade: watching

the lines piss away

the wherewithals,

the snaffer blooms,

the quenched beasts in their

Trojan replicas -

save the fifth place ribbons

for itty bitty classtime,

i've called round

the green tangents,

you've gone round the bend

we've digitized the very best.


Thursday, February 03, 2011

poem: no telling how visible

fine tooth comb
the barely brined

accidental tourists in

the casbah, bridling the fished-

over memories,

salsa-sensing the ancient of daze -

inquisitive little bastard, ain't he? -

digging the laundry out

on all the lines,

catching fire for the nth time

equal parts paisley and rhyme

slip in the side door

kitchen babies, preservatives at

the ready: canning

the lesser times, equivocating

the do ron rons: casually wear

the queries on my sleeve

you'd sneer the leavings, too,

if the drift was plenty,

i go round and round &

the answer's still no

fastforwarding through

the palace guards,

tronning the regulators,

flouting the fashionable

soundings. broadway sez

it better, which leaves little room

for you & the runt: careful how

you raise the tent, this one's

twice at the ready & there's no

telling how visible

the dreams may be:

reconnoiter seven

times the simple blessings, grieve

past the terrors,

situate down the wires,

cable your travelers,

satisfy your last longing

till longing completely over-

fills. you're the register,

you're the blank note, you're

the reason

Samson never wrote.


Wednesday, February 02, 2011

poem: bliss minuet

guano on the fire
meerkat shuffle

it's a Sansabelt kinda night

the bludgeon tools

need a feeding: if you

wrestle your demons

in the midday, the forecasters

ramp the dizzy doodles,

answering the full of love

cashmere sweaters

not a snowball's chance

they lay the other way

casting calls

redeye gravy

pinch the bottoms of all they gals

in fashionary bliss

minuet on the boardwalk

the teasing's in the saucy sauce

little miss teentown

box your socks

with nary the second glance

falling severance pay

egalitarian passion play

get that marimba on outta

here, the curves

say angular, but

you haven't guessed them,

guessed their weight,

guessed the nearest

whey, guessed how

the ample

maples the rest of all

your ubiquitous



wide world economy

righteous brontosaurian

rusty, crusty