Gemini's delightful.
Cancer is polite.
Leo is romantic.
Virgo's quite bright.
Libra is creative.
Scorpio, tenacious.
Sagittarius, festive.
Capricorn, vivacious.
Aquarius is witty.
Pisces, prolific.
Aries is charming.
Taurus, terrific.
----------*---------          
Taurus is quite stubborn.
Aries, a frightful *****.
Pisces, a flaming cheapskate.
Aquarius is mostly crude.
Capricorn's nasty and spiteful.
Sagittarius, shallow and weak.
Scorpio's flagrantly flighty.
Libra, annoying and meek.
Virgo's simply pompous.
Leo, clearly deranged.
Cancer, always impossible.
Gemini, downright strange.
                        

the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at­ the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
fil­ling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)

thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointes­tinal
distress
or
*******
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion

thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god

you
could
also­
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
b­ut
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death

Explosions of grief won't greet her death
Great men won't be summoned to speak
Bands of mourners won't wail at her passing
These gestures she will not seek

Just mingle the day with music and madness
Make the day one drooped in frost
Children must carry her down winding roads
Clarinets must moan her loss

Then at an hour no one knows
A man must visit her grave
He'll kneel and touch her tombstone
And smile a mysterious way

He'll be dressed head to toe in somber black
Conveying his grief gallantly
Just let him place one pink rose at the site
And rejoice in his memories

SUNDAY, JUNE 7...

I fell between the cushions of his super-comfy sofa
with pretzel salt snuggled between my pages.
Another sign of disrespect for inanimate objects
includes cat ***** stains that now soil my beautiful
maroon leather cover embossed in silver with his
initials. This guy is very mercurial, very spontaneous.
He just started a brand new job last week and he's
decided to leave it because it's "just not" for him.
He's planning to move away to another city, reinvent
himself - and revise his resume -  so he can next
fit into a blue chip job he's never held at some Fortune
500 company he's never worked in...and probably
never will. He's also planning to magically "become"
a Wharton grad which he knows will require a very
attractive resume sure to score points with head
honchos, much more impressive than the associates
degree he actually acquired from some obscure
community college in Jersey. He also plans to "create"
a wife and two kids. Employers, he believes, like
a family man, not a bachelor with a roving eye. Family
men get raises, promotions, they move up, they fit in.
This guy knows no boundaries and he's got it all
figured out. His fictional alter ego will escape detection
because he's pretty certain most companies never
really check the backgrounds of potential employees,
but he qualifies all this by confiding that such a generalization
may not be 100% true.
________________

MONDAY­, JUNE 8...

He has yet again changed his mind. He's not going to
leave the job after all. Some big shot at the company
complimented him on how quickly he's learning the
ropes. Looks like that career renovation is no longer
on the table. And one of the new hires - a redhead
named Lisa - who started the same day he did asked
him to join her for lunch. He digs the forward type so
he says "yes" and it turns out they clicked.
________________

TUE­SDAY, JUNE 9...

****** Day for me! He's now decided to forego any
more diary entries although he refers to me as his
"journal" - obviously a more butch designation than
the antique genteel "diary" of years past. He's decided to
stay on the job, stay focused, blah, blah, blah. Being a diary
is no walk in the park. I've given him all these pages
to confide in...I've given him an outlet for his deepest
thoughts, his wildest dreams, his secret desires, and now
he's ditching me like a cheap suit. (Pardon the cliche.)
Excuse me as I prepare for the old heave-**.
Ingratitude is always a *****!

the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal

with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously   freakishly    faulknerically
long
but not to worry

the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
   what's going on
get them used to
   obnoxious departures
   sudden jolts
      of expression
   devious detours into
     obscenity, indecency

these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake  alive  responsive

some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe  bland  routes:
         a snowfall enhanced by red robins
         perched on a rustic fence

         a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
         in a shimmering moment
          
         heartfelt elegies
         quaint quatrains
         hip haikus

but can these images
really keep you entranced?

well, can they?

it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on

Her name was Nanette -
        A student from France
Who wore red blouses
        And **** red pants

She wanted to check out
        The U.S. of A.
So a couple with twins
        Hired her right away

The twins had their own
        Ideas for fun
They loved Disney World
        Their place in the sun

They frolicked on rides,
        Ate hot dogs galore,
Loved parades, Mickey Mouse,
        Fireworks, and more

But Nanette's heart wasn't in it
        The job was no fun
She had no real interest
        In tending to the young

Nothing could cheer up
        This nanny from Paree
She'd rather read tabloids
        Than watch twins under three

She clearly preferred
        The company of guys
With muscles, tattoos,
        And Jello shots on the side

The guys were bad boys
        Completely entranced
By the Parisian charmer
        And her flair for romance

But the parents were upset
        With her profligate passion
They decided to dismiss her
        In a daring fashion

They took her to the
        Tower of Terror one day
And left her shrieking
        As they ran away

And that was the last time
        They ever caught sight
Of that naughty Nanette
        From the City of Light

"Two bee oar knot two bee..."
Seams knot too bee well honed
Wen awl ewe knead four align too fail
Is won to many homophones

The waitress doesn't smile
The cabbie doesn't speak
The salesman is all business
(This hasn't been his week)
The boss is rude and angry
He drives us all to tears
The barber flails his scissors
And almost cuts my ears
This band of moaners and groaners
Is no treat for a happiness glutton
The only grin I've seen all week
Was on a "SMILE" button

I am the people and the neighborhoods,
the pretzel vendor and the bank president,
the silver spoon child and the child who hungers.

I am public forum and barroom debate,
an investigative reporter and his angry subject,
the jury's patient search for truth,
a silent vigil outside City Hall,
and I can hear, on this humid summer night,
the voice of history's resounding approval.

First, there was the aura...
Her face bathed in radiant light
Her smile dazzling and sincere
Those brown eyes so warm and bright

With her optimistic manner
She swept me up in every way
There was no one else in the world for me
When we first met that winter day

I found the love of my life to be
Forthright, honest and kind
With her charming personality
And her brilliant, incisive mind

She was the center of my universe
Standing by me in times of need
Encouraging and resilient
Her strength a comfort to me

I treasured our moments together
And reflected on our special life
She was my devoted soul mate
...My loving, caring wife

I'm waiting for the "block" to break.
My pen is filled with ink.
Nothing seems to come to mind.
I can barely think.

My rhymes have just meandered
Out the kitchen door.
Inspiration took a day off.
My life's become a bore.

The headlines don't excite me.
The president didn't call.
The queen did not invite me.
There was no mail at all.

The pope just went fishing.
Congress is on a break.
My lottery tickets have disappeared
And I can't stay awake.

I guess I'll stay in bed all day
And enjoy a lengthy nap
And maybe have a dream or two
To get me back on track.

I don't have a poem today
Or wait... I think I do...
I'll call it "I don't have a poem today."
And foist it all on you!

I honestly don't understand
Your riches or your fame
The entire frenzy seems to me
Entirely insane

Your voice sounds ancient and dismal
And drones on with bitter feelings
Truth be told it's not at all
What one might call appealing

I'm not a devoted follower
Who thinks you're simply grand
I think you'd do much better
With a different career plan

Avoid recording studios
Or noisy concert halls
Stay home and count your money
And forget about applause

I know you would tell me
In your snippy classless way
To shut the **** up
And quietly go away

To which I will repeat
My title's earnest cry:
No more "Hello" Adele
It's time to say "Goodbye"

Ghost
Goblin
Bandit
Spy
Trick
or
Treat
Do
or
Die
Pirate
Princess
King
Queen
Masked Invaders
on the scene

Zombies
Prisoners
Aliens from Mars
Godzilla
Lady Gaga
and
Rock & Roll Stars

Chefs
Doctors
Nurses
and
Ghouls
Mobsters
and Movie Stars
dripping with jewels

The Pope
a Priest
a Flying Nun
a Fireman
Policeman
and a
Ray of Sun

As witches fly by
on this frightening night
we know there is no end
to its devilish delights

i will ban
          syntax
          grammar

i will banish
          sentences
          phrases
          clauses

i will evict
          capitalization

i will exile
          all punctuation

i will relegate all of these to the
          circular file of written expression

it is time
at long last
for words to
squirm and falter
but ultimately prevail
in their singular
              splendid
              glory

Drew was an artist who knew
That self-portraits were easy to do
She posed nearer and nearer
To her studio mirror
And it was there where Drew drew Drew

It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show

Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")

Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms

My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning

And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar

But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!

her mother called her
a textbook virgo,
levelheaded, organized,
practical

and every spare moment she had
was spent writing

most of it was hopeful...
possibilities outlined neatly
on elite paper stock -
serious poems to be
submitted to editors,
poems to celebrate
special occasions,
outlines of plots
for short stories
she planned to write

her personal writings
were deeper, sadder

she wrote reams in a daily
journal about troubled
relationships, tiffs with
her husband and kids, her
competitive sister, each
comment meticulously penned
in an elegant flowing manner

but that final note she left
was the shocker,
written in a freakishly
jumpy, shaky hand,
overly loopy, jagged,
a note on cheesy motel
stationery, filled with longing,
with despair,
words spewing out of her pen,
out of control words
scrawled far from home,
the solitary writer engaged
in an emotional seizure,
facing her phantoms alone
and losing

I am the mother of Andy Warhol.

Right from beginning, Andy was special.
When his brothers go to school, he
stay home with me. I like to draw
picture...and so did he. We even
draw picture of each other. I like
to draw cat a lot and so did he. When
he is little boy, I leave room for one
minute and he not there when I come
back. "Where is my Andek?" I ask.
"Where he go?" and everyone is laughing.

I know early on Andy not like other boys.
He go into town with me and pick out
hat for me. One time he pick out black
felt hat and then he go home and paint
edge of hat so it has gold edge. It look
beautiful. I also like to cut tin flowers
out of fruit tin cans and soup cans too.
And Andy always help me. Just a little
boy but he take after his Mom.
He was artist even then.

Long time go by and Andy become grown
man. I visit him in New York and tell
him he need me. Then I go back to
Pittsburgh but I miss him. I pack up
and come back to New York and move in
with him.

The first apartment we live in not very
nice, filled with cats and mice and
roaches. Cats everywhere. Once I count
twenty cats and still mice all over!

I go to gallery one night for opening
of Andy's first show. When I get there I
have odd feeling. People there they look
at me like I'm different, strange. I feel this
but no one say nothing to me. I think
they say things behind my back maybe.
You know what I mean? "Andy's Old Mom
with babushka is from Old Country." I
just stay in background all the time.
I no talk to nobody but Andy. I tell
him how proud I am and to do right
thing and find his ideas in dreams.
Those are my words. But I no go to no
other show of his work. Ever!

He is still good son to me always but he
worry too much about money. When I
move here he take me to Woolworth's
for Thanksgiving Day dinner. We sit at
counter and have turkey platter with
everything. It is not bad food but Andy
look so sad because he have no money
then. I tell him not to worry. "You will
be somebody someday. You are hard worker,"
I say. "Just wait. Be patient."

Even though I complain sometime, I like
my life here. I watch I Love Lucy show
on television. And people in New York
very friendly and everyone in apartment
building polite and helpful. I go to
big church - very nice - on 15th Street
and 2nd Avenue where I see all my friends
and every day I go to A&P; to buy food.
And I like Andy's friends. They kid with
me and tease me and I laugh. They know
I love my son and am good for him always.

Andy does get angry with me sometime.
He say I nag too much. I tell him he
no dress right. I tell him right out
that I only stay with him till he find
nice girl and get married. That is my
dream. Once he get married, I tell him
I go home to Pittsburgh. He never say
nothing when I bring this up. He is
good boy but moody, very moody sometime,
not a talker like his Mom, ya?

When we got our swimming pool
We were bamboozled by friends
Who popped up uninvited
And took over our weekends

The friends brought others with them
Strangers we didn't even know
Our popularity soared
Our circle began to grow

But were we being naive?
Were we playing the fool?
We finally learned the truth
When we drained the swimming pool

The pond's a stage
On this shining day
The sun a setting
For serene ballet

Six swans debut
With a regal drift
Float by to create
A wondrous gift

Ripples of waves
Accompany the ride
As the dancers present
A majestic glide

Toothpaste commercials tell us
How to find the perfect mate -
By using dentists' favorite brands
Our teeth will look so great
For why should true love become
A case of hit or miss
When all we need for true romance
Is a peppermint-scented kiss?

Dear Poet:

Your poetry
throbs
amuses
delights
irritates
stimulates
sometimes incites

Mystifies
startles
unnerves
and excites

Perfectly lofty
exquisitely right
dynamic
thrilling
burning bright
brilliant
heartwarming
whimsy in flight

Provocative
magical
forever true
magnificent
moving
engaging too

So now I'll close my letter
with a plea:

Keep writing.
Take care.

Sincerely,

Me

Once a year
my sister visits the grave
of Montgomery Clift

She travels one hundred miles
to kneel in a Brooklyn cemetery
and weep before his
   modest headstone

I marvel at her romanticism
aimed at this mangled wreck
of an actor
this helpless mess of a man
pumped up with drugs
and rough ***
a haunted matinee idol
cavorting on the cusp
of madness

On her way home
she stares out
a bus window

She remembers his tremulous voice
and brooding eyes
his sullen features
overwhelming the giant screen

Soon she will fall asleep
dreaming of him holding her
in his anxious fragile arms
while the gray streets of Brooklyn
rush by

towels mingle toss tease
in an unforgiving rush of water
merrily tumbling through waves
rich with detergent

meanwhile dark fabrics twist
in an angry climactic surf
while lighter colors undulate elsewhere
in a wet frivolous frenzy

dainty lingerie -
in yet another machine -
gently sails in a delicate ballet...
whites, pinks, muted yellows and blues
intermingle playfully as they wait
for the cool rinse cycle to commence
and perform its own unique magic

finally the dryers prevail
and the folded garments rest on a table -
the warm spent players basking
in a glorious afterglow

He remembers his son's young eyes,
    clear and brown as marbles,
And when laughter made the boy's face
    light up with joy.
He remembers his step, like a
    thoroughbred's, galloping
    through the dust,
And his enormous kites soaring
    into the unknown.
A boy in cowboy boots,
    exploring the jungle.
A boy enchanted with frogs
    and the graceful flight of birds.
                           *                                                                
His father tries to find him now
    in this other jungle,
    sinking into the quicksand
    of another world,
And he still remembers those eyes -
    still young, still clear
    and brown as marbles.

Think of it as a bad dream...

You're sleeping soundly
on a Greyhound bus

Suddenly you're awakened
by cold water
creeping up your shoes
inching over your ankles

You jump up
only now it's too late

The door of the bus
is locked
from the outside

The windows are stuck and
the glass can't be shattered
no matter how hard you pound

The water is no longer gradual
It is swift, rushing upward
enclosing your body
past your waist
up to your chest
covering your neck

In seconds
there will be no place
left to breathe
just the rapid snakelike swirl
of ***** water

You're left submerged
Your eyes sealed shut
Your hands gnarled
in a deathlike grip...
You're hopelessly caught
in the rising, surging
pull of water
moving out of a river
onto the city streets

filled with necessities:
a revolver
razor blades
sleeping pills
poison
a rope
a map
notepaper
pen
cell phone
car keys

all useless
without some
false bravado

They preen, they brag, they cluck like hens
Favorite pastime? Schmoozing with friends

They lunch, they party, they go to the races
Wearing Versace and botoxed faces

They worship the sun, the moon, and the stars
And fill up their lives with mansions and cars

They spray tan each day to enhance their appeal
These housewives are everything...except real

I hope that I shall never see
An awful dreaded irksome flea,

A flea that feasts on helpless pets
And makes them scratch and moan and fret,

A flea that frolics on a lawn
Plotting mischief from dusk till dawn,

A cruel wingless menacing foe
Whose only joy is spreading woe.

I wish that one day I would see
A fleeting fleeing of the flea;

Trillions of them blissful at play
In a galaxy far far away.

mix the numbers up
fill the lottery card out
give the girl five bucks
grab that slip of paper
clutch that sliver of hope

now you hold the possibility
in your veiny freckled hand

god knows it could be
a passport to riches
a path to paradise
a ticket to eden

or is it more than money's lure
this scrap of computerized pulp

it should flare like a strip of lightning
this invitation to rapture
this portal to freedom
this license to dream

i'm sure she's a terrorist

she drives a stick shift

and wears sensible shoes

and everything she does
arouses my suspicion

she's up there now
in her cluttered apartment
yapping about her congressman
and the debt ceiling

i hear her every sunday
yelling at her tv set
giving attitude to
all those panelists
on the political programs

and someone told me she
sneaks off to the mall
in plaid sneakers
and has four computers
and hides her cats
in shoe boxes
whenever the property manager
comes around

and she always has a smile
for the property manager

i'm on to her and
i have a plan
that involves deadbolt locks
surveillance video
and a bugging device

she's up there now going on
about the governor

give me a break

at least he isn't driving
a stick shift

The surgeon changed her nose
To a perfect classic form
And people forgot the original
Until her twins were born.

Surgeons can reconstruct your features,
Turn Plain Janes into beauty queens,
But surgery stops mighty short
In fixing those tiny genes.

Was there anyone leaner
Than Anthony ******
Whose cyber texting
Grew meaner and meaner
Whose face was angular
Like the blades of a knife
Whose sole defender
Was his forlorn wife

Better he peddle
His platform and schnoz
On the sweet gentle folk
Of the land we call Oz
With no caricaturists
Or bold paparazzi
To ruin his days
Or his dwindling moxie

In an unreserved room,
deep in drapes and gloom,
stood a wild-eyed deaf-mute
in a beltless cape,
his fingers speaking parts he played
in his stepsister's ****.

Suppose
my nose
proposed
to doze
and caused
a pause
in my breathing?

It certainly chose
an unfortunate pose
and one not worth
repeating.

Better a nose
stays on its toes
and helps take in the air.

The job may be boring
but it still beats plain old snoring.

bukowski socialized with
                                             sean penn and madonna
but he did not care for
                                             the material girl with her airs,
acting like a literary
                                             poseur, name dropping, chatting
about swinburne, like
                                             some patron at a bloomsbury
salon. she even asked
                                             him if he would appear
in her raunchy *** book
                                             but he refused. bukowski
would complain to sean    
                                             about madonna's phony
behavior and sean would
                                             get furious and defensive.
bukowski just laughed it
                                             off. he valued sean as a
friend and an artist but
                                             he had no time for
madonna playing hip,
                                             he said, she's not being real.
bukowski treasured his
                                             daughter, his wife, his cats,
classical music and his
                                             muse, his way with words,
characters, situations.
                                             he was a regular guy
and a gifted poet...
                                             and everyone called him hank.

You're waiting for me
somewhere on a pier
silent in the mist
fog surrounding you
your hands trembling -
how I miss that tremble -
your fingers moving nervously
feverishly
like knitting needles
flashing in the wind
so palpable so wondrous
and you're waiting for me

I think of you always
and will miss you forever
whatever swept you away
that brusque winter morning
has departed long ago
we never said good-bye
or held hands
or kissed
there were no final gestures

Weeks later
in a sleepless moment
I thought I saw you
standing near me
looking serious and bewildered
but I know my mind
   was playing tricks on me
now I can only hope
you hear these words
hear the ache in my voice
the longing that is ceaseless
the words rolling ever so slowly
toward you
waiting there
on that nameless mystical pier

She's a wonderful friend
And a lovely lady
And I still can't believe
She just turned eighty!

Your locked lids look much like skin-tight veils.
(Blinks and prisms rip snapshots
  as a prince of paranoia
  fleets past your unlit eyes.)

You'd look better smoking cigarettes
or singing songs
while your brain chews fiction.

She lives without chandeliers.

Once she searched for these
and balconies
and window boxes
brimming with zinnias.
She thought reality
was a veil you lifted
where dreams were found
alive and squealing.

She lives half her days
in theaters now
safe from a careless light
playing tricks with
her cheap makeup
and thrift store dress.

She's safe there
away from her room
where love visits her
once a week
expecting no chandeliers.

Her lilting voice,
sweet and soothing,
once moved audiences
to laughter and tears.
Now, at bedtime,
she hones her celebrated art
for her daughter's enjoyment,
regaling her with stories
of wizards and talking birds,
of princesses and castles
and magical visits to a
glittering fantasyland.

She tucks her child in
and listens to her prayer,
then sleep tiptoes
into the quiet room
as the little girl
turns over gently,
all her lovely dreams
just waiting to unfold
like a glorious sunrise.

It blows, and suddenly the pavements are filled
With men and women going everywhere,
But none are going anywhere.

Women in pretty dresses are not going to dances.
Yesterday was long ago,
When tomorrow set shimmery curls in their hair
And summer slipped a diamond on their fingers.

Men in soiled denims are not going on safaris.
Yesterday was long ago,
When adventure held the scent of salt-air
And their names were on the roll-call of ambition.

The whistle is a smokescreen,
And somewhere, on the other side,
Lies the "Open Sesame" of youth.

Now we wait
for the whisper in the universe
the voice to transcend all other sounds

We hush to hear the message
Someone will speak to us
Someone's voice will embrace us
in our darkest night of despair

Time has ceased
All creatures of the earth are still
The birds are sleeping
The fish are at rest
All seas are calm, undisturbed
All warriors have replaced their weapons
with prayers and thoughts of peace
The glittering components
of all the celestial galaxies
are in perfect alignment
All of the people in the world
have gathered
hopeful, longing
lingering on the edge of possibility
anxious to find
the majesty of forgiveness
the mystery of our purpose
the meaning of our lives

Everything in place
Everyone waiting for
the whisper
in the universe

How odd you look, Madame Olga
with that ridiculous turban
wrapped around your graying head
and that careless slash of red lipstick
that does nothing for you
(unless you're channeling Lucille Ball)

The truth is you're stuck here,
    Madame Olga,
in your tiny, seedy parlor
with its stained floral wallpaper and
dim lighting from a feeble lamp

Do you find your "client" vulnerable        
    today, Madame Olga,
a lonely widow waiting nervously
    for you to speak,
waiting for you to tell her about a
tall, dark, handsome stranger
coming into her life,
a man residing in an unnamed
wonderland, a savior eager to
share his vast fortune with her?

You ask her to come back tomorrow
after she cleans out her savings account
and pawns her QVC jewelry collection

It will be then when you plan to take
her money and regale her with
prayers, chants, incantations,
when you attempt to dazzle and
divert her and make her money
vanish like the proverbial rabbit
in an old-time magic show

But I have to question your fading
    psychic power, Madame Olga

You seem NOT to know intuitively
that your creation of her mythical lover
and his nonexistent wonderland is
headed for extinction once the hidden
wire she's wearing performs
its own
inimitable
trick

Abracadabra indeed!

theres something so final about a period
which is as it should be

commas always get in the way
coming and going like anxious insects
trying to make themselves important
as they scatter over a page
already overrun with too many words

question marks have a slightly
swooping profile curve just above
a period
theyre kind of elegant
they remind me of a swan
with a regal attitude
i saw once on a pretty pond

parentheses embrace words like **** curves

and brackets are like steel gray bookends
fencing words in

exclamation points are so abrupt
and rude and angry
like an outburst
in a classroom
like fireworks
in a funeral parlor
dont mess with them
they mean business

hyphens dashes colons semicolons
apostrophes
and quotation marks
that surround what we say
and dont forget the ellipses that
take the place of
words we omit

sometimes i like to write stories and poems
with no punctuation no capitalization
no grammatical rationale whatsoever

dare i ask

how did i do

trim the fat
o weaver of words
lessen the intake
of ponderous verbs
squeeze excess out
of every line
shorten the stanza
cut back on rhyme
get to the point
don't aim for the epic
when a quatrain will do
avoid the septic
give us an ode
that's short on length
nothing so long
it saps our strength
in an age of fast food
and instant replay
and speed dating too
i'd just like to say
we're ready now
for a genre that's new
so fasten your seat belt
here's its debut:
the skinny poem's
a fresh kind of verse
low-calorie fat-free
the verse that is terse

Cloud Nine is average
A three out of ten
Kind of gray and *****
Not at all into Zen

Cloud Ten is all fluffy
And full of fun
If you want a good time
Ten's the One
It's so much nicer
Lots of pinks and blues
With angels like ballerinas
Twirling in tutus

But forget about Nine
It's Dullsville in space
Check out Cloud Ten
It's a happening place

She was a shy, detached woman
shortchanged at birth

In all her life
she never opened her arms to anyone
never returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed

Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in her only home -
a snake pit

She was trapped in a Bronte novel
her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point

She remained disconnected
unknowable
a doomed woman
a doomed time

the judges liked brianna, a tiny girl
from texas with the janis joplin rasp in
her  voice...the headstrong teen had
been on the road forever to get to the
"american idol" audition site in dallas.
the judges really liked her sunny girl-
next-door looks, her honey blonde
ponytail tied with a bright yellow
ribbon, her sweet, innocent smile,
and then she went on to wow them
with her soulful rendition of "me and
bobby magee." she thanked the judges
for giving her the green light to go on
to hollywood for the next big step in
the competition. she could not believe
her good fortune and told them
everything was truly possible and
how her family and jesus had brought
her to this magical moment.

...just seconds before she was called
into the audition room, she'd been
daydreaming about the fourteen-year-
old ****** boy she deflowered in a ford
focus the weekend before. it happened
in a mall parking lot just a mile from
her home. she was trying to remember
the boy's name: justin? jason? joshua?
something with a "j" and then - just like
that - someone was summoning her
into the judging area and she quickly
forgot about the boy. she had so many
things to contemplate now. stardom
was within her reach and, besides
that, what's in a name anyway?

is here
shivering in the wings
of pop culture

There's no death in it
no sadness
no Dickensian heartache

There's no old man
searching for God's approval
no young man
hungry for the
jazz of life

I'm only ready now for sleep anyway
sleep that beckons
on some hazy horizon
My eyes shutting out light
My breathing labored
My fingers too weary
to hold a pen

I hear my muse urging me
to surrender to the
lure of slumber

She's telling me
this is not my last poem
and sings me to sleep
on this soulless April night