just my type

pelican flight
some lover's lie
around the starfish
sparks can fly
messing in the gods' backyard
pray for rain but not too hard
stick in the mud or banyan tree
whatever's best for you and me
no pool is here, i match the year
no snags to bark, perhaps a shark.





****)))****


this love's been full of lessons
i have already learned. post boom gen on the mend.
a
love comes by in flocks of five. adrft in the bird lined current.
the smell of salt on the wind. lonely still, fragile as tiny dollars
made of sand.

the good side

the forest green carpet has brown and black
geometric shapes , like styleized shadows and branches
and i have recently vacuumed from it several handsfull of hair
both blond like hers and grey like mine and red like it used to be
as well as lint fleeced into thin strips that disappear beneath the machine's head.
kelly greens and spring greens cover the bench
and outside the window, through slat, the yard across the street
looks weedless and mowed and edged. suburban green.
green as the good side, soothing , sunlight filtered through biology
into an  invitation to spread your blanket in the shadow
lie down look up at the falcons hunting under the large oak
nestled in the middle of the graveyard where your family is buried.
a train rolls by , hollering into the future and travelers wait at the crossing
watching you and the hawks and a child move  between
the sunlight filtering through the cars  like wings or flags or shades.

sista hood

so the boy's just eighteen and a baby daddy
i knew him when he was little punk dealing oxy
for his daddy, bringing gangsta's to her house judgement
a bit on the juvenile side banging what ever would open legs
when he batted his eyes. once a cheater i tell her once
maybe his girl be better off if and she say not everyone want
to kill their babies. and i just don't get it with these young girls
how they think a mass of cells is already a baby when it needs
time and nurture to become specifically theirs and how
sometimes it just doesn't feel right to try to bring a baby into the world
just so's you can get off the crack or take some goddamn responsibility for your life i mean
was your childhood that fucked up that you need to visit
the failings on a new human being just to feel
vindicated or simply to get off the junk and really how many people
does that actually work for, once a junkie once
but all these things stick in my throat cuz i know she's just knifing me
because i said those things to her once and she knows i secretely
believe she should be giving her own baby a better life and not so secretely
let on by undermining her whenever it's just a small battle at least i'm pretty sure
she knows how judgemental i am what she don't know is how
that comes with age and she's gonna be here if she can just
hold on long enough for my grandbaby to be my revenge.

urban mining of toxic resources

The disposal cooperates with Mooney, predefined infrastructure
Things amplified beyond three days
Things: smoke drifts piling one atop the other
Like nubile bookstores in the templates off babylon and month
Or candied glasses broken then managed on rings
3-  wrapped in a family dollar plastic baggy, wrinkled,
Smeared over ochers,rusty milk,aborted bruises
4-glows strikes, Mercury strips, Pressurized word chips
Please place your recycle manmade in three preoperative bins
Fridays, Tuesday s and security first Saturdays.

relevance in lieu of stealing your lines

this pop song runs thru my head
drowning out my thots but that is not
what i want to write . i have thot recently
that i have no more poetry nesting
no more things to write about, life is one big wait
since i turned fifty five. fity fi. can't even git hi.

maybe it's the weed.

describe, describe. this is when i said i'd begin to edit and submit but honestly i can't take the constant rejection i assume would follow. my poems don't seem to appeal to a large audience and why should they. irrelevance is the hallmark of the fity fi + crowd. my demo is cusping into anti matter. oh bs. why go there? it's the boneyard i want. i can't even. go . there.

yesterday they gave me a review at work. to paraphrase, "you're a valuable employee with a bad attitude, here's two percent". does that mean i should give them two as well? sis don't like me too. i have recently recognised that state of mind and it hurts. i can't be poetic about pain anymore. i think the sciatica knifed that out of me. weary of giving as much as i'm able and being told it lacks. of course i'm not perfect, i'm human. why don't you love me anyway?

you are your own authority, someone proclaimed and i stole it. authoritatively. always in a scrimmage with authority, i'd have to say mellencamp's song holds the only truth about that. it always wins. late last life i was wrestling with a snake that came into my cell. i held on to it as it wrapped around my throat, forced itself
down my mouth. like a good whore, i swallowed, turned me inside out.

dear future, the time has come for us to talk about your expectations. why have them?  you are but a shadow of thought proposed when sleep won"t be my lover> mangled on a party line. this iteration is currently a past desire. live it. deepening circles and fleeting words. road trip cancelled indefinitly. still can't spell that word. why don't i want to use an e? the phlegm is yellow and thick, reproducing itself through smoke and capped capillaries, constant distaff, a drone state driven by a psychopath.  thing is today? everyone's a poet. i read it ad naseum on several free circle jerks posing as crit sites. why do i like them so much? crits i mean. i guess it's cuz that means someone took the time to think about it. except they don't .

and can poetry be critiqued, being, as we've been told, such a personal and subjective thing? RESOUNDING> yes stupid caps lock. he says ithink you should just paste a smile on your face everyday and walk around and not do shit. constipation is a problem though. i was like, yeah, that's what the foreman does. i don't feel like using them, but i'm definitely -oo see that?- parenthetical.


gettin a bit o buz, like honey made by ccd bees, and it's half hour till take off. thing is, i don't want to be on time simply because they ask. that's just as fucked as them. i do have better things to do than make money but without it i can only do them for a limited time. once my tarot said i won't reach enlightenment because money money hey honey. so ok, i am the same dis ease and i wonder why things don't change. burn burn and let the schmegma grow in your lungs my little worker, my tiny bee.

cal always said, quit and give up show biz?   s the years creep i understand what he meant in more or less visceral way> one that has images of flaring phoshor krohn galaxies in my gut>

but you love my hair< blonding in these years to the brainless boob i wished to be when i paid attention to politics. now i cross the street mostly because i tend to yell and that's not good for my lungs, where the addiction resides in lovely town centers and suburbs occasionally destroyed by armies of bacteria cide that become less efffective with each launch. we'll just plant new seeds. we'll just grow some corn.

but the years, rather than creep, fly. not like a bee, more like the contrail spillers taking their evening stroll in the stratosphere. this one makes perfect lines, that one a parabola describing a clear lens, another farting bumpy dots that spread out and connect as the solar winds pass through. i find i'm always listening to him, waiting to respond, as if what i say has any bearing on the issue. it's an automatic yes man sydrome. woah, so what if you're a doctor, you're the sickest .


my underarms smell of yeast and onion
i'm hungry and disgusted at once
an electric fan spins behind me, whiting
a distant engine grind, the smack of closing door.
if i were more ambitious i'd make you long for more.
the hay in the pipe with its cattle low, a sharp
morning salivation. the way everything bottled up
suddenly explodes in a stench of death and good meals
left out over week. two day dead duck in a summer wind.
there are no rose scented paths in these hours
except the lifeless hothouse blooms
lining the stones placed
over my head.
































(*^^^^^^

purpose schmerpous/ we're all just transforming bits
of water into carbon and back again. whatever fog
forms is justification enough. if you understand the constituency
matter's really nothing after all.  how very zen of me?
 I SHOULD be paying my bills in the few minutes i have left but
let me do a fiver>





















******






simple things

woah< if you really think on it
even nothing isn"t simple>


why can"t i find commas today
and the negative effects of positrons
on echo location in the twentyfirst BLOCK
might be a good band name but it wont fit in a tweet.


for clarification. i know that i am wrong, it would, inideed fit inside a tweet. but i don't even tweet. sowhy is that relevant?