I Can’t Even

Monday, March 6, 2017

Today I can’t even;
I can only odd,
being but one man.

When I say stuff like that
people are awed.
I say it deadpan.

Enhances the effect.
Speaking of which
I’d like to enhance

YOUR effect later on
if you know what
I mean. I mean sect,

plural. Two or more
sects you dirty,
dirty, dirty little hor-

ologist. That’s right,
you utterly filthy
studier of time,

I sometimes hyphenate
for both rhyme
and other reasons.

• • •

Love this Artist

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

hello, fig

depth tester 2 - Copy


value haute couture

value haute couture

entering the promised land

entering the promised land

happy wednesday people X

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Clasps (1997)

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Mr. T. Wilder never wore a coat.
His lips hung like iron in the cold.

He took pride in his brute little mind
through which big thoughts passed

and big dreams. When he and Andrea
went antiquing something lit up within,

and he ordered a mochaccino at the
Nine Mile Club, a place he frequented

like some modern ghost. His plaid hands
played upon his cocktail napkin, and

he thought of Missy and the Bel Aire
Coupe and Oregon days, stared down

at his wedding ring. His wife’s features,
wrung with age, softened his demeanor

and brought him light. He got out his wallet
and keys, trembled a bit in the smoke-

stiff air. Without Andrea
his existence would have been plain.

But now a new business, a new dog,
an all-encompassing philosophy of love,

and he sat like a butler at formal occasions,
unperturbed by the planets’ rough moving.

• • •


Tuesday, February 28, 2017

You’ll wonder where
The yellow went
When you brush your teeth
With hydrochloric acid.

• • •

Why I Am Not a Painter

Monday, February 27, 2017

I’ll work then for your friend’s friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Accept what he can pay, within his means;

I often am much wearier than you think.
I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

• • •


Friday, February 24, 2017

I think good poems—if you can call them good—
are written by people who care so deeply
about everything around them that they’re
almost paralyzed. I think those people are like
the proverbial squabs who’ve inadvertently
dined on arsenic-ridden succotash during
ill-advised raids on one or more seaside
picnics featuring one or more picnickers
attempting to do away with one or more
other picnickers via said deadly corn
and lima bean concoction—wherein the fateful
side dish symbolizes “things of the world”
as tempting fare; wherein arsenic stands for
the mesmerizing hold romantic suffering
exerts on the most emotionally vulnerable;
and wherein squabs are sweetheart kids who,
good with words, deft in action, hyperalert,
weirdly vigilant, and desiring to document it all,
inadvertently eat or lick the most apparently
delectable picnic item upon which they
and their fellow young domestic pigeons (poet
friends) have swooped, and oh buddy, they pay
the price in the form of good poems, and
publishable—fine fodder for literary websites.
They pay the price in the form of a life-
changing delusion that everyone’s listening.

• • •

Depth of Field

Thursday, February 23, 2017

She took a close-up shot of all
the blue and purple in the yard,
our old brick house blurry
in the background—posted it—
her friends replied with hearts.

When I explained the growth
was broadleaf weeds she said
she didn’t care. It’s beautiful,
and we should keep as-is.
I said they’re henbit, corn

speedwell, some dandelions
too, and if we don’t treat them
they will obstruct the grass.
She said but they’re so small.
I said but they won’t last,

they bloom just for a minute
as spring is coming on; she asked
what does the yard guy say?
I called him, and he advised
Let the Lord do his thing.

Let the Lord make it green,
he will, that’s how he works,
he does his thing, it all gets
green. We can treat the weeds,
reseed and fertilize, or wait.

I thought hard for us all—
my only hesitation being
I didn’t want the grass to fail.
Then told the yard guy, we will
wait and see what the Lord does.

• • •


Wednesday, February 22, 2017

One Way

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

One way to find out how beautiful
and ostentatiously decorated
everything is is to wake up at a friend’s

condo somewhere in suburban
Orlando and head out for a day
at Epcot and, on the way, to Google

a much-needed Starbucks pit stop
and then drive off in a slightly
wrong direction and pull over to turn

around in a parking lot and notice
suddenly your car is surrounded
by colorful murals and piles of flowers

and painted signs and sweetness,
really so much beauty and joy and life
that it almost can’t be the shuttered

Pulse—25 minutes from Epcot
and its 49 dining locations, one
for each of June 12, 2016’s dead.

• • •


Wednesday, February 15, 2017

One always does better when
one doesn’t quite know what
one is doing than when
one does and is tired of doing it.

• • •