I once thought that poetry
was about
honesty,
so the most honest thing I can say
with the deadline six minutes away
is that I’d rather make the deadline
with a shitty poem
than not make it
at all
because what are the odds
that at next year’s reading
when Christopher McCurry picks his favorite
and I have to read it
that it’ll be
this one?
Who’s to say that
puppy love
ain’t real
for just a flicker
of the lightning bug’s behind
on the thickest night in July
when sweet tea tear-drops off
the tip of a lemon wedge and
lolls on the side of
an empty glass?
Even Jesus smiles from
the right hand of God when
she interrupts his sentence to go
get another jug o’ tea and
the screen door slams behind her,
leaving lover boy on
the porch to kick dust
with weathered Chucks,
wishing some blasted genius would invent
some sorta jug that could refill itself
already
She works at her parent’s deli
on 81st except on Thursdays
when she cosmetizes corpses
at Hartwiggs using stick pins
to get the subtly of sleep
bronze powder to mask daisies
cotton balls under pennies
because how she does anything
is how she does everything,
the last best gift
a rose or two for Mami in the light
where her house dress
craft as a bee
covers angina and shingles,
and Espalier slices quarter inch bologna
thinks of fossil pilings
and all the cosmic winks she’s missed.
looking at the sky
3 planets visable
A shooting star moves across the night sky,
streaking from southwest toward west.
Before it gets that far, the light is made too
faint to see. This is how it seems to work:
The end is complete while you’re still trying
to find the proper words for parting.
The breeze through the open car windows
carries a foretaste of colder days and
endless, frozen nights. It’s okay. There has
to be an end to summer sometime. And
perhaps Frost and Eliot were equally,
agreeably right about how the world ends.
So long to the wounded dove at the
breakfast table, and the butterfly on one
wing. Farewell to the yellow house with white
trim and porch railings. Adieu to the sand
dollars. Adios to the waves that brought
them to the beach. Goodbye, Ocracoke.
His receding buzzline
Starts in the back and works
In reverse, each week gaining ground
Like the ruthless chess fiend he may very well be
It’s only a question of focus
And today’s not his day
Mid-tirade before he crosses the doorframe
Mumblings that can be heard
But not understood, except by
The mind of the beholder
Overdrive is neutral and
Neutral is not to be fucking accepted
Scouring the room for an available
Pair of ears
Be my soundboard and I’ll gift you
A secret, you’ll understand
What it means to be privy
To the truths
Only a true monster can fathom
No good,
know better
A teenage boy trying to think of something clever
A stand still
Future rookie
eatin’ fortune cookies
Lady luck
Sunday suit
stripped off
Farming feelings
fermented in
A fourteen year old
I love you, she said
and he was sold.
It’s crazy how often we believe each other in our heads.
The Who frontman says the internet has stolen the record industry and gives musicians no incentive to make new music. he tells Rolling Stone: “We’ve talked about it, but it’s not going to be easy. There’s no record industry anymore. Why would I make a record? I would have to pay to make a record. There’s no royalties so I can’t see that ever happening. There’s no record business. How do you get the money to make the records? I don’t know. I’m certainly not going to pay money to give my music away free. I can’t afford to do that. I’ve got other things I could waste the money on.” Don’t cry. Don’t raise your eye. I’ll tip my hat to the new constitution / Take a bow for the new revolution / This is my generation. This is my generation, baby / The kids are alright The Kids are alright The Kids Are Alright The Kids Are Alright: That deaf, dumb and blind kid . . . You declared you would be / you were chasing a destiny / I’m the punk in the gutter / I’m the new president / GGGGG-g-g-g-g generation / It all belongs to me you know. My dancing’s left you behind. Goodbye, now you’re solo / Why don’t you all f-fade away . . . This is my generation. This is my generation, baby. / One, two, three, four! / Freak out! Freak out! / Close your eyes and think of this: / The sky is glass, the sea is brown. And everyone is upside-down. / Breathe the air we have blown you. / It all belongs to me you know. We’re the slaves of the phony leaders. / Into a thousand parts I blew. / You’re invisible to me. / As I take in the view . . . My friends are all dead now. / Why can’t they see that life excites me. / We got a hit We Got a hit We Got A Hit We Got A Hit. / They’re all wasted!
