Posts for June 11, 2016


Because sometimes.

Is it’s own worst enemy
And it’s drunkest fan

I’m sure you’ll understand
Yah know, it’s just one of those things
If you got the time
We can talk about it
If you’d like

There just aint enough time in the day
And I don’t wanna keep yah too long
There’s just a lot goin’ on all the time
An’ not a whole lot of anything good
‘Sides good aint what yah think it is.


Chat About the 1962 Basement Party in 8mm

Just me and the cat. Of course. Should be asleep. Instead we’re eating popcorn and watching home movies that came to me when my folks moved to the new place. Brittle, fading colors from back before my hair slid off the top of my head. Aren’t you that cute blonde in black with white polka dots? If I weren’t such a camera-hound, I’d have turned and danced with you. Oh, a fool I was. Could have been looking into your eyes. (Lol I wasn’t there.) Yeah. But I still might make a poem out of this. A poem about the poetry-in-motion that is you. Ahhhhhh.  (I wish I could think to make a poem. That’s cool.) I wish your head would clear. At least of pain. Don’t much like when you cleanse it of me. 


Keplers Laws of Planetary Motion


ellipse of a cosmic pulse
a binary focus


Line of star and sphere
swept in equal area
equivalent time


elliptical, interval
constant multiple 


Waiting For a Coincidence

This secluded forest clearing
Is both lovely and endearing
Iconic on this third street
Amongst the brick and concrete
Running its freedom course
Driven by a mocha force
Special to me as the only place I know
That you would on occasion go.



You’re ignorant
And I’m a plagiarist
Cause these feelings I swear you once had

You made a rip
And I’m stitching it
Hoping it won’t feel so bad,
Won’t feel so bad

Under thoughts you
Always feeling so sad,
I won’t feel so bad

It’s an early, morning
And the flowers on the table are dead.
My eyes are getting blurry
And the sun won’t set in my head.


Another Heartbreak (an Ovillejo)

Can I resurrect me again?
You might strain.

How long before trust reappears?
Long, heavy years.

And when I meet the reborn me?
Define you freely.

Others will always guarantee
a time when you’re pain-free but you–
only you–construct your breakthrough.
You might strain long, heavy years, but define you freely.

(To see more about this form:


A Double Fib Speaks Truth

the wealth
I measure,
it’s pots and pans and
poetry that bring me pleasure.
As I contemplate my leisure,
cooking, trope and rhyme
I treasure
the most

Steve Cummings

Voluntary Slaves

Watching basketball, the commercial starts with a babe talking to a car via Siri, the same machine that’s in your phone unless you have OK Google.  Bill has Cortana lurking in his PCs while Amazon has you buy a black tube named Alexa – all of which answer questions, perform digital services, interface with Fitbit – and suddenly my phone and the istuff around are creepy spies listening to every word all the time even though they pretend to be nice young ladies – I’ve got two corporate spy bitches sitting right there on the table already and wife wants to compete with kid via Fitbit – Amazon and Microsoft know me as well but they’re not listening yet – I think – maybe.  I grab my phone – is that OK Google thing on?  I don’t know, never used it – Where’s the setting?  It doesn’t matter.  If I can control it by touching the machine, that’s software, and that’s already hacked so that the FBI or Interpol and whatever they call the KGB now or those nice Chinese secret police can also listen to me all the time everywhere.  Did I say that out loud?  It doesn’t matter, the algorithms have already classified and reported.  Soon my insurance provider will offer my employer a substantial reduction in the increase if I wear the Fitbit – the corporate machines and today’s fascist overlords know the GPS coordinates of the liquor stores and have one – sided confidence intervals on what I do with the cash.  My friend, who’s not a racist – makes a racist joke.  I look at my phone.  It costs me $80 per month until it costs more.


tanka #6

all her life

she raged at marauding deer

in the garden

shot a rifle at woodchucks

now her world is CNN




Chester Johnson, Poem Three

Poem 11, June 11

Chester Johnson, Poem Three  

I told the CO that day at Stearns,
“I don’t want to be in the National Guard.”  
I said, “my father served in the Navy and
I want to join the Navy, too.”  

I did not want to go
for training at Fort Knox, Kentucky.
CO gave me a letter and told me
to take it to a Navy  recruiter.  

They sent me from Stearns to Somerset, Kentucky.
From there, I made my way home.
A Navy recruiter came to Albany
and signed me up.