Whimpers (Poems from late spring and early summer 08)


Cruise Liner of the Medusa

The ghost poems are slithering towards us,
Shrieking,”Damn!” at the tripped out tip of their text,
Phantom Paladins and Valkyres, our media madly
Braces to push back the old dead words,
Like champion heroes Rome and Sex and the City and
Some other bunk shake hands and throw up walls of sin
And objectify and objectify and objectify
And there is a desperate house wife, objectifying
And there is Play Boy and Cosmopolitan, objectifying
And don’t forget the drugs, the drinking, the stupid sex,
The babies that no one wanted, and the STDs,
Fear not—They are here to defend us all!
And there, you see, those old ghost poems,
Those long dead dreams, they turn about and
Scatter away,
Breathless and beaten






Surreal City Sinesthia

Bottom’s Up

It true
stained glass
window leapt
from its frame
to dance
on the muddy ground
to rub
rainbows shards
up against all
the dirty basement
windows of the world

I see children playing
In the glassy remains
Smiling up at me

I scowl



Beyond Belief

I am living

Lorca is living

Here Lorca writes about baby sparkadillos and blue dragondolas
Poems for a little girl
Lorca is dying

There, when the snap of the splash of war rips the world apart,
He says that he is a poet, and no one will kill him because he is a poet, and no one kills a poet,
And finally, he is being forced to dig his own grave before he is executed and buried

Lorca is dead

Amid a rapid ping pong of gamma bursts, planet killing comets and asteroids, our red giant sun, andromeda screeming to close, black holes, darkness, the naked green house affect, earth quakes, hurricanes,
Marie Currey cuddles to close to cancer and dies,
Nietzche huddles mad mad mad
Van Gogh is painting all red murals with human ears
And somewhere Kerouac is hitch hiking towards a future where he will
Die of bleeding organs, a bit too much to drink
And Neal Cassidy will collapse next to the rail road tracks, perishing from exposure

And on the Oregon trail we all have dysentery and are dying most brilliantly and terribly
And the three weird sisters are walzing with the four horseman of the apocalypse, only one of the four must sit the dance out, and he is growing angry and
Impatient, and


I am dying

The phone rings one morning when I haven’t seen much more than half a decade to tell my mother that her father had a heart attack while driving home from church one day,
My other grandfather is already long dead.
Years later as I am sitting in front of dumb bloodless books I discover that my grandmother is dying…she is old and doesn’t remember me
And though she has gone to church every Sunday of her life, when my mother flicks on
Some random pastor chanting out his prayers, she comments, no, enough of that
Soon she is dead.
And then my last grandmother goes for hip replacement and has a heart attack
I go to see her, hold her hand, and she is so white and pale and weak, and it has
Been a bit of time, but its so hard to remember her bending over the cookie jar or cooking some secret recipe or celebrating Christmas or who knows what
And now she is dying and then she to is dead
And I look to my parents and they are surely dying to…
One is going blind, the other just can’t remember much these days
And surely I am dying to, from the outside in, outside out,
Inside insidious

And I see you walk away

Just a day, the air is heavy

And they are chanting,
Believe believe believe

In nothing



Once upon a Where

I have an abiding faith that everything is somewhere
but where are you, your dear old bones?
groaning beneath the ground?
entombed in an impossible impassible
sinister twitching of ravished worms
working to feed? that brilliant mind
mysteriously gone, ghouled by the grave?
Or are your neurons naked in the
hurricane of history?
Wasn’t that you dancing in the barns,
milking the cows, saving every penny,
birthing babies, knitting, forming
fast full dolls, doing doing doing
some 89 years of work
from 1 day to 2 day to
the inevitable fact that everything is somewhere


Maybe Mars is Metro?

Here huddle humans
our hubris our dear
plastic palaces pleading
for a nightmare of numbers
into dreams of plenty
the metrosexuals look
vaguely real entombed
in R.E.M.
their thoughts thrumming through
the witching hour while they forget
caring is crumpled into the curse
and surely, out there in the blue queue
of enormous ocean a dolphin
is putting on his top hat
calling only the good looking
dolphinets, and swimming with
a sexy swivel
laughing a cultured
uncaring chuckle
on top of the water
but look out!
there are the sharks
red rags reveal
a vision quest beset
by ugly waters
and I wake up,
forget the whole
damn thing,
find the nearest gryphon,
and fly off over Chicago, over New York
over London, and
straight on to mars until morning